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

I NEVER had much (pick-up) truck with country music. But I know the song I'd write if I got myself that low on the gin. Nelly Come Out Of The Wheatfield: You're Going Against the Grain– because it's already written. I can't believe my title hasn't already been used up: You Did Me Wrong, You Let Me Down, So, Pal, Just Jog On.

This past week, it has been manic with tickets. Despite repeated promises, my cousins in Manchester didn’t fix me up for Old Trafford when they brought me over for their GAA club presentation night. It didn’t stop them coming heavy for a batch this week.

So jog on, Salford, jog on.

To know me may not be to love me, but it certainly is not to take advantage of me either. In my famous black book, I’ve got the names of all the people who’ve disrespected me down the years.

Well, I’ve also got a little red book where I keep the names of all the people who’ve stood by me while others (touché, week that’s in it) have taken me for granted.

All of these good people have got tickets off me. And, guess what, I still had a few spare in my allocation, which wasn’t exactly bulging in the first place.

So what was I to do?

First, understand about life in the frugal lane. Work, train, eat, home, flick some channels, sleep, work, train, eat, home, flick some channels, sleep, and over, and over, and over, again.

Regrets, I’ve known a few. Rewards, little or none.

So there I was last weekend, valuable billets in my paw, thinking hard about the law of supply and demand. And, in there, all roads lead to the land of the three Ws.

My younger sister had left her account open, a definite no-no in this Frape-ridden world. "Two Lower Hogans, side by side, bang on the halfway line, All-Ireland SF final 2011" must have looked a touch incongruous alongside her High School MusicalDVD, excellent condition', but, hey, little girls grow up fast these days.

Anyway, business was brisk as you can imagine. Monday morning, I was sitting on a cool €650. All good, decent people just trying to make sure they’re not left out in the snow Sunday.

So, despite the looming controversy over the team selection, I felt good when I ducked into town for a fill of petrol. I had Marmaduke Duke at full tilt, and the elbow out the window, but not too far, just a touch.

Chipper likes his bit of Duke too, but he can’t have it on in the shop, not exactly the crowd he gets. Local radio has his head busted. He’s heard more country songs than Dolly Parton. “Well, big guy?” I started, but he stopped me in my tracks, finger to mouth, and then to ceiling. “Tune into this,” he said.

“So what you’re telling me, as God is your witness,” I caught the self-important mid-morning jock steaming as if he were about to reveal the third secret of Shergar, “is that you can go online today and buy the finest of tickets, no corner tickets here, folks, these tickets didn’t just fall off the back of any ordinary van – but only if you’re prepared to stump up, what, €600 or €700?”

Angry Listener: “It’s a disgrace. We’re not even dyed in the wool GAA people. But we still send our son up to under-age training because he loves football. And now we can’t even get family tickets for Sunday, and yet the pick of tickets is available online. Typical of the GAA.”

I turned on my heels and made for home. After much foostering, I found the local radio on the dial.

A senior officer was on promising a “full investigation”. He added, and I quote: “Every single ticket can be traced. We will find the culprits and we will name and shame.”

Shock Jock, believing he was leading the march on Tripoli, was loving it. Dump nuclear waste on Main Street and he wouldn’t go as hard on you.

When he mentioned “sting operation”, I don’t mind admitting I nearly filled the togs. I got home and pondered my options: and settled on one – a quick edit made it two tickets for the ladies final, not exactly a tout’s paradise.

They cancelled bids quicker than a marketing manager cashing in his Tiger Woods chips. A few disgruntled “thumbs down”, though, that’ll make it difficult for my sister to shift her Justin CDs when she grows out of that infatuation.

I received a text from another senior officer Tuesday. “You got your full allocation of tickets okay, yeah?”

I swear, I stared at it an hour before I replied in the kind of off-handed style he’d expect from me if my head wasn’t fried: “I did, but, hey, I can be a good home for a few more dozen more if you’re stuck with some . . . !”

There’s been no more about it. Hopefully no one has a screenshot. I’ve lost something north of €1,000. I told Manchester we’d sort them. You win some, you lose some.

Now let’s win this Sunday to ease the pain. It’s time to jog on.

“When he mentioned “sting operation”, I don’t mind admitting I nearly filled the togs. I got home and pondered my options: and settled on one – a quick edit made it two tickets for the ladies final, not exactly a tout’s paradise