The Oscar for the most clinical shooting of a girlfriend is… Pistorius!!!! (Hooray, applause, cheering, whoop, whoop, whooooo).

Poor Blade Runner. An enigma. Either wide eyed and legless victim of his own paranoia who inadvertently shot his dearly beloved to death after an evening of romance and lurve. Or a cold and brutal dictatorial killer with a vicious temper in need of serious anger management counselling. And, er, prison.

There’s two ways to go about this. You can have a long and protracted court case costing zillions of Rands, enriching the lawyers, creating an associated media whirl as its all on tv. Ironically, ‘live’ on tv. As opposed to poor Reeva, who is neither. You can call witnesses, listen to fabricated fictional accounts, cross-examine so confusingly that no-one can work out which way is up, call in ‘expert witnesses’ who speak in useless probabilities, and listen to an account by the perpetrator that has had a year and a bit to be polished, honed and distorted to fit his own needs.

Alternatively you can use my approach. He’s guilty as fuck. Because he looks it and speaks with a horrible South African accent which is like fingernails on a chalkboard in my (sensitive) ears. I actually think all South Africans are guilty of something, its just a matter of finding out precisely what.

How many times have I ‘heard noises in the night’ only to find its my wife’s bladder responsible for the ruckus. But as I roll over, semi-conscious, in bed, I’m kind of aware that she’s not there. Which, if I owned a gun, would probably give me pause before opening fire randomly at imagined ‘intruders’. I’ve managed never to shoot my wife in all our years of marriage. Quite an achievement really. Or would be if I was South African, legs or no legs.

And just as an aside: there’s ‘intruders’ and there’s ‘intruders’. If confronted with a gang of machete-wielding, drunk, Afrikaaner inbred farm-hands I’d grab my AK47 as quick as the next man. But when confronted with a (presumably not completely dressed) gorgeous blond super-model, I might just hold fire. In the literal if not metaphorical sense. Unless there’s some kind of pest problem in that part of the world where there are fucking blonds everywhere; they get stuck in your bloody teeth. Like a plague of supermodels. (I can dream).

At least Russia is more democratic, no ‘law of the gun’ out there. Well, not when everyone’s toeing the line. Soon as someone in the Ukraine says they want to loosen Putin’s vice-like grip on them, up comes the navy, the infantry, the artillery and 125,000 Russian troops are suddenly all on ‘training exercises’ within 200 yards of the Ukraine border. No threat. Nothing to fear. No implication of anything. Just Putin’s boys out for a walk in the snow with 58lbs of gunfire strapped to their backs. No big deal. No need to get all defensive and start changing sides, running away or making a protest. They’re so touchy those Ukrainians. Lucky they’re not armed like the South Africans. Oh, they are, are they. Hmmm…

Happy gun-free Tuesday

A xxxx