HE'S COUNTY: A WARTS AND ALL DIARY FROM INSIDE THE CAMPDESTINY'S CHILD, that's what Sunday is. He's made his bed, and it's no bed of roses. Breaking news, ta-dah – we go into championship with the truly salivating prospect of Grinkers lining out on the forty.

The No 11 jersey on his back. The go-to guy. The geezer who gets the chicks and the gigs. Grant Fox, Dan Carter, Tom Brady, Brian McGuigan, Henry Shefflin, feel the pressure, boys: there’s a new man in town, and his name is Grinkers.

Grinkers – thinks in thousand-word soundbytes, moves gracefully as a bull on an ice-rink, and blessed with the peripheral vision of a blindfolded llama in an underground carpark.

Grinkers can give a good supply right enough, but only if that supply is mortar to a plasterer, or paint to a painter. Grinkers wasn’t in the day they covered subtlety and precision.

I didn’t make it, of course.

“The team is picked on form,” he told the local radio. Jesus wept! Form: the last refuge of those without a spark.

“Top of the left” Eugene lapped it up. He’ll spend the first quarter on Sunday praising the Grinkers selection in his commentary: and then, in the 21st minute, Grinkers will be whipped off prior to his complete stinking-out of the place.

The team was announced Tuesday night. Wednesday, I had a photoshoot for a new dating agency in the county town. I wasn’t on the original list, but a certain PR man was approached Wednesday morning.

“The usual fee will guarantee you a media scrum,” I texted him. The penny dropped. So did the 500 notes.

More photographers than line up in front of the All-Ireland final bench: three or four journalists too, all asking the only question that mattered: disappointed, obviously?

I smirked knowingly.

“Obviously, disappointed,” I said.

“Surprised, clearly?” asked another.

“Quite clearly, I was surprised,” I replied, “but it’s not all about me. There are other lads in that team who for all we know may be perfectly capable of getting scores too. Anyway, the manager believes it’s best to have a team with four or five forwards each kicking a point or two, rather than centralising it all on one proven scoring machine.”

“Ready to come on?,” they probed still further. Real Woodwards and Bernsteins, these boys.

“Obviously, I’d be delighted to do whatever I can to help the team. It’s not all about me. I’m sure the 1-14 or 1-15 you need to win a championship game will come from somewhere.”

The local rag made hay.

“County team always the bridesmaid, never the bride, as star man left at the altar – are the county team on a blind date with disaster?,” was the lead headline. Picture of me with the two models (they were all over me for my number.)

I’m sure the publicity drove the manager mad. But he can’t say a word. He can’t handle me. He knows I have routes into the media all over the shop. He can barely text, for God’s sake, let alone drum up a campaign.

He’s been trying to break me to make me for three years. He’ll never succeed: and, what’s more, I’ll still be here long after he’s been sent back to wherever it is again he came from, with telephone poles for goals.

Amazing how one time he could pick me out in a crowd of 50,000. Now I’m invisible in a gathering of two. He’s been rushing around the place all week, all business. Anything but confront the elephant in the room.

Sunday, he’ll have his two favourite Tellytubby selectors either side of him, as usual. Look closely on the television and you’ll see the actual strings above their heads.

The irony is that he’s the one under pressure now. He didn’t think that through, did he?

He thought my exclusion would be popular. And it probably is: but rats desert sinking ships. I know just how it works.

Those who clapped him on the back Wednesday, telling him how happy they were he had finally tackled the problem, won’t be long leaving him to swing on his own.

I’ll cut him no slack. He thinks he knows pressure: just let him wait until Sunday.

First, I’ll put the word out that I haven’t travelled. Then, I’ll run out well behind the rest of the lads. Wear the white socks just to annoy him. Throw off the tracksuit and join the parade.

First three subs they call down for the warm-up, I’ll go with them. Stand and stretch in front of a crowd of our own people. Eyes to heaven when we kick a wide.

I’ll honour the first roar telling me to “go on to hell and sort out this nonsense” with a shake of the head to convey my disbelief. Chomp at the bit: let it be known I’m mad for road.

Feed the frenzy, man, feed the frenzy.

My money’s on him cracking before half-time. He’ll try to pep talk me, but I’ll walk away. Deliberately ignore Grinkers’ outstretched hand as he comes off.

I won’t make it easy. When you’ve your knee on the goose’s neck, you should never let go until you hear her squeal.