Historically I've been pretty successful, picking the winner four years in a row but I've had no luck in the past two years, especially last year when I lost by a nose. Stupid horse.

Anyway, this year I decided to place my bet online. Using cashback referral site Quidco, I took advantage of their special offer and joined Betfair.com, earning myself £50 just for doing so. Result, I was already up and the race hadn't even started yet. I went onto Betfair and made my choice. Next stop, race day.

Comply Or Die was my horse, it was being well backed but Cloudy Lane was the early favourite. I also plumped for Kelami, a French horse that the BBC website tipped for a good finish. At 85-1 it was hard to resist.

The usual phonecalls from Shaun, Simon and Wibbler all ensued, asking me for my top tip. Strange, given that I know nothing about horse racing, but for the Grand National I do tend to have some luck.

"And they're off" the commentator announced, the horses all bouncing off each other as the mayhem of the Grand National got underway. For some reason I was quite subdued in the early stages, my horses hadn't been mentioned but some of the other front runners had fallen so my horses had a better chance of winning. This was good.

Kelami fell. I was gutted, but not surprised. My £500 win wasn't going to happen this year, so it was Comply Or Die, or nothing. The leading horses broke from the pack and Comply Or Die was amongst them. I changed from slouch position, to edge of the seat. The last couple of jumps beckoned. "GO COMPLY!" I yelled, thinking at the time that that might have been a line from Flight Of The Navigator.

"RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNN!" I yelled, hoping the neighbours would forgive the loud outbursts. Comply Or Die was out front, it was a sprint for the finish but there was a late challenge and it was touch and go for a while, but with a bit more yelling Comply Or Die got over the line and Betfair soon credited me with my winnings.

Come back next year for your winning tip, I'm back on a roll.

I'd just arrived home and was walking around the car, checking that the tyre pressure seemed to have been maintained, having pumped them up again that morning. I took a step back, everything looked fine, but I didn't expect what happened next.

Suddenly, the car became covered in white and brown spots, some large, some small. Many of them were more splats than spots and they weren't concentrated in one area like the bonnet, they were all over the damned car, including the difficult-to-clean soft top and between the engine air-grill that covers the engine. "What the f.." I exclaimed, my voice trailing off as it dawned that it can't have been one bird that dropped all that crap on my car, it must have been a whole flock.

I checked my clothes. They say that being crapped on by a bird flying overhead is good luck. Personally I would consider it extremely bad luck, but my check proved clean. The birds had missed, I thanked my lucky stars for that one step backwards.

So I grabbed a cloth and wiped away all the bird lime from my car. It had really got everywhere and it wasn't a pleasant job. However, I did take great joy in informing my sister that there was a whole load of bird lime on her car too and that she should really clean it off.

As we lined up for the start of the hunt, Carole stood up and announced that this year's hunt was not about the volume of eggs collected, but the number of points that the size of the eggs represented. And that the hunt was effectively a Harry Potter style game of Quidditch. The explanation was difficult for me, having never read any of the Harry Potter books, so she might as well have been talking in a little-known Dutch dialect for all I understood, but here's what I got from it. Large eggs were known as Korfles and were worth five points, small eggs where called Badgers and valued at ten points and there was one golden egg worth fifty points called the Golden Snidge. There was also a special ball called a something-or-other that was in play at all times and if you got hit with it, you were disqualified from the hunt for a full minute and had to spend the duration of that penalty period standing on the starting step. For the sake of this post, let's say this ball was called a Schnark.

To be honest, I had no idea what she was waffling on about, but I guessed the general gist was to go out and find Easter eggs, especially the gold one.

I made a pretty good start and my pile of eggs began to grow in size, some of the old favourite hiding places had been used again, and some inventive locations were also being used for the first time (under an innocuous-looking pile of leaves for example). If it had been a game of finding the most eggs, I would have been winning.

Former organiser TC then threw a spanner in the works. He got me with the Schnark and I had to spend an agonising minute on the step whilst the other players continued the hunt. But the final eggs were simply not being found. And the Golden Snidge was nowhere to be seen. Ben wasn't in the running and TC, Jane and Olivia were struggling, but Sophie was matching me for eggs and I needed to find that Snidge to get my name on the 2008 trophy.

