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.