"You're so B-list, you weren't even asked to join the Brian Carthy boycott."

HE'S COUNTY: A warts and all diary from inside the camp

‘You’re so B-list, you weren’t even asked to join the Brian Carthy boycott.” And with those very words, I kicked off the latest instalment of what I like to call “Dopey Manager & Me”.

He looked perplexed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t even heard of the Brian Carthy boycott. Oh God! We’ve got ourselves a real in-demand boss here. Mickey Harte has him on speed-dial. Not.

He didn’t start me in Sunday’s final challenge game, he didn’t bring me on, and he didn’t talk to me afterwards.

How did we do? Ask me a hard one. We/they were beaten by six points. I was bulling, as you can only imagine. The crowd held fire, but you could see it in their eyes.

I’ve never been one to shy away from a hard call off the field of the play.

“In fact, you’re so B-list, Brian Carthy specifically asked that you be excluded from the boycott,” I continued.

Obviously, The Committee Roommade contact – it's amazing what a timely tweet can do. "Get on us now at 12/1 for 2011 #gaa championship – seems we've got 9 forwards better than me. We must be class. Funny how I hadn't noticed --- #sundaygame @rtesport."

I wouldn’t go on, though. Tweeted Marty back, private message: “l8r, big guy, l8r, you know yourself, head down, no point giving the b*****d an easy out. He’ll crawl yet. Anyway, @mjtierney13 will sing you a sweet song tonight ---.”

There’ll be time enough for counting when the county’s done. And the way this manager of ours is going about things, we’ll have the bloody club championship wrapped up by the end of August, relegation and all, not to mind what you might charitably call our “All-Ireland run”.

Did you hear about John Clarke? The message boards are a loon’s paradise. I gave up reading them years ago. People are threatened by talent: let them lead their sad, surrogate lives on someone else’s time.

What they know about football could easily be wrapped up in the thong in the county colours I received in the post yesterday from “an anonymous fan who thinks you’re just wonderful”.

The garment wouldn’t exactly preserve her modesty – nor would the 087 number she scribbled on them go very far in preserving her anonymity. She’ll have to wait her time though: yours truly didn’t earn his reputation by getting excited with every tug on the end of the metaphorical line.

He also serves those who only stand and wait.

I did, of course, do the old dial straight into her voicemail trick to hear her chime. No luck. Seems she’s one of those who goes with the Vodafone default voice. Hmmm, very last year, that: suspect she’s a bit long in the tooth.

I’ll stick with my old long-game policy. Some night soon, Coppers will reveal all, as it always does.

Back to Clarkey. I texted him my support.

“Feel your pain, Clarkey, feel your pain. It’s hard to soar above sometimes. I know all about it. They’re trying to bring me down for years. Little do they know I use them to motivate myself. BTW, tell Morty on the Forty to reserve a space on the couch for the me in Sydney.”

Clarkey texted back one word. “Melbourne.” I felt his pain.

Back to Sunday evening. “You wouldn’t be asked your opinion on anything if every other manager in the country joined the Carthy boycott,” I told him.

We scored the grand sum of nine points. A point a forward. Takes some doing, in fairness, to manage so few: and it’s not as if our uber-defensive strategy, as they’re calling it on An Fear Rua, is exactly running like clockwork.

“We’re going to build from the ground up this year, lads,” he said at our first meeting. I’m no engineer – despite the eight years of Sigerson – but that struck me as an open-and-shut case of stating the obvious.

“Nothing will pass us this year, except maybe a few butterflies,” he added, trying to be funny. Well, those butterflies learn fast: they clocked up a pretty impressive 2-13 last Sunday evening.

I need to rescue my personal slide though. Bad enough to get only one start in the league, but it’s verging on serious now.

I didn't get to meet the Queen or Obama. The guy from Under Armour is not returning my texts. And my latest stalker doesn't even record her own voicemail message. Call me paranoid, but . . . If a man weren't careful he could slip out of favour or, worse, the public eye. I might have been hasty in turning down The Committee Roomgig.

That’s why I dropped the story yesterday about America. I love the quote: “Obviously, I’m totally committed to club and county, and it would break my heart to leave either in the lurch, so it’s too early to even comment on the speculation. That’s what I’ve told them in the States too.”

Let’s see which of the papers pick up on it over the next few days. He’ll sweat then, from the ground up.