Kirsty Bosley: Being a Facebook show-off is nothing to boast about...

"So happy with my haul this year. Hashtag Pandora charms, hashtag Chanel perfume, hashtag Uggs, hashtag Lush bath bombs. Hashtag so lucky. Hashtag love him."

Christmas is the best time of year to brag about all the cool stuff you've had so that everyone's aware of how fortunate you are. Because, let's face it, that's what social media is all about isn't it? Bragging?

I do it myself, I won't lie to you. I tell everyone when I've interviewed a particularly cool celebrity to make it look as though I have the best job going.

'Can't believe I just interviewed David Hasselhoff', was a favourite from earlier this year. It was a thought that could have stayed forever consigned to my inner monologue were it not for the fact that my smartphone Facebook status typing thumb now seems intrinsically linked directly to the boast area of my brain.

Hashtag Baywatch, hashtag The Hoff, hashtag how is he still so hyperactive? Hashtag I could barely get a word in edgeways. I scroll through Facebook before bed at night, looking at all of the cool things my friends have (or have done) too. Whether it's photos of their very cute children I don't have (hashtag daddy's girl), a shot of their dinner I didn't get to eat (hashtag chippie tea) or an update about how lucky they are to have their boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife.

We're very boastful creatures by nature, and Facebook gives us the platform to be so more outwardly than ever.

This isn't a criticism, by the way, it's just the human way. I'm as guilty of this as anyone, trust me. I have a leopard print fur coat for heaven's sake, which is about the loudest show-off thing anyone can possibly wear. I am a low-rate Bet Lynch, without the long fag holder.

This week, I publicly boasted about a handful of my published articles and showed-off about going to Manchester to watch a sold-out wrestling show.

I also told people that I used to go to school with, but haven't clapped eyes on in 10 years, that I was getting a new home with my exceptionally handsome boyfriend. His hashtag face is, I must add, hashtag incredible. Probably better than your boyfriend's face. If you've got one (a boyfriend, I mean. Not a face).

Look, I'm doing it now. This column has become an extension of my bragging. Show me someone that doesn't use Facebook for this – whether subconsciously or deliberately – and I will show you a liar. Denial will only come across as boastful sharing that you are holier than the rest of us. Face facts – you're terrible for this, too.

On Facebook in the last week, my friends gloated that they'd finished their Christmas shopping. They showed-off their cute dogs and cats and told the world they'd always known Oscar Pistorious was guilty of murdering Reeva Steenkamp. Mixed bag of boastfulness, really. But all with the same self-congratulatory air. Bless our hearts, us daft, self-publicising exhibitionists.

When we're not telling the world just how lucky we are to have all of this amazing stuff of vastly varying nature, we're moaning.

Moaning that we've waited in all day for a parcel and it hasn't shown up and now we've missed out on a day doing nothing in our pants. We take the time to carefully word our complaints online, telling our digital friends our issues du jour. Friends who, frankly, we'd rather walk up the cat food aisle in Tesco to avoid, despite having no pets. Anything other than engage in painful small talk with them, right?

What would we talk about? The fact we've seen on Facebook that they've just had a new three-piece suite? That we are sorry to hear their eldest had sickness and diarrhea on Thursday and so missed the nativity on Friday and couldn't be the donkey?

This week I complained about the bombing of Syria in a way which probably made me sound like I was much more knowledgeable on the matter of war and conflict than I actually am. I complained about Britain First being the scum of the earth and I moaned I'd purchased the wrong sized phone case for my Samsung.

My friends moaned too, about being stuck in M6 traffic hell, about their football team being bobbins and about feeling unwell.

Life is unfair, I learnt, in between pictures of people boasting about what a great job they'd done of decorating their Christmas tree.

Though it's all fun and games (especially if you make it into a drinking game, a shot for every time someone on your feed says something conceited), there's a serious moral to why I'm writing about this.

Firstly, because I want you be be more aware of the fact you're probably a right miserable, moaning Myrtle. I just don't want to see it stinking up my Facebook feed, yet I'm too scared to delete you, just in case you go up the Tesco cat food aisle and cop me. So I guess I'm just being really passive and cowardly.

And secondly, because every time you post a photo of what your significant other has treated you to this Christmas, you surround yourself in danger. I now know what's in your house – that you've got a brand new laptop and a Michael Kors watch. Your haphazard posting with your location settings switched on means I know where you live, and where your expensive gifts are likely to be kept. I probably know what days you're working or where you are when you're not in – thanks for checking-in.

I'm not saying I'm going to break in to your digs – I'm too busy bragging about my own cool life to come and interfere with yours. I won't even risk seeing you in a supermarket, remember? Let alone get busted in your house rifling through your drawers.

But someone might be, so be careful what you post this festive season. Not only does it put you at risk, but it makes you look like a hashtag berk.