The question I ask you to consider today is this: if you could condemn one breed of people to the crackling flames of Hell, would it be car salesmen or the paparazzi?

I know, I know - it's an impossible choice that no sane person should be forced to make. But you can't have both. Yesterday, I was determined to write a column about how useless the motor industry is in this country, with specific reference to Renault (why not kick them when they're down, right? Especially since that's their definition of customer service anyway).

Then I made the mistake of switching on Cape Talk radio, which, along with the so-called Interweb, is my main avenue for finding out what the deranged lunatic on the street is thinking, and listening to the irresistible tag team of Mike Wills and Soli Philander.

Mike and Soli are to radio what the team of The Rock and Mankind were to World Wrestling Entertainment. The one, a pretty boy who lulls opponents into a false sense of bravado. The other, a hard bastard who asks the tough questions. Which is which, you ask? Listen and find out.

Yesterday, they were interviewing that moronic photographer who was recently tossed into a Namibian slammer for trying to take pics in the hospital where Angelina Jolie was rumoured to be giving birth.

You'll have detected, by my use of the word moronic, that I'm not the kind of person you want to have interviewing people live on radio.

I have none of the restraint necessary for the job, a restraint that Mike Wills, saint that he is (koff), seems to effortlessly conjure. Soli, not so much, but at least he's normally so busy cackling with disbelief he doesn't always have time to put the knife in.

So they're asking this paparazzberry, whose name is John, why he got arrested. He says, without any apparent sense of shame, that he disguised himself as a gynaecologist and sneaked into the hospital where Jolie was rumoured to be having her baby. He did it, he said "Because it's my job." Unfortunately, he didn't then click his heels together and shout "Heil Hitler"! But if, like me, you lived through the Second World War (on the History Channel, okay), you'll recognise the excuse.

Any pop psychologist worth his, her or its salt will be asking the question - what strange primal urge leads a dickhead to disguise himself as a gynaecologist? Why not a simple doctor, or an intern, or a bedpan? I'll leave you to supply the answer.

At one stage during the programme, I thought my Renault's airbag would deploy, I was smacking the wheel so hard. "Mike, Mike!", I implored my radio, "Tell him he's scum! Tell him!" Alas, despite the note of incredulity in Mike's voice, he never cracked.

But I mustn't make this personal. I don't really think that all paparazzi are scum, and I don't really think they are the bottom feeders of the journalism world (yes I do, I'm just putting that bit in my column in case there's some sort of libel case).

And if one of them uses that lame excuse again, you know the one, about how "the stars use the media to make them famous, so they have no right to privacy", I'll puke.

That's like saying it's okay to kidnap Steve Hofmeyr and make him play a concert in your bedroom, because he's used his fans to make himself famous. (Don't misunderstand me, I'm not saying it's wrong to kidnap Steve Hofmeyr, I'm saying it's wrong to make him play in your bedroom.)

I see I've been rather insulting to our brave photographer. Do I feel guilty? Maybe a twinge of remorse at dragging a man's ego through the dirt? No, because I'm sure he heartily applauds what I'm doing ("my job", as it's called), and understands that if he wants to go around getting himself famous for being a prying paparazzberry, then he has no right to privacy.

*(Chris Roper's mother blames the paparazzi for the death of Princess Di. I just mention it.)