*Dear Dychey is Paddy Power’s Agony Aunt column. Any apparent resemblance to any figures around football is purely coincidental.
It’s obvious Ole Gunnar Solskjaer hasn’t got the cojones for the Man United job. He comes in after Mourinho and is like everybody’s mama, all nice and friendly. But you can’t play the mama forever, otherwise the players start staying out late, skipping school, smoking whatever behind the bike shed.
Someone needs to come in show them who’s El Padre. Who better than El Diego?
Look at Pogba. He plays when he wants. That’s usually once every three months.
If I ever took it easy in a game it was because I was up all night sampling the finest produce the Neapolitan Camorra could source. And usually, I couldn’t stop running even if I wanted to.
Or shut up.
If I was the Old Trafford Godfather, I’d make him an offer he couldn’t refuse – and it wouldn’t be half a million more insta followers. He’d be on the first plane to Madrid.
And I know the experts might say “Diego, you couldn’t win with Messi, what makes you think you can win with Phil Jones?” To them I say I just need to look into Jones’ face and I know that he is my kind of player – I’ve dislocated my jaw just like that when I’ve taken something dodgy.
United is being sucked dry by the capitalist puta madres who do not know a trequartista from a Tajiki tractor partner. I understand the passion of the fans. My heart bleeds red – except for that time in Cuba when they pumped that white paste out of it – but I believe this great club needs a great personality to lift it back to the top.
Once I’ve finished the season with the fifth best team in Mexico’s second division I want to take the United bull by the horns – I mean, they’ve the Molde manager in charge now, that’s about the same level, right?
How do I convince them I’m the right football legend for the job?
Diego, first of all, I’m impressed by your self-belief. The biggest hurdle you can ever face is the one in your head that says you’re not good enough to follow your dreams.
You’ve cleared that already, along with the moon, Mars and maybe the Hubble telescope.
Whatever positivity potion you’re gulping, you need to wind the dosage down by a factor of 10.
To realise your dream you need to know how those who’ll make the call think. At United, Ed Woodward only understands one thing: social media interaction.
You’ve got to get on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Tumblr, Periscope, Youtube, MySpace, Bebo, and LinkedIn – ok, forget LinkedIn – but all the rest are there for you to engage with your public.
There’s no need to worry about results on the pitch, United’s biggest wins are measured in the hundreds of millions of likes and shares they get. Your best bet is to just live stream your life – who doesn’t want to see the greatest footballer there’s ever been pissing in the street outside a nightclub at 5 am having failed to find a kebab shop?
And then your connections could have a word with United’s top brass – while holding them by the ankles from the top of the Stretford End – until they agree to let you take over.
Maybe that’s how Ole got the gig permanently?
The final step is to stick United’s 1999 Treble commemorative DVD on repeat 24/7 and drop some mind-altering substances – a six-pack of Irn Bru usually does the trick for me – and the nostalgic fever dream it causes will sear the mythical “United Way” into your mind for eternity.
Soon, you’ll be talking about Sir Alex and Keano and Becks and the Cliff and Yorke and Cole and Clive Tyldesley and David May like you were at the Nou Camp in ’99.
Once you can talk the United talk, Woodward won’t be able to resist.