The Story 
Continues... 

7. So who were Satans Rats, Grandad?
Personal profiles of the band were prepared by Butler and Hands:

Roy Wilkes. Bass Guitar and Vocals
Educated at Prince Henry's High School, Evesham. Left in July 1976 with eleven O levels and 3 A levels, with a place at Birmingham University to read Psychology. Unsettled, worked in three different factories and a Petrol Station. Played with several rock bands since 1974.

Likes: Beatles, Donovan, Yes, Led Zeppelin.

Dislikes: Tony Blackburn, Production line Music e.g. discos, Bay City Rollers.

Joined the Rats in February 1977 and regards Punk Rock as a viable medium for healthy communication and not degeneration as portrayed by the mass media.

The other members of the band, Steve, Ollie and myself don't merit inclusion in this profile. We were soon to eject Roy from the band, an error of judgement. 

8: No Safety Pins just the Sack 
Drones appeared. Hurtling out of Manchester at the speed of ... well ... speed, Gus Gangrene, MJ Drone, Whispa Cundle and a drummer, entered our lives and wouldn't leave. Their songs about white-collared workers and skeletons were a heady mixture which mystified soul boy regulars of Worcester as they took the stage after us. A hundred eyes focused on them from the bar area and contemplated violence. 

We were successful at gigging but our records sank like stones. The first one, unsuitably titled "In my Love for You" was commercial suicide. Released in the same month as "Pretty Vacant", how it could be otherwise. "Year of the Rats" was likewise consigned to the bargain bin. 

Barbs had us back again and again - until the management , the Futrells took a dislike to my activities with a microphone stand. At the climax of the set I had launched it into the seething crowd. Backstage, John Futrell was in no mood to pogo. He put me up against the wall and threatened me with Concrete Wellies:

"You could have caused a riot," he snarled.
"It was an accident," I croaked. 
"Some accident," spat Futrell, and relaxing his grip on my throat, he added:
"You won't play here again."

Across the room, Steve and Ollie looked perturbed. 

"Yes," I thought, "You disapprove of my behaviour and yet all you do is PLAY THE PART of Punks - when I do something of any significance, you're quiet as mice.

At this point, Mr Eagles showed himself reluctant to talk openly. Thus began the era of the Ulterior Motive. It filtered through via Ollie that he was displeased with the microphone episode. I decided to play it his way.

Soon we were back in the studio, at Rickmansworth where Vic Maile agreed to produce our third single. I really liked "You Make Me Sick". It was privately dedicated to Steve. But the record betrays the unhappiness in the studio. Satans Rats were pissed off and sulking. So, although "Sick" was a better record altogether, it lacked the energy its live performance.

Disappointment was alleviated by prior knowledge - we were all up-to-date with the really good stuff that was around - and the simple charge of adrenalin that ran through that era. Reappraisal was on the agenda: I came to regard the appearance with the Pistols as rather less than a stepping stone to better things. We could gig with the Drones and hold our own but any more than that? It seemed that, after all, we didn't have what it took. In any case, did I want the hassle that goes with being in the public eye? 

Being spat at was nothing compared to the intrusion of the press - heralding us as a kind of modern-day pariah when in fact we were four middle class kids from the Shires - and the expectations of younger kids like my brother and his mates. Also, stories about Rotten and Cook being beaten up were worrying. Satans Rats knew that Evesham contained as many idiots per capita as Finsbury Park.

But if my doubts about the future were shared by the others, they said nothing. Instead Steve and Ollie combined on another matter. They demanded Roy's dismissal from the band.

"He's too square," they complained to Butler and Hands, still our "management".

We duly met one day in a pub and told  Roy he was out. He responded with disbelief. The fact was communication was slack between us. He had suspected little, just a bit of spite. Instead it was a big enough schism to merit the sack. I didn't share Steve's opinion that Roy was a bad musician, and watched him leave the pub, knowing that personal politics were to blame. 

