Resistance is not futile: Saying No to parental Facebook friend requests

At a Christmas party last week involving family and friends, there was a particular incident which highlighted the hawk-like hazards of parents on Facebook.

During a festive conversation with my friend's mum, which was absolutely fine, she asked me to accept her friend request on the social network - so she could carry on 'keeping track'.

"I just like to know what you guys are up to," she said cheerily.

At this point I didn't really know what to say - had she added me and I ignored, or was that still to come?

I use this foreboding because I will not be accepting any requests from my friend's parents.

Social networking is definitely no longer just associated with the youth, many a mum or dad, including my parents are on it.

Their online requests were ignored - we are on friendly terms, just not on Facebook.

It's true, I could put them on a limited profile but what's the point; it's like having Sky but only being able to access the regular channels.

You've got something to hide I hear you saying.

Well actually there's a few shots of me at halloween dressed as a man-eating shark, but as far as I can think there's nothing particularly illegal - I'm just not that bad ass.

Another problem is tampering, more harshly know as Facebook-rape, and this happens in my student house on a frequent basis.

One day, you're feeling quite relaxed; you leave yourself logged in by accident and vacate your computer. Then along comes a fellow housemate.

Before you know it you're a transexual nun working at a brothel - not that there's anything wrong with that.

Your 'friend' will have gone to town on your account, telling everyone you are sad or pregnant, or it's your birthday - when it's not.

The subject of pregnancy is actually very relevant, because recently, out of nowhere, my female housemate announced she was expecting via her Facebook status.

An hour later, she received a varied mix of comments on her wall:

There were congratulations:

"Wow, fantastic. I had no idea, you hid that well."

And confusion:

"Who the hell's the father?"

Her mum, who had somehow spotted it, also rang to say she was driving down - this was quickly rectified.

Sly friends will also try to add your parents in order to cause a world of embarrassment; inviting them to groups superficiously created about you.

'Amy is partaking in the London Marathon - please sponsor me.'

Unfortunately Amy was not.

So far I have kept my parent's Facebook accounts secret.

I prefer for most aspects of my social life to be followed by the friends involved, but if it's in my parents interest, such as a photo of a mate falling into a christmas tree wearing 3D sunglasses, I will let them know.

But I don't want to be monitored like social CCTV - even if this is vigorously denied.

"I'm not interested in what you get up to all the time," announced my mum.

Sorry, but I just have this image of her scanning through my 'Last day of term' gallery like an FBI agent.

It's far from Carnage but I don't want to feel like a papped celebrity.

"Harry Harris buys microwaveable meals."

Not that I do this on the last day of term, or I take photos when I'm buying food, but my mum hopes I cook without the aid of the microwave - I do, most of the time.

The latest progress involves me telling my parents a story over the phone from university which they already knew about. They may have seen photos on a friends account, but it's mainly due to the fact my brother has given in to certain corners of the web-savvy parental community, and he's clearly not the only one.

To be fair my mum and dad are not obsessed, more intrigued - I probably would be, but that doesn't change my stance.

The lure of seeing what your children are up to in their social lives must be undeniable, particularly, I imagine, if they are sixteen and won't tell you anything, but I resent the need for parents to see my life in a Big Brother-esque slow motion.

*You have a friend recommendation:

Jane Jones: you know Jane through Jenny (her daughter).

IGNORE.

And for Christmas my brother got me...

                                     A christmas jumper. Not the 3D cinema glasses.

This is no trendy fashion blog.

I am a student in-need of clothes.

The festive jumper was bought by my brother, Toby, who now has a job in London (some money), and who said at time of unwrapping:

"I didn't think you would like it."

This is a typical sibling encounter - meant with the best intentions. And, as you can see at a recent Christmas party, I'm actually a big fan of the yuletide themed warmer.

However, Toby did not purchase my eyewear shown above, in-fact, these were borrowed from a screening of the epic 'Avator' in 3D - their sheer bizarreness really does entertain, but apparently they are actually all the rage.

It's like being at the cinema all day long, except it's real and everything is 3D anyway - my friends were a tad surprised to try them on and find I had not been experiencing weird and wonderful visuals.

Although the jumper gets the most original gift prize, the award for 'Christmas Announcement of the Year' goes to grandma, who announced during lunch on Friday she was converting to Buddhism.

I must admit there is not an abundant of Buddhist temples in rural Essex, although perhaps I'm being closed minded.

Essex does...The Alpes

After a short trip to London on Thursday night, I arrived home in Essex on Friday feeling as though I'd stepped through the secret door to Narnia, bar the evil woman on sleigh.

My rural town had become Lapland overnight, without Rudolph or Santa's grotto. Although with so much unexpected snow some of my mates took a more modern approach to the white weather:

DIY Ski resort:

Snowboard at the ready...

Apparently the local park, with a noticeable hill, turned into a slope for a thriving 

snow-riding hot-spot, but with no chair lifts obviously. 

Pubs in the town reportedly welcomed in many of the day's athletes for Apres-ski. 

The red light district - of the petrol gage community

Now back from University for Christmas I'm using the car I share with my brother a significant amount more.

An element of this usage is the petrol gage: the red light isn't new to me, as a far from wealthy student, we frequent quite a lot. 

There's the protocol meet and greet.

I'll say hi.

And, now and again, there'll will be a knowing goodbye. I say knowing because we know I'll be back, a bit like Arnold Schwarzenegger, on crystal meth.

I should also admit, that in this situation, my friend Rupert has prior offences in this area, which I probably should of learnt from - as was mentioned in the 'Scotland' blog.

Rupert also has the same car as me - I would say we are unlucky, although my car is gold, a bit like this one, so he would probably say it's just me who is unlucky.

Normally this is fine - I often casually hit up the petrol station soon after the primary colour blings up.

But today the red light came, and unfortunately never went.

This led to extreme stress.

The story goes: this morning as I got ready for work, I decided to borrow my dad's jacket in an effort to look suave, however right here was the key error.

I had not realised that during the removal of my wallet from one jacket, to the other, my debit card fell out. 

At the time I was happy as larry, but who knew what had just happened. 

This week I have been freelancing for a radio station, and today this meant driving to a far flung location in my home county. 

So to Frinton I went, which was fine - who would sneer at a little investigative trip to the seaside.

