I get knocked down, not all the way down, but I'm kind of hanging on a weird angle and would appreciate a helping hand. Oh Danny boy, Danny boy...

The Melbourne French Theatre is being quite uncooperative about any possibility of helping me.

They don't offer anything in the way of playwrighting scholarships and don't seem too willing to compromise. Oh well. When Frenchie and I have five illegitimate kids, some with disabilities, all with three heads and socially crippling French laughs, I'll know how to get the A Current Affair team onto for financial support. After all, this is all their fault.

Speaking of financial support, I'm about to undertake the massive task of writing a new play for No Strings Attached, but I've been robbed of any commission purely because I'm still an emerging artist. God Damn. The best bit is the play PJ (Artistic Director) wants is one about the struggle of the disabled artist. There are times when not even the most cliché of writers can stand to drink from the cup that bares the richly bittersweet taste of irony.

'Next year will be better' is officially my new mantra.

'Didn't you say that last year?' seems to be the universe's response.

It's times like this when one must begin one's journey along the winding road to inner strength and peace. Beginning with a banana and pecan pudding.

Surely we've got some wine somewhere. 

Or would that be to cliché?