NO 1: 'Banty' McEnaney
MONDAY: Finally, the week we've all been waiting for. You see, where I come from (Editor: Somewhere north of Nobber, per chance?) it's all about championship.
TUESDAY: I know what I just said about the league but, even still, three points was pretty pathetic. Need to shake things up, big style. Now, let's check that little black book ... "Hello, is that the Red Collier? How's the form? Mighty, you say -- just what I wanted to hear. Then you should be okay for 15 minutes on Sunday?"
WEDNESDAY: I'm flummoxed. For some reason there's a queue of so-called Royal legends lining up to have a pop. "Show me your medals!" says I. Now maybe that was a mistake, but I did say "show me" not "throw me" and now I've a lovely big shiner that will have turned all purple and yellow by Sunday afternoon. That's before I even shake bellies with Geezer.
THURSDAY: The begrudgers should really stop and think for a second. Do they honestly believe I wanted Fayzer back to play full-back? Not at all; I was planning to parachute him into goals.
FRIDAY: About time I got around to finding these new selectors. There are just two criteria: (1) they must have some vague geographical connection to Meath; (2) they must answer "Yes we can!" to all of my hair-brained suggestions, even if it entails a recall for Darren Fay's dad. Now, let's check that black book again: "Hello, is that Lord Henry? Excellent concert last weekend -- fancy a few more 80,000-gigs this summer?"
SATURDAY: Feck that uppity Lord, telling me I'll be lucky to get 8,000 for the qualifiers. I'll show him. I'll show the whole bleedin' lot of them! And to prove I'm as loud and proud as the next Meathie, here goes. Music, maestro! "Oh beautiful Meath, you've got all that I need. Your pundits they flow with pure spite. And wherever you roam, there's no place like home, and the beautiful county of Mon ... oops, Meath."