Helicopter parents? Stalker children – they are the truly scary ones

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/dec/30/aubrey-ireland-helicopter-parents-nightmare-children

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Pity 21-year-old Aubrey Ireland, a music student at the University of Cincinnati, who's just won a restraining order against her parents. They must now stay at least 500 yards from her and make no contact until next autumn. Despite Ms Ireland sounding like an exemplary student, the parents installed spyware software on her mobile and computer and regularly arrived unannounced at her university. They accused her of being promiscuous and on drugs and informed her tutors she had mental health issues.

All of which has reignited the longstanding debate about helicopter parents, the overprotective control freaks who hover over their children's lives, even after they become adults, unable or unwilling to let go. Except now the oft-maligned helicopters have been re-branded "stalker parents", which, this extreme case aside, sounds a bit rude.

I've pondered before on helicopter parents, who I'm sure exist, but are perhaps outnumbered by the lesser known lifeboat parents, whose only crime is endlessly to fish their children out of messes, however much they'd rather be sitting down with a tumbler of Baileys, watching Homeland. Oh hang on, they're just parents.

I even feel a modicum of sympathy for the misguided parents of Aubrey Ireland. I've been there – well, not quite so extreme – in the shivering, crazy-eyed, cold dark wastelands of parental paranoia. Once you've been there, the idea of stalker parenting doesn't sound pretty, but it doesn't seem unthinkable either.

What smug "Oh I would never do that" parents of younger children don't realise is that older children (glorious, autonomous, often preternaturally idiotic) can drive a person literally insane with anxiety.

I actually feel sorry for new parents and their terrible innocence. Do they genuinely believe that getting through nappies and sleepless nights signals the end of the most difficult stressful part of parenting? Please excuse me while I lean back in my chair and emit a ghastly hollow laugh that barely sounds human.

As for all this ill-mannered talk of stalking, who's stalking whom exactly? While some parents might deserve the label, what about stalker children who don't leave their parents alone? We all know of the failure to launch phenomenon, where reasonably solvent, capable adult children opt never to leave home. Then there are the ones who leave, but, justifiably or otherwise, require endless bankrolling. That's financial stalking. Even when they become parents themselves, it doesn't stop. When I first started selfishly exploiting the good nature of my child's grandparents, it was relatively unusual. These days, it's on the verge of being mandatory.

Some people won't even get a break between parenting and grandparenting. Having a large gap between my children, I could easily end up looking after a grandchild before I've even finished buying Ikea shoe-hangers for the youngest to take to university or prison. I've worked out that I may have as little as 25 minutes, enough for a quick flick through Grazia, before another round of childrearing begins. And with the amount of people starting second, even third, families, I'm far from alone. Gone are the days when grandchildren were perceived as a second chance, another shot – these days, it's just as likely to be a continuum. Let's call it gestational stalking.

The point is that, while all the focus is on children unable to escape from parents, sometimes it's not that simple. People can bang on about helicopters, but sometimes the helicopter stops its hysterical hovering and lands, or indeed crashes; either way, it gets to the ground and stays there. Similarly, most parent stalkers are likely to snap out of it, realising they're no longer needed in quite the same way. So my sympathies to Ms Ireland in Cincinnati, but probably she would agree that this was rather an extreme case. In general, the truth is more complex and, where the stalking is concerned, far from one-sided.

No, sorry, Dave. You're not quite in Putin's class

Well done to David Cameron for embarking on the Great Brook charity run in the Cotswolds. It didn't look easy. All that stumbling about, red-faced, spluttering, unable to speak properly. And then the race started.

Cameron came 46th out of 109, behind a man dressed as Santa, but not to worry. However, those who describe Cameron's efforts as Putinesque are mistaken. Say what you like about Vladimir, but at least he got his top off and delivered the "political hunk" goods. Cameron was fully clad with a knee bandage. No contest.

Why does Russia get all the, ahem, luck? Surely there is a market for a tastefully sensual Political Hunk charity calendar here? I can see it now. Andrew Mitchell topless on a bike, wearing a policeman's helmet – that could heal some wounds. George Osborne, flashing his eyes from a first-class train seat. Ed Balls pouting in opposition. Jeremy Hunt giving the "glad eye" from behind a strategically placed red box.

Is this doing it for you? "It" feeling a bit like the Norovirus coming on? Me too. I could definitely imagine a political hunks' calendar. I just wish I could un-imagine it.

Flabby Abbey – what a let-down

So what if Matthew Crawley was killed off in Downton Abbey? Dan Stevens had left. What were they meant to do – stuff two cushions into a tweed suit and hope no one noticed? Besides, Downton was so boring, all of them deserved to die.

It's traditional to moan about Christmas television, but generally my viewing standards are low (I am considering watching this year's Dancing on Ice). When someone as, shall we say, "populist" as myself takes umbrage things must be really bad.

Back-to-back repeats, even of the lovely Eric and Ernie, are unacceptable. Then there was The Snowman sequel (same thing, but with a dog). That Dog Can Dance was disturbing in a way I might one day need to speak to a therapist about. The Girl was good, except for the fact that Sienna Miller appeared able to act. Who needs such shocks at Christmas?

As for Downton, it felt like a televised version of the little cup they give you at Dignitas. Perhaps as revenge for Stevens leaving, writer Julian Fellowes had made Matthew so sickly-sweet that I was delighted when he died. I just wish his death had been nastier and more protracted, so we could all really enjoy his screams of terror and pain.

All this proves that curious anomaly of British life – the one time there's a captive audience and the opportunity to showcase creative output, the channels serve up their dreariest dross. The Olympics equivalent would have been Danny Boyle putting up a giant screen featuring Morecambe and Wise and The Vicar of Dibley, leaving tins of Quality Street out on the grass and sloping off to the pub. Job done!

Christmas TV planners – not only are we a captive audience, we're also frequently awake.