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Greg Smith's Interview
with Blin' Pinky Detroit - Part 3
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Greg: The final nightmare is however, far less shocking than the former ones and I've reserved it for last, to kind of leave the proverbial sweeter taste in the mouth, this once.

Blin': You'd better be tellin' me the truth on this one (unfolding his white stick threateningly) 'cause if you ain't, I'm gonna bust you upside the head, kick yo' asse till yo' nose bleeds, and then sik my dawg on you too!

Greg: Sure, it's the truth. It's Garlic . and Garlic is as near as 'damnit' is to swearing  to Durban Poison (or horse sh1t and tram tickets) when it comes to drying your mouth out during a Gig (to the extent that you can't even render an Italian Wafer soggy after chewing it for a month of Sundays). And any typical, perfectly normal, law abiding, well raised (brung up proper), mother loving, self respecting, God fearing harmonica player who knows his oats, also knows that when push comes to shove, our very own inherent, God given saliva, is the only wetting agent (Chemistry class) that works perfectly every time. What's more, his lot on stage is most assuredly 'harp on the spit', if you'll pardon the pun (again?) Nothing else works!! (Have I ever lied to you? Don't answer that!)

Blin': Did I perhaps, in passing, mention to you that you are too long-winded wit' yo' sentences? No? Well get to the point!!! I'm gonna axe you one mo' question and I want a short, straight answer this time, please!!! (Who's writing this kukk down anyway and what use is a harp player with miniscule lungs? Long-winded "se gat". By the way, kukk is a Russian word, ask my daughter, she lives in The Ukraine, she'd know)  What's yo' trusted remedy for the "Dry Mouth" syndrome then?

Greg: (A lemon tree my dear, what's on?) A two hundred and fifty gram packet of marshmallows (by Beacon please). They definitely do the trick and I think that it's the albumin (Photo-Mechanics Class) in the puffy little delight, that sorts out the saliva problem. Oh! Mr Detroit, (he 'looks' up) there is one other nightmare that I'd forgotten to mention.

Blin': I thought as much!!! That makes fo' then. What indeed would that las' stinkin' story be? Please go ahead and oblige us all. My readership is prob'ly clutchin' at thair seats by now (How's this oke's apple? That's plain rude y'know)

Greg: It's the proverbial non-harp player, harp player.

Blin': (His hands are shaking visibly now and here comes that stick, I think). Say that again!!! You're confusin' me Mister!! Is thair such a thaing?  I thaink you're just plain, plumb jealous of any harp player within ten miles, is all . and now you're callin' 'em wayout, weird names. You'd better tell me 'bout it!!! (The last hit from his harry and he's looking mean exê - bloodshot eyes and a bit "pap" from the "dop")

Greg: Mr Blin' Detroit, you almost hit the nail on the finger there. (Sit tight it's verbal diarrhoea time again - I just don't smarque that dog to chow me now). The non-harp player, harp player is undoubtedly the guy that gets to play one lousy, carefully chosen, song in the last and final set, in my place (sob-sob, "snot en trane") with the band. He gets on stage and he ever so dramatically lets his hair down as his flimsy hands start to quiver, while his head shakes like a malaria sufferer in Tim-buk-twice. At which point of course, he's looking nice 'n vibey an'all (Chatsworth slang). Only then does he start blowing and heaving, on his piss willy little silver "thaing" (that so happens to have been half false and in the wrong blimming key, in the first place), with that far away look in his eyes like a dog sh1tting razor blades .

Blin':  Stop!!! Hold it right there (Dihk the "moer" in, eyes shut tight and waving his 'index' like an hysterical, Spark Plug Church preacher) Le' me try 'n flag you down with this: What's the bottom line!!!? Give it to me streight!!

Greg: Mr Detroit, the bottom line here is that single handedly, this useless oke with his two bit, clogged up, half chewed, dirt-caked, un-playable, rusty, bastardised Peruvian harmoni-piece-of-junk-ca has, in one fell swoop, purposefully and wilfully, ruined the entire jawl for everyone, including myself and the poor blinking band's name is "gat" and now, the owner wants to give us 'meal vouchers' for Casa food instead of sending us home on an empty stomach, like any self respecting, normal, desensitised and otherwise disillusioned, blasé restauranteur would automatically do on any given night/or part thereof.

Blin': So that's the las' one (gnashing his teeth audibly) and has this ever happened to you?

Greg: No, I just made it up

Blin': (Assertively nudging that jacked-up dog of his) Why, of all the low down, dirty, lousey, white trash, no good (the dog growls, meantime I'm "gooi-ing" serious Marmite now), half wit, unethical stunts to pull (I make my snappy desperate exit and I'm limping hell for leather, to boot!)

Greg: (Locking myself in the ladies 'disabled' toilet with my "poephol " doing the hectic Tickie-Two-Bob) Hey you crazy 'merican, piece of (what's that stuff called again?)  blues gangster, rubbish journalist that can't even write, with the camel cotch suit and the guava juice frot socks. About those pock marks on your face? Is that from when they (the Chinaman) taught you to eat with a knife and fork - or what?

Blin': Come out'a thair you smelley jerk! I'm gonna getcha, an' I'm gonna whup yo' sweet asse so's you c'n listen real good again like when you was a ki-d (The dog's sniffing under the door and he's thumping violently with his stick and here's me spraying the 'Glade' 'bedonderd' to eshew the dam dog somehow). Wha'choo do wit' dem notes you was writin' fo' me? Give 'em to me. C'mon now (slobbering a bit, luckily and almost pleading with me too.)

Greg: Not a moer!!! I'll e-mail them to your editor in chief if I have to. I promise!! Once you've left, of course!!

Blin': W'd you mind sliding them under the door sir? (Now I've got him!)

 Greg: Okay then, but if you don't leave me alone right now, I'm going to tell my mother!!! (Under the door they go and then, shuffle..shuffle..shuffle..tap.. tap.. tap, and off they go, the man, the stick and the dog. What on earth has he got the mangy mutt for if he still has to use the fold-up stick?  Hey bru' this 'mother' thing works every time, thank God 'n touch wood, otherwise I could easily have been "sat". So much for the good behaviour, mine that is)



Interview: Part 1 / Part 2