I've only got myself to blame.
Having decided that the only way to get anywhere is to throw yourself at every possible opportunity that even glances in your direction, I now have to follow it up.
Last year Sky Arts filled several posh buildings with bug eyed, sweating portrait artists.
Under the watchful eye of the public, a northern comedian, a pretty lady in saucy shoes, a friendly thin man and a stern woman you wouldn't accept an apple off if you met her in the forest, they were made to paint pictures of celebrities looking uncomfortable.
Ultimately, a groovy hipster with runny paint turned in a very tidy and respectful picture of a heroic soldier and everyone went home feeling pleased that nobody had done anything controversial or unpleasant.
Well done him.
His prize is a large bag of cash and the chance to paint a famous author who, with the best will in the world, does look like a Bushbaby staring at the back of a spoon, but hey, a win's a win.
There was much in the show to point at in outrage, and there were moments when my tea came out of my nose but all in all it was a Good Thing because it got portraiture out of the attic, dusted it off and encouraged people to think about it a bit.
I felt sorry for the artists who got publicly voted out, and even sorrier for the ones who got through and had to actually talk about their paintings to 'the experts'.
Trouble is they're doing it again this year.
They insist on your entry being a selfie, so I've had to spend today looking at myself in the mirror like some mad narcissistic budgie, but it's got to be done.
Like Unlucky Alf, I can feel myself wobbling towards the metaphorical hole in the road, and knowing my luck, I'll probably fall into it.
Any road, 'ere's me entry.