We farted around for the next few gigs with stand-ins Stan and Dave B, until a bloke named Dave Sparrow answered our Melody Maker advert and got the gig. Our next London date was the Marquee. Halfway through the set, when I stopped to argue with the crowd about the merits of skate-boarding, I caught sight of Sparrow bouncing round the stage. We had replaced Roy, who fair enough was more an ideas man than an icon, with someone no different. What was going on? 

More than anything, Roy's exclusion from the band was a display of Steve's megalomania. Perturbed at the occasions when Roy or myself had different ideas on band policy, he knew that the only person he could rely on in argument was Ollie. He saw that in the event of a band vote, it would be two against two. 

I looked around for mates outside the band and found Stu Dyke. Stu was keen on Cheltenham and our trips over there bore fruit in the from of Natalie Kolot. Natty compensated for working at the C & G by donning stockings and mohair at night and frequenting the Pavilion Club.

Over-consumption spoilt our night of passion, leaving me to walk sixteen miles home, the next morning. Ambling through Bishop's Cleeve I was treated to a spectacle of rural life never encountered before. A bloke was masturbating in full view in the orchard across the road. If I'd been Joe Orton, I might have cheered. Instead, I averted my gaze from the dew-drop on his penis, only to catch sight of a sign outside of the pub next door.

"LAST DRINK BEFORE CHELTENHAM"

9: A Suitable Venue for Punk Rock
In their wisdom, DJM set up a tour for us, combining the middle class ebullience of Satan's Rats with the Eton and Harrow ethereality of Rikki & the Last Days of Earth. The author of our commercial failure was to spend a month on the road with us, and bring his double-barreled chums along for the fun.

To complete this spectrum of English Class System, DJM assigned a pair of East End rockers name Rent-A-Rig to do the PA. 

"I like you boys," said Camp Joe after a couple of dates. "You remind me of Slade." High praise indeed, we thought, but was there an ulterior motive for his compliments? He placated our fears by adding: "That Noddy Holder, y'know, he used to bring a suitcase full of used knickers on tour with him, the ones thrown on the stage by the girlies."

"Oh yeah."

"And every now and again he'd reach his hand in, take a fistful out and rub his face with 'em."

Manchester, Rotherham, Dewsbury, Bradford sped past as Satans Rats and the Last Days peddled their terpsichorean doom vision to the United Kingdom.

At the Bishop Grotesk College in Lincoln, I decided to get controversial, announcing to several hundred dancing students that they were a "crap audience". As we left the stage, I was roughed up by ... our drummer.

"What the fuck did ya say that for?" snarled Ollie."They loved us!"

"We're a Punk Band, Remember?" I snarled back.

We were pleased to accept the invitation from Long Lartin Prison to play for the inmates, even if our advance publicity did get us onto the Home Office blacklist. The van pulled up in front of the gates, where we had our photo taken for the press, before driving into the place, expecting a ticker-tape reception but getting surly stares from the wardens. 

A group of men was assigned to help us unload our equipment. One craggy-faced character started up a conversation while we unloaded the gear.

"What would you say was the sociological significance of what you're doing?"
"Eh?"
"What do you think Punk is achieving?"
"You what?"
"Is the Punk Explosion of any great sociological importance?"

I looked at the craggy face. Intelligent eyes inhabited a furrowed brow. They were studying me closely, waiting for my reply. I thought for a second, then said:

"Oh, well its about ... youth rebellion ... and ... class revolution ... "

The craggy one was nodding. I warmed to my theme:

"And violence, angry violence."

He flinched at that. A flash in those sensitive eyes indicated a Past. My interrogator nodded his head and asked more questions. We stood there for ten minutes discussing the merits of The Clash and the rest, while the rest of the band humped speakers around. 

When the job was done, I watched the curious man wander off until I felt someone tapping on my shoulder. I looked round. It was a screw.

"Do you know who that was?"
Christ, so many questions! 
"No, I don't as a matter of fact."
"That was John McVicar."
"Who's he?"
"He's doing life."
"I thought he was a warden."
"Ha ha ha."

