The Friendly Bombs

At one point in the early 80's there were a few bands from Kenton Bar/Kenton doing gigs at places like the Coxlodge Social Club...everyone used to go and see them(aged 16-20)the best of these bands was without a shadow of a doubting thomas 'The Friendly Bombs'...they were so named after a poem by John Betjeman entitled 'Slough'..the first line runs 'Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!'
they originally consisted of Fred Clark(lead guitar), Alan Clark(bass guitar) and Dave Nicholl(drums)...now this band was actually from Kenton/Hillsy, but I defy anyone to say they were not the best band at that time...unfortunately they did not get the accolades they deserved and never made it...why?...because at that time Newcastle was seen as a backwater where music was concerned...
Lindisfarne:
'sitting in a sleazy snack bar sucking sickly sausage rolls...'
Busker:...
'I'm comin' home Newcastle
I might as well have been in jail
I'd waak the streets aal day aal neet
For a bottle of your own Brown Ale'
for the love of God...
I have no doubt that if the Bombs had evolved in London, Liverpool, Sheffield at that time they would have made it...Friendly Bombs, I salute you! You should have made it!
(songs I remember:'summer''watch yourself'-from the demo they did-anyone still got a copy?/remember any of their other songs?)

Kenton Bar Pyramid Appreciation Society

 

PS Added by – apologies for G0M appalling grammar, terrible punctuation and awful syntax.

 

Slough

by John Betjeman (1906 - 1984)

John Betjeman published his poem about Slough in 1937 in the collected works Continual Dew. Slough was becoming increasingly industrial and some housing conditions were very cramped. In willing the destruction of Slough, Betjeman urges the bombs to pick out the vulgar profiteers but to spare the bald young clerks. He really was very fond of his fellow human beings. Slough is much improved nowadays and he might be pleasantly surprised by a stroll there.

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Slough

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.