For much of the time my petrol was above 1/4, which was a great rarity, but as I carried on my journey, suddenly, out of nowhere, I touched upon my old friend on the petrol bar, red light.

No problem, I thought.

But oh, as I reached into my shoddy wallet, the problem was quickly realised.

This was not a short drive to my village shop, this was quite an epic road trip around Essex.

My card a long lost traveller, and I, a tramp with a car.

Had my money outlet been stolen, or perhaps I'd dropped it buying my exotic wrap at lunch. 

But hence, either way I had no money to pay for petrol - a nightmare sprung to mind. 

At this point I said several unkind things to myself. 

I thought about ringing my brother, who was working in London, and then, my friends, who are all still at university.

Wonderful.

So, after making it back to work safely, I then had to get home.

I began at 30 mph for a long period of time, sometimes venturing to a cautious 50 on the dual carriageway. Later I ventured back down to 30 mph as I neared the home straight. Very cautious you may think, but I live in a place where there are many trees. It's rural.

But, I made it. 

My car stumbled into the parking space, making a weird clunking noise. I think there are now strained relations between me and my colourful petrol gage.

Tomorrow I shall challenge my car to the nearest petrol station, which, is not that near. 

Who knows if I'll make it.

Paparazzi Proof: Duncan, my briefly adopted horse

In case you thought the tales of my fox hunting documentary all seemed a tad preposterous here is some proof. Above you can see me on Duncan, interviewing a huntswoman. 

I guess in reference to the photo, you could say, that for all you know, on the horse is Jon Bon Jovi and down beside him is Celine Dion.

I can only assure you it is not, and in-fact, myself, balancing mic and reins, on horseback for the first time since the beginning of adolescence. 

The actual incident, involving a rather complicated interview on Duncan is noted here.

The CIA of the countryside

There was a freeze-frame moment as an animal activist sat warmly in my car and asked:

"Do you like running?"

I was polite, it was clearly one of those questions requiring a reciprocal answer, and I replied:

"Yea, I used to run quite a lot."

I should admit the colour of my trainers suggests I run in gleaming white snow.

At least I own a pair.

Anyway, I followed a Landrover from Southampton train station, not sure which hunt we were going to.

It also came to light that many of these other activists sitting in the car ahead, otherwise know as hunt saboteurs, were dressed in a severe amount of camouflage regalia.

I was wearing an anorak, though I did have wellies in the boot. My mate James Tegerdine was attired in his usual skinny jeans and plimsoles - still muddy from falling over in the New Forest.

We arrived in Reading, I was more than surprised, I thought we were going to the New Forest.

Either way it was to be an interesting day.

Mid-forest, middle of nowhere, and these covert countryside operatives began communicating via walkie-talkie.

It was like Spooks had got lost down a country lane.

However the hunt sabs were trying to find a particular hunt - I was really half hoping they wouldn't be able to locate them for fear of the unexpected.

By the way I was filming this for my fox hunting documentary, I'm not an animal activist dogger don't worry.

Before I knew it we were running, for hours, on what seemed to be some sort of cross country marathon. Now I could see why my animal activist guide had asked me about this fast footed sport.

There was some commotion.

Hounds howling, hunters horning, saboteurs running and me severely confused.

If you can picture an albino sheep in the Serengetti, this was me on a hunt saboteur.

It was like the BBC's Countryfile mixed with top gear, on foot.

I can't say it was particularly fulfilling; the saboteurs were friendly types with good intentions but when the sound of a possible fox in trouble aroused, a sense of chaos arose, with whips swiped at the ground and inventive sounds out of their mouths.

Not extreme swearing, more dog whisperer - they were trying to distract the hounds from lunch.

When the day had ended and the hunt went home, I gave my animal activist a lift back, it was about an hour and a half drive, and James, my mate, suggested a famous fast food chain as a well-timed stop off - we were really hungry.

Unfortunately we forgot our passenger was a vegan.

Horses can be temperamental animals: meet Duncan

The day had arrived for me to do something very Rolf Harris. I was to be completing a crucial piece of filming and this rather ambitiously involved a horse.

His name was Duncan and I would like to say we are now friends, but this rather large brown horse appeared less than impressed as I donned his back - dressed in a hunt jacket and carrying a horn and whip - only to try and get into the perspective of the master huntsman - don't be too critical yet.

Anyway I was to interview an ex-master of the hunt at a riding school, on Duncan the ex-carriage horse, with a large mic in hand. 

This was a complicated procedure I must admit.

It may be surprising to hear I have been on a horse before, back in my early teens I was quite the trotter, but unfortunately when adolescence hit it all became a bit painful if you get my drift.

I told the lady, Sarah, whilst aboard Duncan:

"Imagine I'm the master of the hunt!"

"I'm trying," she replied. 

I thought I was doing an adequate job, apparently not.

"What should I be doing now?"

Sarah explained various procedures and then I attempted to interview her about the trials and tribulations of this 'sport'.

Luckily my friend, Daniel Thomas, camerman for the hour, had 'worked on a farm for 5 years', and this was his explanation for not falling over like many of my other helpers. But Dan is from Somerset after all.

Duncan, my horse, was less forgiving, often suddenly reaching his head down to the grass like it was Christmas time on the ground. This caused me to jolt several times during the interview and appear slightly out of control. 

At the end, I suggested I ride off into the distance, and this did seem to all involved quite a lot to ask.

Sarah laughed, I soon saw why. Duncan was a little stubborn - he simply would not go faster than approximately 2MPH.

My final words caught on camera were: 

"Come on Duncan, let's go." And then a shout out for advice: 

"How DO you get this horse to trot?" 

All very tame. 

Wanted: Camera-crew with stable footing

I would like to place an advertisement for an unfazed cameraman/woman and this is why:

On my second 'fox' hunt today for my countryside related documentary another mate came to help me out: meet James Tegerdine.

Dressed in plimsolls and skinny jeans - he didn't really know what he was getting himself into. We got lost in The New Forest, (Hampshire) my gold car in the middle of nowhere amongst a sea of fast paced Land Rovers.

Then when we arrived on location, a tad late, I suggested we run to make sure I didn't miss my interviewee.

Enthusiastically James ran, but when I turned around he was not at eye level. He was somewhere else: the ground.