The screw turned and walked away. I spent the rest of the evening trying to establish who the hell John McVicar was. The most famous armed robber of his generation appeared that afternoon like an ordinary Joe. It is no surprise to me that he is now an established academic with a specialisation in social issues such as youth rebellion, but he got no enlightenment from me.

10: Three go Crazy out West
I had been granted a week's reprieve. Dad, Mark and I were sitting watching TV when Dad announced that we all needed a holiday. 

"Let's spend a few days down in the West Country - just the three of us."

My brother, thirteen and looking anything but healthy since his illness, was sceptical:

"What's there to do, down there?" he asked.

"Weston's got lots going on," enthused Dad.

I agreed, wanting to get away from Evesham. Wanting a change and a rest. The following day, we set off in Dad's Renault. This was the first time we'd gone away without Mum or Sue being present, so I was curious about the interaction.

Day One was spent in Taunton, where Dad wangled it so we watched Somerset County Cricket Club play, with ... Ian Botham in the side. Old Wonderboy was in his youthful glory, holding court on the balcony with the likes of Viv Richards and Joel Garner. 

The next two days were spent in Weston-Super-Mare and Bristol, where the evenings were Mark and I off in one direction, Dad in another. Something very sad about that. When we got back to the Vale, I knew I wanted to quit the band.

Rubbing shoulders with celebrities aside, I was tired of touring and tired of rowing with Dave Sparrow, who had become Steve's henchman. The fact was that without Roy in the band, Steve ruled. OK? No, especially not, what with this pain I've been having in my groin. It sent me to the doctor's.

11: A Fate worse than AC/DC
"Your balls are going to drop off."

The doctor's diagnosis was sobering. Had he read that I was a wild punk rocker who would respond to this kind of talk? Standing with my jeans round my ankles in the surgery, I wondered what had brought my scrotum into such ill-repair that I was in danger of losing my gonads. Overuse? Misuse? Dr Cox continued:

"Unless you have surgery soon, you will lose the left one. The right one is not so bad."
"But we've got a gig at the weekend."
"You want to sing falsetto?"

I saw his point. Testicles are a testament to masculinity - without them we are willies in the wind. All pump and no action. 

"What a mess," I said.
"You've been having too much nookie, Mr Rencher."
"Hardly," I groaned.
"Then you've been too enthusiastic."
"Well, when I do it, I do it with feeling."

He looked amused. "Then you must try and curb your ardour. Otherwise your ardour will curb you. As it is you need surgery, if we are to save the left testicle."

Jeez - "General Hospital" was never like this. "O.K. When's the operation?"

"I'll phone Worcester and see when they can fit you in," said Dr Cox, and realising the double-entendre of his phrase, he gave me a grave look, the way a shrink must look at a nymphomaniac. Ironically, I wasn't getting any.

Satans Rats responded to the news with amusement. I felt a mixture of anger and disappointment as I heard Steve say:

"I'll take lead vocals."

Entering the hospital ward that afternoon, I reflected that Steve had become less and less of a friend. Come to think of it, he, Dave and Ollie were now a separate band, socialising without me, meeting me only for band purposes. Fuck them, I thought, as I submerged in an ocean of anaesthetic. 

12: End-games
We re-united some weeks later and wrote some new songs. These included four lyrics by me - "Flatmate, Friday's Child, Look at the Band, She's Artistic". They drew a negative response that I found irritating. 

Then one afternoon I knew it was over. Waddling into Ollie's house, with a sore scrotum, I sensed antipathy. I announced my retirement by walking out. Reflecting that the three of them had just harangued me for not wanting to play a distinctly pop-sounding tune, I realised that none of them respected my opinions any longer. 

I was glad to go but regretted the spite of those final few months. My poor balls, they recovered well, but my disappointment at the behaviour of Eagles, Sparrow and Harrison has not. The fact that they got a new singer and scored a hit LP was no bad thing though - it had my songs on it.

Satan Rats? It was better than the dole.