Sean Dyche gave us the gift of Peak Burnley – for that, we owe him thanks

For Sean Dyche the road to salvation would begin at Rock City in Nottingham. Liberated from the treadmill of management for the first time in almost a decade after being sacked by Burnley, Dyche enjoyed his first weekend of freedom having drinks with friends before taking in a bill of Manchester tribute acts. Camera‑phone footage from Sunday night shows him swaying along to a band called The Clone Roses.

Which on reflection feels about perfect. Given everything else going on at the moment, we may not have been ready as a society for the idea of a sad Sean Dyche. Dyche’s year-long New York sabbatical. Dyche’s lonely, penitent pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. A tearful Dyche addressing his adoring public one last time from the steps of Burnley town hall, as mourners lay scarves and candles at his feet. Nobody wants any of this. Dyche grooving along to (Song For My) Sugar Spun Sister on a shaky camera phone: nature has healed.

Perhaps, on reflection, this was the defining motif of Dyche’s decade at Burnley: that striking point of difference, the absence of pretensions or affectations, elite football with a recognisably human face. Dyche never claimed to have all the answers, never obsessed over enemies and agendas, never pretended that football was any more serious than it is, never stopped joking about signing Lionel Messi. And in retrospect his departure represents the loss of something vital and tonal to this great glossy global entertainment product, something that may not be recovered in a hurry.

Seven years ago, when Dyche took Burnley down for the first time, it was basically fine. The club’s finances were in decent shape. There was patience and potential and a vision. You get relegated, you have another go.