My helpful friend had hit the mud hard, head to toe, like he had done an impressive star jump but face down - the brown stuff visible from his black trousers up to his blue jacket.

We did make the interview:

"Hi, I'm Harry, this is my mate James, he has just fallen over in the mud, as you can see." 

I'm not sure who else will help me after this incident. 

When my gold car misled some fox hunting hounds

A lot of people have uplifting songs which remind them of a momentous day in their lives.

For the eventful weekend just gone 'I get knocked down (but I get up again)' by Chumbawamba springs to mind.

But when we talk about 'getting up' I should input a new line of lyrics involving 'falling down again'.

This event refers to my trip to rural Shopshire, and the subject of ground refers to the muddy, soily kind. It may not have been an inspirational occasion like skydiving or getting married, but I was going to attempt to follow a fox hunt for the first time and in an impartial manner.

If you are suddenly imagining me competently horse jumping or hooting at hounds you're barking up the wrong path.

This type of activity was all new to me.

In-fact, following this hunt, was all in aid of my rather farfetched documentary for my journalism studies.

Think Louis Theroux, but more haphazard. And with a much smaller budget.

As we all know, fox hunting is a contentious issue, and rural Shropshire became a key location for my filming. But who could I convince to come on a four hour trip to help me - who lives near by this tree invested location?

My good mate David Row that's who - you may know him from previous blogs.

Dave might not have been informed the full scale of what he was getting into.

He may have been led to believe he was going for a jolly in the countryside.

Strong winds, torrential rain and a fast paced hunt put that to bed.

Obviously these were part of two key elements not in my control: the weather and a pack of hectic hounds.

We arrived at Dave's house late on friday night- his brother thought we burglars.

Carrying two metal suitcases which hold the filming equipment can make you look a tad dodgy. It had been mentioned that carrying these silver suitcases I envisaged a CIA agent, or a drug dealer. I wish they did have wads of cash in them, but not from selling loads of drugs, obviously.

Also for some unknown reason Dave thought the hunt 'meet' was at a pub.

I assure you I did not know 'The Mount' was a secluded farm in one of Shropshire's smallest villages.

"A pub around here! I don't think so," a horseriding lady laughed as I wound down the window of my gold Peugoet 306. Yes, I am from Essex.

Although I was keen to keep this on the down low.

Anyway we arrived at the farm on Saturday morning armed with a pair of wellies.

However these large boots borrowed from the Row family materialised to be a tad too large.

I won't lie, I waddled into the farm conveying a serious constipation problem.

But I was in a cup 'half-full' mood - plus Dave gave me some encouragement, although he hadn't put on his wellies.

Arriving on the farm was an intimidating procedure, although a friendly women offered me a concoction involving alcohol. It shouldn't be described as punch - I was drinking it like Ribena - easing a swarm of migrating Borneo butterflies in my stomach.

Before we knew it I had interviewed a prolific hunter, and the horses, and hounds, were off.

We ran to the car - Dave didn't make it as quickly as possible - he fell flat on his face, in the mud.

It wasn't the best start I think he would agree but he gamely carried on, slightly fazed.

Anyway we arrived in my gold automobile and drove off in pursuit, but before I knew what was going on we were back on foot, running off-road. Some older ladies suggested as we took flight that we looked a bit like 'antis' (animal activists). I don't know if it was prejudice against my car or the fact we were running with a camera at the ready.

Then, we were lost - if I was to compare it to a gym we were the ones falling off the treadmill.

My nightmare the previous night suggested a fox would start circling us for protection.

Luckily this never happened, but it was never far from my thoughts.

The wind whipped our faces and the rain soaked our clothes. Dave looked like a literal Rain Man. His facial expressions also suggested he wasn't overly enjoying himself as we slipped over on several occasions in the country mud. I thought this is where he was at home. I think that's where he wanted to be.

Quad bikes flew fast - they didn't offer us a lift - I'm not sure why.

Deflated, we headed back to my car to search via road.

Now I should probably mention we'd been informed not to get too close to the hunt as we risked distracting the hounds and ruining the event.

I thought it was unlikely we would even find the hunt.

Following this 'sport' seemed like finding an unknown location. You need GPS.

But, as we drove up a small road in the middle of nowhere, with no sign of horse nor hound, something suddenly arrived very close in our eye span.

The pack of hounds, and the prolific hunter.

This was not great.

The hounds started to run at my car - I became their fox - to be fair, my car is a similar colour.

I panicked, and Top gear suddenly came into my mind as I asked Dave:

"What the bloody hell should we do now?"

I put the car into reverse, which went well until I went off road- into some tree branches.

We found a gap and sheepishly parked up, unsure of what negative impact we had had on this hunt.

A bit later.

Filming was again bravely attempted as horses were seen on a nearby field - I say bravely because it was unclear whether we were still viewed favorably, not helped as I fell down a small mound amongst an array of competent horse riders.

They had probably assumed I was of the experienced country variety, this view may have then changed. The wellies may have prevented this but I had taken them off to drive.

As I pointed a camera upwards and filmed a horseman he asked: "What ARE you doing?"

At this point I really did ask myself this question and wasn't sure of the answer.

How had I got myself in this situation - problematic weather and unpredictable animals.

So I'm doing it all over again on Tuesday.

I'm not sure Dave wants to help me.

My first trip to Scotland, spontaneous bobsleighing, and being ill, all at the same time

Often, when you are most looking forward to doing something a poisoned fruit falls down and hits you on the head. 

Like when Adam and Eve found all that delicious food but couldn't eat it, I had a similarly exciting prospect but a sudden hurdle appeared. 

Although my obstacle was less religious I fully intended to overcome it.

The fruit in my case was a trip to Edinburgh, and the obstacle, man-flu.

In one morning I was sweatier than spending 3 days on a Dubai beach and had an oversized frog in my throat on pro plus - jumping up and down like a record breaking pole vaulter.

There was no way, however, I was going to let this illness prohibit the fun of my first trip to Scotland to attend BUDS, the university dry ski slope championships. 

We had a small, but poor (not pants but little money) ski team and we needed all the morale we could get: I was intending on being a pivotal part of the enthusiasm involved.

As every student will tell you, when the signs of being ill arrive, buy anything with the word orange in it. 

I bought a pack of oranges so big that every time I opened my cupboard they fell on my face - forget energy drinks, this kept me on the ball.

