The Friendly Bombs are a small group of excellent individuals who all fall somewhat outside the 'tinned minds, tinned breath' catagory of person and who enjoy gaming and, on occasion, enjoy gaming together.

From this new platform of concentrated endeavour it is my plan that we shall more fully realise the latter of those activities and more effecively share what deep/meaningful/enlightening/humourous/witty/frivolous/sleep-deprived banter may come from either.

If I haven't otherwise made it clear to you, we've drawn the inspiration for the name of this group from Sir John Betjeman's poem 'Slough' (below). We've furthered decided to identify with the cabbages of the penultimate line, adopting it as a battlecry and in some cases we have changed our Steam names to be more cabbageish (Rotkohl- or red cabbage, and Bresic- an old Celtic word for cabbage).

You hail from all over this spinning, green-blue-and-white orb, my friends- but let the world be warned- The Cabbage Are Coming!

Slough by John Betjeman

Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

-John Betjeman