*Dear Dychey is Paddy Power’s Agony Aunt column is not written by anyone who could could even pass for a current Premier League manager. Any apparent resemblance to one is purely coincidental.
Dr Dychey (Definitely Not Sean Dyche), clear your throat, take a deep breath, look us straight in the eye and give us the God’s honest truth. We’re sure sport’s high-and-mighty can take it…
I know elbowing your way ahead of the pack will always put a few noses out of joint, but I’m tearing my hair out as I still don’t get the respect I deserve for saving my team again and again.
I score goals and change games, I roll up my sleeves, stick out my chest and put my head where many would fear to tread – including seven-foot up in the air!
But for all the good work I do I just get ridicule. I think the ghost of Moyesy’s career has cursed me.
I just can’t shake the miserable old git’s image and I’ll always be linked with him forever.
I’ve even cut my trademark afro to try to change perceptions, but if that doesn’t work I don’t know what I’ll do.
The Big Fella
Dr Dychey: Believe me Fella, I know the slings and arrows of public opinion all too well – you can go from hero to zero in the flickering of an eye – or a run of four wins in 19 competitive games if you prefer.
The fluctuations of popular sentiment shouldn’t bother you in the slightest. Sure, they’ll cheer when you’re knocking in a ninetieth-minute winner, or leading your club to its highest league finish in 40 years, but those achievements are taken for granted and all the thanks you’ll get is a pat on the back from the chairman, a massive severance package in the bank, and another job with some other makeweights in the Premier League in six months time.
In your case, I can see the chattering’s got inside your noggin. You’ve got to get it straight back out.
I could suggest any number of treatments – the patented Dr Dychey Karmic Cleanse program is what Alan Curbishley returns to every time he’s rejected for a job (that man will pay for my yacht and mooring in Saint-Tropez, believe me) – but the first thing you need to do is to recognise yourself for who you are.
You’ve cut your hair because the crowd’s on your back? That’s pure poison. You must get the afro back now, I don’t care how. Extensions, a wig, stick your fingers in a socket, do what you must, but Samson lost his strength when his locks were shorn, and sure enough whatever good you’re doing will dry up if you let others dictate who you are.
It’s like I always say: to earn the respect of others, first you must respect yourself. And your permanent perm.
We have a very bad situation at the moment. There are two teams from the same city and they are playing the biggest final in history and the fans are going, well, loco.
We’ve already cancelled the game twice, but every time we reschedule there will be trouble.
How do we handle the passion of the fans?
Dr Dychey: Buenos dias. Now, I’m not one for broad generalisations, but if you’ve ever lived below the 51st parallel line of latitude I think it’s fair to say there is fire in your blood and your combustible personality will only increase in flammability the more densely packed you are with your fellow hot-headed neighbours.
Clearly this is the pertinent factor in your predicament.
Short of tilting the world’s axis so as to balance the tempers of these fans (I’m sure Elon Musk has some sort of plan like that in the works for his own benefit anyway), I think the best remedy for these flare-ups is to bring in someone with ice running through their veins, someone who knows how to keep a lid on their emotions and who can bore the bubbling bluster and blow-ups out of any group of supporters with dogged tactics and dour play.
And as it just so happens, yours truly could be looking for a new gig very soon. Just drop me a line and we’ll work something out.
I pretend to know what’s best for everyone, but things are starting to fall apart around me.
I’ve seen 4-0-4-0-4-0 so many times in our recent results I think the broadband’s on the blink.
Worst of all, I’ve dumped my savings into a warehouse full of supplements and bat-sh*t therapy treatments a JCB couldn’t shift.
Sure, Joe Hart’s complexion is even more radiant than usual when he lets one through his legs, but I won’t have any players to pawn this junk off on if results don’t pick up soon.
What am I going to do?
Dr Dychey: Err, well, this is unusual – I was sure I tore up that letter.
Either way, it’s never a bad time to have a word with yourself. Unless you’re on the bus. Then people will think you’re losing it.
All you can do is stay the course. You made it this far because of your skills, talent, abilities and judgement. You haven’t just lost them overnight. If you keep doing the right things, good results will come along. You’ve got to keep the faith.
Or you could dump a load of those supplements in the canteen lunches, see if it puts a pep in the players’ step. There has to be something useful in them, I paid a bleedin’ fortune for them!
Desperate times call for desperate measures…