After a barren spell of no eggs being found, Carole held a regroup on the step. There were about half a dozen eggs left to be found, and I had the Schnark in my hand. The plan was so cunning you could paint it green and call it a stoat. Once the regroup speech was over, and thanks to everyone being in the close vicinity, I would get everybody with the ball and have a free minute to search the grounds. Pure genius.

"According to my list there are three in the front and three in the back, and they're all close to the paths" Carole announced, giving us all a clue as to the whereabouts of the missing eggs. Sophie dashed off, a rare idea coming into her head and as the group began to split, I threw the Schnark to instigate the most cunning plan since camouflaged trousers. To my horror, Carole then added "and the Schnark is no longer in play". I was distraught. The plan was ruined, my game totally disrupted by an appalling refereeing decision and, despite my protests, the ruling was upheld, the Schnark was useless.

The eggs gradually showed up, but not the Golden Snidge. It all came down to the simple fact that if either Sophie or I found the Snidge, we'd win the hunt. I trotted off to the Wendy House and searched in vain. No Snidge in the log-pile, no Snidge behind the stack of paving slabs, an egg in the Wendy House had been found there already so the Snidge wouldn't be there, so it must be somewhere I hadn't yet thought to look.

There was a stone plant tub with some tiles on the top and stones dotted around the top. It looked heavy. I lifted the tiles on the left hand side of the tub. No Snidge. DAMMIT. I wandered round the corner to try to uncover another as yet unthought-of hiding place when there was a shriek of joy from Sophie. She'd found the Golden Snidge and won the hunt. I was gutted and cursing the decision to disengage the Schnark, that was the defining moment. I'd lost the hunt again, but worse than that I'd lost it to my sister. She would be unbearable.

And then came more bad news. The tiles I'd moved on the left hand side of the tub revealed no Snidge, but had I moved the tiles on the RIGHT hand side, the Snidge would have revealed itself and I would have won the hunt. I kicked myself for not being more thorough. An amateurish mistake for such a seasoned Easter Egg Hunt professional like myself. Disaster. Second place. Screw second.

As this year's winner, Sophie is responsible for organisational duties in 2009. God help us. No doubt there'll be a Barbie theme or something equally child-like and all the eggs'll be pink. Oh good.

"A rat which was electrocuted at an electricity sub-station caused a three-hour power cut at Stockholm's main railway station. The 11,000 volt shock in Sweden on Saturday actually blew the rat apart."

Let's face it, the article was only included to fill a gap and to delight English rail passengers who are allegedly never further than ten feet from a rat.

Despite a new year's resolution to write more for my website, I've managed to pen just nine entries in three months. Some people write nine posts every day! This has got me thinking about the site and where it's headed.

It initially started as a laugh, then developed into an online diary and now acts as an archive of amusing events that friends and I may have since forgotten. Nowadays, it's more of a sporadic info point where I moan about something or other and where very little of amusing value seems to originate. This begs the question 'what does the future hold for jonola14.co.uk'?

Whilst it would be a shame to close the site down after seven years of existence, I fear I do not have the time and, I'll be honest, the inclination to keep it fully maintained with regular entries. So what are the options? I could keep it online for sentimental reasons and continue to post the occasional blog, I could take it down completely, or I could invite other contributors.

Your thoughts, loyal readers (if you exist), would be welcome.

Jonola

- update this website at least once a week - FAILED. Let's face it, it was never going to happen. See next post.
- have a holiday abroad - ON COURSE. Although it seems holidays abroad on your own are very expensive.
- pay off the loan on my car - ALMOST THERE. Then I'll have a better go at the above.
- give up crisps - ON COURSE. Although half way through finishing off a tube of Pringles at a friend's house, I did change it to giving up buying crisps instead.
- sell a t-shirt - ON COURSE. Well, I say 'on course', yet I'm no nearer to succeeding. But technically I haven't failed, so we're all good.
- be more selfish - FAILED. It's just not my nature.
- laugh at stress - ON COURSE. Although I'm tending more towards ignoring it than laughing at it.

So there you have it. Achieved 0, On Course 5, Failed 2. Is that good?

"Name?" the man asked as I walked into the shop, having not been there before. "Jack, 11.30" I replied, adding in the time of the appointment and hoping that the man was clever enough to realise that 11.30 wasn't actually my name. "Great", he said and crossed my name off the list.