I also purchased orange juice and began drinking it out of shot glasses.  

As well as this, there's the key question when ill: "Should I be drinking alcohol?"

"Just drink vodka and orange juice," I have been told.

Literally, it's a vitamin C hell hole. 

I am now an orange.

Anyway, more stocked up than my local grocer, and more high on Lemsip than Amy Winehouse,  I jet setted off to Edinburgh via a cheap airline with my good mate David Row - he became my guide, he's been before.

Other occupants on this trip involved my housemate Rupert and 5 others who had gone by a random mixture of train and car. You could call us gypsies.

There were concerns, I should admit, that Rupert's rather old Peugeot 306 wouldn't make the 8 hour journey, but in-fact he later experienced more of a man-made problem- more on that later.

Anyway after a rather bumpy landing me and Dave strolled to the taxi rank and requested the caravan park where we were to stay. 

I hadn't actually known we were to be partaking in caravan club until this point, but had been quite the Eurocamper on family holidays so was prepared for any eventuality.

Me and Dave jumped in a taxi, I, completely confused about the driver's dialect, but Dave's cousin lived in Scotland so he volunteered to be my translator.

As we arrived at the caravan site it became apparent we would be staying in the five star section of these movable hotels: the mobile home. 

How we had managed this I am still unsure. I think Rupert has been building up his Caravan Club points.

But as we checked in there were clearly people missing from what I will call our 'crew'.

Unfortunately, the scheduled group meet had been hit by it's own hurdle, and Rupert's car appeared to be no Colin Jackson.

"Where's Rupert and Jenna (competing skier)?" I asked inquisitively, worried.

Ben, a fellow traveling member of our crew: 

"Well, Rupert's car broke down in the middle of no where."

Concerning news.

In-fact the truth had been minorly twisted here, what had actually occurred was that my good housemate Rupert had been seeing the sites of Edinburgh whilst driving around on the red light for a whole HOUR and a half. 

Rupert's petrol had been, and gone. 

After a combination of bad map reading and a sat-nav malfunction they became a group of vulnerable English in Scotland's own Wolf Creek. 

Like the film, a random man gave them a lift, but to a petrol station and he did not kill them.

The event

I will bullet-point our time at the ski slope with a number of significant incidents, little of which, I'm happy to say, involve my self. 

I was pretty much Lethal Weapon in terms of not getting hurt, mainly.

One) Ben, one of our snowboarders, was riding the rails. 

     He experienced some success, but there was also a broken finger and a thumb.

Two) Another of our competitors wore a fat suite. We later found her at the bottom of the

        piste - before we knew it we were taking her to the medical room. I will not name her                due to health and safety form fears. Although she is not in a wheelchair.

Three) Jenna missed her skiing slot after 'the breakdown', the car that is, she's not in a mental asylum. She then had to pretend to be a boy and race in their category, partly                   successfully, partly not.

Clearly it was an overwhelming competitive success.

I often divert people to this video, where everyone looks awesome - apart from the rather foreboding girl on crutches at the beginning:

BUDS 2009 from BUSC Events on Vimeo.

The last minute episode

Without knowing it, I was to partake in my own competition. 

There I was at the top, happily watching the last of the boarders on the big jump, when I saw lost friends walking up the edge of the dry ski slope - it was Rupert and co.  

At this point as I tried to attract their attention by waving, a dramatic moment took place. But it was no epiphany. 

It involved me competing in my very own bobsleigh run.

It had been raining all day, and alas, I had stepped forward on to a piece of particularly slippery material to the side of the slope. 

On my back, olympic styley, I shot past a friend quicker than Usain Bolt on a sledge. 

Passers-by were probably surprised that there was a new event at this years BUDS.

Others may have thought I had done this for a laugh.

I was doing neither.

The Next Day

I went to the campsite toilets and then strolled casually back to the mobile home- very normal.

Our temporary accommodation was not particularly tidy - a nuclear bomb had hit it in the night. But between my trip to the toilets and walking back a miraculous clean up had taken place.

The kitchen had also moved to the lounge. Strange.

I also had new mobile home roommate - 20 years older and five feet taller than Dave.

This, in-fact was not my mobile home. It was the last main episode of the trip.

Now back in my room, I'm still ill, with an orange segment in my mouth. 

Think, over enthusiastic hockey player. 

Restoring calma, without luck

In life there are good days and bad days.

Today I would describe as unsuccessful.

Two rather disruptive episodes happened.

Number one:

During a shorthand class today, with I would say about 20 of my fellow journalism students were present, I experienced something quite spontaneous. And unpleasant.

If the subject of writing in cryptic codes is not painful enough, mid-way through a sentence, I found myself somewhere totally unexpected: the floor, under a desk I once slouched upon.

How had I got myself here I questioned my brain.

As I sat on the carpet confused, laughing could be heard from above.

I then realised what had taken place as I turned around to see the chair I once sat on.

It had clearly given up hope and looked at me in horror as I stared at one of it's legs, bending in completely the wrong direction and snapped from the tip. It was like I was the two-ton man who had dared to sit on it.

"I must of put on a few pounds", I announced as I clambered upwards.

At this point there was a general feeling of humiliation, and there was more of that to round off my day.

Number 2:

After the above incident perhaps calma needed to be restored, although I do normally think that stuff is codswallop.

Anyway, as I strolled through university, I saw a small woman struggling with an oversized trolly. The piece of equipment had been caught on the rut between two doors.

But these were no ordinary doors, these were those of the electronic, unpredictable kind.

If you can forsee what happened next you are sharper than I am.

Midday through lifting the trolley over the ruts on the ground, something came at me.

On my face was the automatic door.

These doors do not come from the side, but straight at you.

Unfortunately this particular one had clearly had enough of being open and I became the food to it's closing mouth.

As I bumped my head, I heard laughing.

I looked out of the doors towards approximately five people off my course.

Dissertation distractions - Pimp your own farm: Why I shall not be joining Farmville.

The sudden increase in workload at university is reminding me I am in third year and I do have to put finger to keyboard and eye to book. So far, however, I have put finger to keyboard and ended up on youtube, and well my eye has been on a book, but so has my face.

A book is a fantastic pillow.

