This Dyche thing reminds me of being in my 20s, in town with the boys on the pull. You start the night all confident in your new shirt and this saucy ginger northerner with a reputation of keeping you up makes eye contact and it feels like it could happen but you pursue the little Spanish one because on paper she's more attractive. In reality she keeps talking about the same thing which at the start felt insightful but now it's predictable and boring. So you make some excuses, part ways (she was never the one anyway) and spot that ginger northerner across the bar again. You're thinking "let's do what I should have done earlier" and make your way over. She's looking just as she did all this time. Problem is, by this point in the night, you're desperate, a few jars in, your hands are sticky from the sambuca you've spilled and you've got piss sprayed on your jeans.... At this point you're just hoping shes feeling charitable enough and that she sees you as a rebound for her very, very recent ex.