As I was having my hair washed by the Polish assistant, the man came over again to ask my name and whether or not I had an appointment. "Cook. Jack Cook. I booked online yesterday and got a confirmation email for 11.30am". The man went off again to a new customer at the door, who it turns out also booked an appointment at 11.30 under the name of Jack.

The other Jack's usual hairdresser asked me what I wanted done, so I explained, only to be passed off to another hairdresser moments later. "We're behind schedule now, because your appointment wasn't in the book" the bloke said, clearly implying that I had messed up the workings of their day. I bit my tongue a bit, but still managed a stern "it's not my fault is it? I booked online yesterday and got a confirmation email there and then from someone called Sam, if you didn't write it in the book then that's not my fault". Slightly taken aback, the guy (who actually turned out to be Sam himself) went off to check once more. As expected, I was right.

But now there was a problem. This man was about to cut my hair, he was annoyed about being put under pressure, I was annoyed at the mix-up and the embarrassment and I really wanted my hair to look great for this coming week in particular. I told him what I wanted and he just went off and did precisely what he thought was best for me and my hair. Utter buffoon. And there is no way I'm going back there, 20% discount or not.

So now I have much shorter hair, which I severely dislike. Any suggestions for rapid hair growth products?

I had things on my mind, what had happened the night before? Why couldn't I remember those two hours? I walked up the high street, deep in thought, and headed for the bank.

In I went. I reached for my wallet and grabbed the cheques I needed to pay in. But something was wrong. No, something was different. It was greener, and the layout had changed. I focused on the wall and realised my error.

I stopped, in the middle of the bank, hungover, my hands on my hips and with a shake of the head and not realising my own volume, I exclaimed "THIS IS NOT NATWEST", before spinning on my heels and walking three doors down into the correct bank, leaving the bewildered Lloyds customers in my wake.

Don't bank after a drinking session. Or during.

I'm going to tell you about my Blue Monday.

It had been a really busy day at work. The things that didn't quite get finished on the preceding Friday came back to haunt me on the Monday and I had been busier than a very busy busy thing. And other things needed to be done urgently, the phone kept ringing, the endless emails, the constant changes... the only thing keeping me going was the 5-a-side match I had planned for the evening.

When that evening came, Blue Monday's wrath came with it. I was in the car, driving to the match down the A3 and, as usual, knowing the amount of speed cameras on that stretch of road, I was making sure that I was driving sensibly and within the speed limit. It was a 40 zone and I was trundling along in the slow lane at around 36mph. As I passed the camera, there was suddenly a flash of light, then another and I knew I had been snapped. "WHAT?" I exclaimed to myself, even going so far as to do the shoulder shrug of innocence. The camera zapped me for doing 36mph in a 40 zone, I was not impressed and immediately began writing my complaint letter in my head. They would not get away with that!

I made sure I was doing well below the speed limit for the other cameras and eventually made it to the sports centre. Within thirty seconds of the game starting, I'd caught an elbow on the lip and had a swollen and bloody mouth, I was not having much fun.

When I got back home, I showered and put on my dressing gown as it was getting late. I hadn't eaten so I put some pasta on the gas hob and began to stir it. My mind wandered to the speed camera incident, I was so angry. Would I get fined? Does anyone check the photos? Are they all digital now or do some cameras still use film? Could I challenge it? There was a funny smell and my mind came back to what I was doing. I looked down.

My dressing gown sleeve was on fire. It had dangled down onto the gas hob as I stirred the contents of the saucepan and consequently caught fire. "SHIT!" I said, trying to retract my arm from the sleeve at the same time as shoving it into the sink and sticking the tap on with my other hand.

Once I'd made sure there was no damage, I went back to the pasta that had now boiled, it was now ready for straining. So I grabbed the colander and poured the pasta in, splashing boiling hot water all over my already singed hand and yelling obscenities at a high volume.

Thank you, Blue Monday, you're a bastard.

See it, hear it, love it. It's here:

Please embed it in your webpages, forward to your friends and get the word out, let's all vote Boris For Mayor.