Regrettably my university associates have found another addictive distraction to keep their gaze from the slightly important dissertation, and well they are desperately trying to get me to join the club. The virtual agricultural club that is: say hello to Farmville.

It's allotments, but for young people on Red Bull.

Now, I may normally live in a rural area of England, I may have ventured once or twice on a farm. I think I once went strawberry picking aged about 5. I have sat in the garden, and even mowed the lawn.

But, clearly I am no Farmer. More Farm shop.

This new game on Facebook allows unsuspecting users to start up a virtual farm.

My housemates inform me you can grow and harvest peppers and crops.

For all I care you could learn to herd buffalo.

It's just another distraction to make the library seem even more meaningless.

I imagine hours go by, the books are piled up behind your laptop, but all that has happened is your combine harvester has broken down, or your sheep have come down with mumps.

You are in your very own Farm Brother, and I will not be a contestant.

I can't deny the pressure hasn't been building, three of my housemates are apart of it, and I feel like I've lost them to a drug induced ghetto, but with cows, not heroin.

Their rehab is their tractor, their joy is their new born lambs. All completely animated, but clearly more addictive, ironically, than a roast dinner. In-fact I have heard people starving for hours because they feared their sunflowers would perish.

Too add to this, I now worry about leaving my computer anywhere, for the fear I may leave myself 'logged on' and therefore open to being 'signed up'.

I have to say this has already happened.

I was horrified.

It was just past midday at university, work was being attempted, but I had been a bit generous with my soft drink consumption during my time at the computer.

I needed the toilet, and generally this shouldn't of been a problem.

Without thinking, I took a casual stroll to the nearest cubicle. About a 2 minute walk.

When I strolled back I continued with relevant work. But then something happened.

On my 'minimised' Facebook I had received a notification. Someone had added me as a fellow farmer on Farmville. But I didn't have Farmville.

Panic.

All of sudden I realised my 'Farmville friends', mainly a housemate named Matt, had carefully orchestrated a campaign to stop me from ever leaving this virtual frenzie, by signing me up whilst I was relieving myself.

Help.

I managed, after some effort, to work out how to leave the application.

They see this as just the beginning. And everywhere, people are talking about their crops, there lost animals, their successful wheat yield.

And it gets worse, students I know have purposely not gone out to socialise in favor of this computer zoo.

On a night out, friends have disappeared, only to find them staring at their fields of gold at 3am.

This very night I sit next to people I know farming. They are talking about helping black sheep by adopting them - I feel like the French resistance, but obviously less significant.

Annie Mac and the trail of my lost wallet, with Zane Lowe, a rubbish Sherlock Holmes

There has been an ongoing saga involving a certain missing wallet of mine, and unfortunately it's current location is still swirling around my head like a lost cockroach.

It has led me on a rather epic treasure trail. Where the hell the gold is I'm still yet to find out.

Here is the tale

Let me take you back to March 13th earlier this year, what were you doing that night?

As a freelance student journalist I had organised to interview Radio1 DJ Annie Mac for a music website.

It was a hectic night, we were meant to meet beforehand but before I knew it she was spinning the decks. By then I had given up my dictaphone for a lager, or several.

Did you see me enter the nightclub in Bournemouth that night?

All of a sudden it was at least 3am and Annie's strolling off the stage to leave.

She passes me, and looks like she's seen a troll as I try to grab her attention.

But as I say my alliterated name, she remembers. Oh yeeeea, there are some perks to having a name straight out of the top ten worst nursery rhymes. Thanks mum.

Anyway, before I knew it, we are sitting in a car. People on the outside are looking at me weird, one throws up. He's not drunk, just jealous.

Were you outside when I got into a black car on March 13th?

All of a sudden I'm in the back of this small black automobile and Annie's in the front with her driver. In a slight haze, with my ears ringing, I complete the interview.

It may be nearly 4am but I did not attempt to sing in this interview as I have done in the past, nor did I make nervous jokes or fall asleep (I have never done that).

I would like to say I was the epitome of the three CCC's:

Cool, calm, comatosed.

In fact I was actually quite professional.

However as Annie was driven off I suddenly realised I had lost my precious wonga holder: my wallet. Initially, I thought I had left it in the club, I searched and questioned. But nothing.

Did you see my concerned face that fateful night?

A few weeks later

After an email here and an email there it turns out Annie's driver had found my wallet in his car after coming back from a holiday.

Cheers mate, not all of us could afford a trip to Cyprus. I could barely scrape enough money together for a bacon bap.

Ok so that's a minor exaggeration and granted it was MY fault.

But at least I would now get my wallet back.

I didn't.

Nothing.

It may have had a small something to do with the the way I emailed Annie saying I'd give her some money if it cost her to send me my wallet.

What MAY have caused a tiny bit of suspicion (false) was a slightly badly worded sentence whereby I might of mentioned I'd pay for any postage cost if she gave me her bank details so that I could transfer the money.

I have tried to make this sound less bad, and me, less like a good-for-nothing scammer.

I realised my error as soon as I had pressed send, and then proceeded with an apology email.

Most likely this was deemed unsuccessful.

My leather folder long gone, and I, taking on more loans than Michael Jackson (when he was alive).

A bit later

SIX whole months later, I now have a new wallet. I may wave it in your face if I see you because I have it, it's mine and I haven't thus far left it anywhere other than my own car.

But there's a pride issue at steak and unbeknown to me it seems a little trip from another Radio1 DJ, Zane Lowe, may have brought this out of me in full-force.

You may have already imagined the forthcoming events.

This has become known as typical Harry Harris. The event was as followed:

I had an interview organised with Mr Lowe, the last question may have involved a fellow female, curly haired DJ, and a black, leather wallet.

It was like the last question on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and I truly was ready for the prize.

But an anti-climax thus took place, Lowe became uncontactable and the interview ceased to happen. I had lost all hope.

The night was drawing to a close, although as I tumbled out of the student union nightclub in Bournemouth there was Dan Brown ready and waiting to solve my own Da Vinci code.

But I wasn't going to say anything to Mr. Lowe. No, no, no, it had gone past that, there was too much pride at risk.

A few of my fellow night goers had a slightly different idea.

Rupert, a housemate of mine: "Go on Harry, go on, go and ask him where's your wallet. Do it. He probably hangs out with Annie all the time"

There was more of this talk from other such friends.

