Is Clement really daft enough to think the silence from the board says “We’ve got your back”?

When times get tough, everyone likes to know the boss has their back. Anytime I’ve had an issue on this website, I’ve raised it with those in charge, and each time, they’ve supported me fully. “No matter what you decide to do, we’ll back you”—that’s what they’ve told me every time.

Now, if I made a high-profile mess, a genuine blunder that caused uproar, and suddenly they went radio silent—if my calls and emails were being ignored—I’d be worried.

I’d be as concerned as Mark Warburton was when that happened to him at Ibrox. He told this story on a podcast not so long ago. His first year on the job, he could reach the chief executive anytime. But as soon as trouble began swirling around him, silence. Just before he read about his own resignation on Sky, nobody at the top would answer his calls.

There’s an ominous tradition in Italian high society, especially among those who challenge the mafia, and former judges who’ve faced it speak of it darkly.

After they publicly pledge to pursue justice, something strange happens—their colleagues avoid them, friends drift away, and the bosses stop shielding them from criticism. A chilling silence forms around them, they describe it a metaphorical big empty space.

In military terms, that space is called a “free-fire zone,” or more bluntly, “the kill zone.”

Yesterday, Philippe Clement sat before the Scottish sports press and admitted he hadn’t spoken to his bosses since Wednesday night’s defeat to Aberdeen.

Now, it had been less than 24 hours since that match, but in that short time, he’d been flayed by the media and vilified online. Not one person from the upper echelons of the club had called to ask him how he was holding up or to reassure him.

The strange part? Clement thinks this is a positive sign.

He’s Belgian, not Italian, so he may not realise what this silence really means.

He interprets the absence of a dressing-down as a vote of confidence. If I were him, I’d wonder whether they’ve been meeting behind my back, possibly talking to the accounts department about whether they can afford to sack him. I’d wonder if there’s a boardroom conversation happening about who has the authority to make that call.

Clement’s take is that they don’t need to speak to him because they still believe in his vision, his plan.

But without speaking to them, how does he know? For all he’s aware, their confidence could have evaporated the moment the final whistle blew. It’s not just that they didn’t seek him out; he didn’t seek them out either.

Why not? Is he too confident to imagine they’d sack him, or is he too worried to risk hearing an uncomfortable truth?

Either way, it doesn’t exactly scream good judgement. In his position, I’d want that reassurance; I’d want to look these people in the eye and hear them say they’ll stick by me through this. Especially when his last two predecessors were sacked around this time of year.

If he looks out the window and sees the Grim Reaper in the garden, it’s not just Halloween; that’s the Grim Reaper out there, getting ready to come and chap on the door.

The media sees him on the brink. If I were him, I’d want to know if it was time to cancel the flat rental or rethink that mobile contract.

Surely, he doesn’t think that stony silence from the boardroom is contentment. You can’t have confidence in that blank space opening up around you as the hacks who once bowed and scraped before him now sprint in the other direction, shouting, “Sack him in the morning!”

I know he thinks he’s the best thing since sliced bread, and he clearly believes in himself. But can he truly be so self-involved that he doesn’t see everyone watching the clock? I’m half tempted to get myself a lettuce and a Mr. Potato Head, set them side-by-side, and live-stream them on YouTube.

If I were him, I’d be rewatching that Mark Warburton interview daily, making damn sure I’m not getting “resigned” while I’m out on the training pitch. He needs to know he still has allies in that boardroom, and as a smarter guy than me once said, “the guy who offers to hold your jacket isn’t really your friend.”

And if anything proves that things around him just got dark it’s the stony silence from those above and those around him—the ones who, if they truly supported him, would be stepping up and telling him they’ve still got his back.