Back in September 2006 I left Renault UK and had to give up the company car, which was a rather nice Mégane Coupé Cabriolet - recommended, and I went until October 2007 without owning a car, without having a company car and without even driving a car. I was a train connoisseur. Not a spotter though, thank goodness.

Anyway, I bought my brother's MGF off him in October 2007 and to date it is the single most expensive thing I have ever bought. It sailed through the MOT test, had a full service and was so well cleaned when I came to pick it up that it might as well have been new. I knew I wasn't going to do thousands of miles every year, and it hadn't done that many miles when I bought it, plus with one careful owner it was a good deal.

Although when I was sitting in the cab of the recovery truck, the day before New Year's Eve, with my shiny MGF winched up and being towed, my car luck really hadn't got any better. The worst that had happened previously was a flat battery, but nine weeks and a mere 800 miles after buying it, I'd managed to blow the cylinder head and gasket system. Hopefully the last of the problems, but given P75 BPM's history, somehow I doubt it...

However, paying in cheques is still a problem and until the cheque becomes so antiquated that they became unaccepted anywhere, one will still need to visit the bank to pay it in. Now, like the majority of people, I work full-time so getting to a bank during the week can be a problem. Fortunately for me, my bank is open on a Saturday and last week I went in, armed with a couple of cheques and some bagged coinage and true to form, there was a queue.

So I joined the queue, it wasn't too long and there were a few people serving, so it'd only be a few minutes before I'd get served. I stood there, watching the bank clerks at work and thinking about which debts these cheques would clear when I became aware of the woman in front of me staring at me. I glanced up and she looked away, then she turned round again. She was old, at least 70, with mad, bedraggled hair and bucked-teeth. I tried not to look at her, but she was staring. Really staring.

Had I got toothpaste round my mouth again? Was there something hanging out of my nose? I didn't think so, but she kept on staring, I had to look up.

"I wish I had hair like yours" she said, pointing her wrinkled fingers with bitten nails at my head, where my spikey, rather long hair was sticking in all directions. "Ummm, thank you" I said, "you can do anything with wax these days".

She smiled and turned away, I thought that was the end of that and gazed hopefully at the counters to see if any of the clerks were soon to be available. Apparently not. When I looked back, she was staring again, this time with a broad smile and those bucked teeth glaring at me like two dirty, bulging eyes.

"You're very handsome" she then blurted out, to my embarrassment. I heard titters of amusement from the rest of the queue and had no idea how to respond. What do you say to an old woman who likes your hair and thinks you're handsome. All I could do was to say "thank you, you've very kind" and pray to God that the bank clerks would pull their collective fingers out and serve her. She was next in line now, surely I wouldn't have to wait much longer to be freed from my ordeal.

But then she went one better and exclaimed, "I wish I could do that with my hair, but I'm so old and ugly". I couldn't respond, the other people in the queue were laughing into their cheque books and doing their best not to make eye contact. This was torture, wouldn't somebody please help, or the bank clerks at least hurry the hell up?

I had to say something, she was looking at me expectantly and there was definitely no help coming from the rest of the queue so I simply said "don't be silly, you're not that old" and before she had time to reply, the automated voice said in its brash tone "cashier number four please" and she was gone.

P.S. Anyone wishing to write me a cheque can still do so.

Watch the lesson here, fish chords and all (you'll need Real Player)...

It's a brilliant theory. Shower gel for people who want a bit of assistance getting to sleep at night. But that's not the brilliant bit. The brilliance is the fact that this stuff is a specialist product and comes at a price, but when you come to use it, it's a jelly and slips through your fingers at every opportunity and you find yourself frantically trying to pick the stuff up before the shower water sends it spinning down the plug hole. You might as well open the tub and pour it down the plug hole directly. Still, there's always the chance that you'll knock your head on the bath attempting to pick up the escaped jelly and hey presto, easy sleep.

I prefer to set myself objectives and I have a few things in mind, but I am inviting others to make suggestions as to what I should do in 2008 to make myself a better, more successful person.

Here are a couple of mine:
- update this website at least once a week
- have a holiday abroad
- pay off the loan on my car
- give up crisps
- sell a t-shirt

and here's some that have already been suggested:
- be more selfish (thank you Katie)
- laugh at stress (again, thank you Katie)

so, leave your suggestions as comments - anonymously if you like...

Happy New Year and all that jazz.