In a rather tispy state, after giving up any hope of an interview, I waddled over to Mr. Lowe standing by his car.

As cool as a large cucumber I announced:

"Yooo Mr. Lowe."

Silence.

"How, is, it going?"

A murmur.

"Do you know.... Annie Mac?"

Zane: "Yes, why?"

Harry Harris: "She stole my wallet. (off course this we know is not strictly true)

...But it's a long story you probably don't want to know."

Apparently he did. It's all slightly hazy, but I apparently recounted the whole adventure.

Mr. Lowe then replied in words such as these: "I'm going to turn into Sherlock Holmes and investigate what happened to your wallet."

What a revelation! This was getting better than Murder She Wrote and there was no bodged manslaughter involved.

I was asked to write my email address on a post-it note using a permanent marker.

This, by the way isn't easy. Though I'm sure he definitely wasn't trying to fob me off.

What was happening here was progress.

Why then, I have still not received contact from any of the previously mentioned people I am dumbfounded.

Crimewatch beckons.

The joys of being a healthy student

Yesterday morning:

After the binge of freshers week (I'm now a third year but still) I have decided to go on a minor health drive.

This so far has involved:
1. Buying bananas - However, rather predictably they have gone off before I have eaten them. 
2. Running up and down the stairs - whenever I need something from a different floor,  like a sandwich.  

3. Drinking less of the strong stuff.
4. Riding from my house to university - on a bike, not horse, although still surprisingly dangerous. 

I'm living in a different house this year in the centre of Bournemouth, but I didn't realise the initial treacherous bike route from my new abode.
My housemate had assuringly told me the route was a 'piece of cake'. However this was far from an Angel Delight.
More a Black Pudding.
I went out the back door, helmet on - I got hit by a car last year (on my bike, broken wrist etc) - and it started to rain. Hooray.

I entered through the back gate and cycled down a flat path. This is easy, I thought.
Then some steps appeared; I could handle these, but it was only 9.30am so I got off my bike and carried it down.
There's no need to be too adventurous yet.

But then, staring down at me was Bournemouth's Mount Kilimanjaro; a steep slope with less build up than a bad Death Metal record.
It just goes straight up. I need time to aclimatise, get into my stride, even change into an easier gear. The latter being the most vital.
The gear issue was the main problem surrounding my predicament - I was still in an enthusiastically steep gear from the previous day. This was going to be quite a climb.

In a positive move, I attempted to quickly get on my bike and change the gear to a lower one; I wobbled from side to side, trying to keep balance. Unsuccessfully, I put my feet back on the ground. I'm Ok though, I can do this: I didn't go out last night.

It was time to give it another go but it was hard seeing through the drizzle: I leapt on the pedals anyway, but my body went from one side to the other again, but this time more dramatically- a bit like a child who's parent has taken off the stabilisers without telling them.

As I tried to keep balance whilst getting into an easier gear something very unfortunate arose, or flew rather.

A FLY on some sort of suicide mission careered at high-speed into my left eye.

If you can imagine, you're walking down this hill, and you see a 'cyclist' who looks like he is on the peak of an 'A' class drug, raving on his bike, with one eye feeling the full affects of this chemical infusion. Squinting constantly with one hand appearing to punch his face (eye).

Unfortunately the nightmare continued; I had managed to get into a lower gear, but I had one hand trying to pull the fly out of my eye.
The bike was going right then left. Two hands had kept me on the bike. But, well, one...

Then, out of no where I was in a bush. Imagine thorns. This was no bed of roses.

I pulled myself out, smiling to passer-by's - they may have not see the incident. 

I then walked the rest of the way up.

Tomorrow the hill will be conquered, on bike.

X-Factor is now showing at my Student Union bar: they can forget about my custom.

As a student the weekend normally means staying in; five days consisting of probably little work and much play (freshers?) have taken their toll, stag do’s from up north have arrived by the mini-bus load and the clubs hike up their prices for those unsuspecting people who work full-time- blimey imagine what that’s like?

Unfortunately being in a student house on a Saturday or Sunday may involve a word beginning with X and ending in Factor. I can’t quite bring myself to say the complete name because it's all consuming; it blasts in your face, screams in your ears and spreads all over Facebook.  

That guy can’t sing, she’s really common, he’s got a wooden leg etc.

Have you seen the news? There’s probably something quite important going on, like an earthquake. But wait, one of the judges is crying. My heart bleeds, they could be in their villa in Mauritius.

It really is a whole world of trollop. But typically when you’re in a house of at least four people, one reprobate wants to watch it. Personally, I’d rather stab myself in the eye, or one of the contestants. Sometimes I can’t decide.

The problem this year in particular is that the program’s head has grown the size of an abnormally large hot air balloon.

The lights flash like a techno rave, the commentators voice reminds me of the evil Saw man, and the audience is unbearable – imagine the man at the front telling them to cheer louder: he must be on acid.

Everything about it now screams American. Why? Because they want to send the winner over there and makes loads of wonga. In less they’re old. Or fat.

One thing that is particularly irritating is when they bring back old contestants who are now ‘successful’: “100 millions albums, 20,000 sell out tours and now fantastic at miming.” You get the drift. Well, what they don’t mention is what happens to the less lucky ones, who for some reason were not cool enough to make the dosh and were therefore quickly dropped by their label.

They really should bring them back. Here’s the ones who you voted for and didn’t make it:

“Hi, remember me, Steve err, what’s my surname, I can’t remember. Ah, Brookstein. Well I’m now singing in The Kings Arms, west Woolwich. The guys at the pub love me. I often get requests for Leona Lewis.”

Just to verify, said persons name in quote had to be looked up on Wikipedia in order to find their full name. And in case you’re interested he has actually been appearing in a musical called Our House. Sounds a hoot.

Second contestant:

“Hi my names Michelle McManus and well the industry is really image….”

Dermot: “Move on love you’ve on the wrong show. It’s a dog eat dog world.”

Anyway there’s still probably about ten treacherous weeks of the spectacle left.

That’s a lot of Saturdays out on the town, although note-to-self: apparently they've started showing the show at my Student Union bar so that's one to avoid. And well on Sunday, maybe I’ll lock myself in my room, apparently that’s really fun. 

PART 2: Revenge

Simon Cowell, for Christmas, you get a bag of coal. 

"Simon, I've got some disturbing news, you're no longer the big dog, the X-Factor single is at........number two."

S.C:  "WHAT, WHAT, WHAT's at number one?"

Adviser: "It's a....metal song sir."

S.C: "A METAL SONG, but the kids love Miley Cyrus."

Adviser: "It appears the listeners are a little angry, they are raging against you, sir."

This is the Facebook campaign to get Rage Against The Machine to number 1 this Christmas.

(http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2228594104)

I mean could you imagine:

The top 40 Christmas chart countdown which everyone has forgotten:

"At number two, it's, IT's, the X-Factor single, which means, children, erm, turn your speakers up for.......... Killing In The Name."

Oh the joy that would bring to my ears.

It's the most seasonal song since Mr Blobby, but a whole lot more meaningful. 

This by the way is not an epiphany, but, I will now be praying to Jesus this Christmas that Rage Against The Machine beats the X-Factor to Christmas number one.

Literally, if you are listening God, turn your spawn on Mr Cowell and ruin his yuletide X-Factor X-mas monopoly. 

It would be the surprise present for such a song to hit the number one spot next Sunday - the coal in Simon Cowell's stocking.

I mean they even played the rock tune at our student nightclub last night, after Rhianna - what a mix up.

And finally what an amazing way to broadcast the tune, through the mouths of Cowell's puppets:

"Enjoy her! She's a perk"...What lecturers should probably keep to themselves.

"Enjoy her! She's a perk."

Surprisingly these 'wise' words, were not thrown about between 50 Cent and Snoop Dog, at a P-Diddy party, nor at The Playboy Mansion. 

They are in-fact spoken by an academic. Not about a company car, but about university students, of the female variety. 

"...girls fantasise," he says, referring to students in America who go after 'the campus sports star'. 

But here:

"On an English campus, academics can be heroes." 

Sorry?

The slogan of a certain T.V advert springs to mind: "Those who can. Teach," but after this publication it may not just be those that 'can' teach but some who will 'try, try, try' in-order to have more luck with the ladies. That is, the intellectual kind.

Remember, The Sun's readers have their page 3's but the more sophisticated of the educational world apparently hit the lecture hall for their hot-tottie; where looking out upon all those eager-to-learn young ladies is basically the same as a lap-dancing club......

This boys and girls, is Terence Kealey, Vice-Chancellor of Buckingham University speaking:

"Yup, I'm afraid so. As in Stringfellows, you should look but not touch."

Sorry, but generally, those at the front-row are of the dreary dictaphone type (vast generalisation). I mean you need the binoculars to hit the female hierachy of the back seats.

But these are "normal girls" he's talking about, and old Terence seems an expert on the female species. Perhaps a bit of a 'lad' in his hay-day (put a pair of thick-rimmed glasses on him now and he's look like a posh Harry Hill)

His words:

"Normal girls - more interested in abs than in labs, more interested in pecs than specs, more interested in triceps than tripos - will abjure their lecturers for the company of their peers..."

Sorry to interrupt Sir Terrence, but are you trying to talk hip; it's generally quite 'normal' for us young to 'hang' out with each other. Maybe you should watch skins, it's not revolutionary. 

Wait it gets better: 

"....but nonetheless, most male lecturers know that, most years, there will be a girl in class who flashes her admiration and who asks for advice on her essay. What to do?"

GIVE HER A 2:2.  Remember not every male, or female, university pupil has the pick of the bunch. Leave some for us, Terence, you stud.

The man definitely seems to have an educational fantasy, but surely ladies don't dream over Derek the biology academic, or Henry the History hob-knob.

Do they?

Although it is true on my own course there is a Politics teacher the girls talk of - he's probably got a lot of money. 

And, if your dad's a teacher, shield your eyes:

"She doesn't yet know that you are only Casaubon to her Dorothea, Howard Kirk to her Felicity Phee (he's showing his age here I think, no idea who these people are), and she will flaunt her curves. Which you should admire daily to spice up your sex, nightly, with the wife."

Is he joking? It's hilarious either way.

The question really is: what will the students be thinking as he addresses them for a speech?

..."Is he looking at me Sandra? No Debbie, I think he's eyeing up the librarian reps on the front row."  

Looks like the mere male students, such as myself, will need to up our game. 

*Mr Kealey has responded to criticism of his article on Lust here. 

Blowing up love bombs! Political News turns very Harry Potter

Political news headlines are almost as confusing as the people trying to lead our country.

Here's a tongue-in-cheek take on recent news involving all things MP-orientated.

Randomly, here's a selection of new Harry Potter film titles. 

In-fact they are political news headlines -for the realistic version of events click the link under the story summary:

The Guardian

'Nick Clegg must blow up David Cameron's love Bombs'

The favourite to lead the country after 2010 is such a charmer: David Cameron's been using nuclear love potions to woo Nick Clegg's high-flying wife. Very fantastical. Actually, it must be that he's using a nuclear love potion to woo Lib Dem supporters. 

 'Lib Dems spurn Cameron's olive branch'

 What? Cameron's been growing an olive tree to save money in the recession and now he's offering it out to Lib Dems. And they don't want any olives? Ungrateful pips the point.

I think the Lib Dems will find it's very hard to get an allotment these days and grow-your-own is all the rage. Maybe an olive tree's a bit too posh for the them, I did hear Clegg was more into his cactus. 

  The Independent:

 'Tories fail the 'under a bus' test'

 Blimey, has it got that desperate!? They're power-possessed, they really are. There's no need to start sacrificing MPS in order to steal headlines. Has George Osborne ever even got on a bus before? 

The term 'under a bus' also summons up an action sequence image of which is all a tad James Bond, therefore too cool: this is politics. 

 Now to Timesonline:

'Government warned of quango bungling last year'

This is very worrying. It's taken Labour too long to highlight how this ancient rural tribe of Quangos have been invading bungalows across the country. Lock up your one-floor houses; quangos maybe in for the chop, but for now, it's all talk.  

BBC News Website:

 'Osborne: Brown misled MPs on spending'

Misled? This is not North Korea George. Go have a look at Iran and then stop using this word so casually.

The story is actually in relation to an accusation of lying leveled at Gordon Brown:

 

Finally, on a rather unusual headline, there's something very worrying reported at Timesonline:

 

 'Jack Straw calls for heroin on the NHS'

 Surely not.

 Everyone will be walking around completely, and utterly out of it. 

"Sorry Doctor I'm feeling a bit lazy, got any ecstasy?"

Let's just hope these MP's don't go private and start claiming for it on their expenses. 

So the laws on assisted suicide could be changed...well, well...

In light of recent news that assisted suicide guidelines could be changed, here is piece I wrote earlier this year on the subject. It evolves around an interview with Dr Nitschke, otherwise know as Dr Death, who toured Britian giving suicide talks. There is also opposing comment from his former colleague Dr Micheal Irwin, as well as from a Chaplin in an area which Nitschke visited for it's 'older demographic'. [Photo]Dr Nitschke, dubbed 'Dr Death' by British media.

Dr Philip Nitschke, dubbed Dr. Death by British media.

Thirteen Years ago in the Northern territory of Australia a legal and lethal voluntary injection was administered to end the life of a terminally ill patient. This was carried out by Dr Philip Nitschke, the first doctor in the world to administer a doctor assisted suicide within the law. Under the Terminally Act of the Northern territory four more people voluntarily died, but a year later, in 1997, it was made illegal. 

“We saw the benefits to our society when those laws were in place," Dr Nitschke said after his recent euthanasia ‘promotion’ tour of Britain. In fact considering the media circus surrounding his visit it was surprisingly easy to contact him, and his openness, such as stating the reason for going to Bournemouth is because of it’s elderly population, is perhaps his downfall.

 With a strong Australian accent, “G’Day” starts our conversation, Nitschke, dubbed ‘Dr Death’ by the British media, was born in the rural south of his home country. His quite radical views, however, are far from the traditional values associated with outback folk.

“I would like to see legislation which will allow people under strict conditions, if satisfied by strict criteria, to get help to obtain a lawful end of life,” he states in a defiant, uncompromising tone. 

The Australian physician runs the pro-euthanasia organization Exit International, and promotes a drug sold legally in Mexico, called Nembutal, and an “exit hood” which can be filled with a lethal amount of helium. 

This open approach to suicidal methods has also left him in a wake of criticism. Dr Nitschke’s former colleague, Dr Michael Irwin, former Chairman of the Voluntary Euthanasia society, spoke from Cranleigh, Surrey where he still campaigns for right-to-die causes. In the past, Dr Irwin insists they were “good friends,” but now Irwin accuses Nitschke of being “totally irresponsible.” When asked about the Australian’s tour of his home country, the doctor who now campaigns for Friends at the End attacked the easy-access style of the meetings. 

“He says the information is for people who are over 50, or are seriously ill, but the information he provides, like where to get Nembutal, and also this awful process of helium gas and exit hoods, could be so easily abused.“ 

The former Medicial Chairman of the United Nations launched a global campaign in the 1990s with Nitschke to legalise doctor assisted-suicide for terminally ill patients. Today, they are not on speaking terms, although Dr Irwin still takes patients on trips to Switzerland and has strong pro-euthanasia beliefs. 

“Where there is a mentally competent adult involved who has either a terminal illness or who is very severely disabled, in those situations I think it is essential that people have the option of a quicker exit by means of voluntary euthanasia or doctor-assisted suicide.” 

But, he added, in a stern, lower voice, there could be severe problems if methods promoted by Dr Nitschke are used for the incorrect reasons. 

"The wrong person, someone that’s just very depressed or someone who wants to bump of their Alzheimer’s wife might get hold of this Nembutal and use it in a discreet way."

 In Bournemouth, where Dr Nitschke visited just over two weeks ago, the seaside resort renowned for it’s retired population, saw a media furore more in line with the arrival of a major pop star. 

At the meeting, held in the Britain’s only gay naturist hotel, Nitschke says it was “hard to say” how many people were there but it was between “50 and 100”, a broad estimate, he claims, due to the large amount of media representation. But clearly there’s an audience who want to hear what he has to say. Perhaps, however, one of the reasons there was resentment in the town, was because Dr Nitschke announced his visit was due to the “demographic,” referring to the high number of elderly residents, but, the Australian physician raises his voice at the suggestion of ‘targeting.’ In his defence, with the business plan of an Apprentice contestant, he states it would be “silly” to provide a service where people don’t want it.

 The business side of the tour is what concerns Sharon Hartwell, a female chaplin in the costal town, who looks confused in her multi-faith chaplinancy in Poole as she initially overlooks her religious stance. 

“I think the danger is he has some kind of financial interest in it and whenever there’s some kind of external interest, other than the exact good for a person, you’ve got to be slightly suspect.” 

The religious objection is clear, euthanasia involves the help of someone else to die and the church is against this, but Mrs Hartwell was clearly intrigued. 

“I didn’t go. I nearly went to it,” she says after a long hesitation, and with a frowned brow. A brief silence ensues as she looks towards her window and the farm animals in the field behind, and then, she leans forward.

"It’s a bit like putting your cat or dog down isn’t it. The other argument is that it’s quite fine to put your cat or dog down but why can’t we put people down, and if you’re a Christian I would say people are different to animals because we’ve got hopes, fears, and aspirations, whereas animals just live in the moment.” 

The Chaplin describes her brother-in-law who tried to commit suicide but was caught, and is now “happy” with two children and a wife, hence the reiteration of her belief that ‘we only know how we are feeling at the moment and we don’t know what it’s going to be like in the future.’ As Mrs Hartwell continues, she shuffles uncomfortably in her swivel chair, continuing to highlight the “anxiety” and “guilt” involved when a person helps someone else die, and this, she says, is why God is there to make these hard life and death decisions for us. The bible says we are made in the image of god and therefore we are creative and are able to do all sorts of things. In contrast, the non-Christian, atheist belief, comes from a tradition where there is no God and there is no after life. After discussing this, Hartwell sits up and announces: “Who cares, who are you accountable to. Why does it matter? It all depends on you’re ethical point of view.“ 

Dr Nitshke said in response to the religious objection, including several highly strung negative comments from local priests around Britain, that he didn’t have a problem with people sharing different beliefs but they shouldn’t impose them on others. 

“I wouldn’t want someone who has got a different moral and ethical system in place to the one I adhere to, to come along and tell me I can’t have what I want. They can do what they wish but they should let me.”