A slightly tardy ha’penny’s worth – the rigours of the real world having inconsiderately interfered in the business of interweb rantings – but one advantage of this delay has been an opportunity to let the dust settle on last night’s defeat to Man Utd, take a few deep breaths and survey the wreckage.While it was by no means an awe-inspiring display from our heroes, I am a little taken aback at the extent of the criticism being flung our way. I thought we started proceedings fairly well last night. Stop sniggering at the back. We shifted the ball around intelligently enough, attacked down the flanks and the centre, and created a few chances from close range (the sort of which were nestling merrily in the onion-bag against Wigan, I noted ruefully). To be honest, one might have been forgiven for thinking we were the home team in the early stages. I get the feeling that my former allies are now staring at their feet embarrassedly, and shuffling away from me, but I’ll dagnabbit I’ll plough on.
While we created decent chances from around six yards, at the other end we hardly carved apart – United had two pot-shots from distance, and we were two-nil down (although they did then create a presentable chance just before half-time). On balance of play, parity at half-time – or even a lead for our lot – would not have been history’s greatest injustice. Instead, I spent the half-time interval morphing into a three year-old throwing a tantrum about how unfair it all was (albeit a three year-old pausing for regular sips of whisky and coke), bemoaning the fact that we had gone two down before they had even got inside our penalty area.
However, no matter how determinedly I complained about the perceived injustice, two-nil it was. Without having done much to earn the right, United were able to indulge in a fairly fretless round of keep-ball in the second half, as we then admittedly laboured to produce anything particularly threatening. The reaction to the two-goal deficit was deflating, ‘tis true, but I thought it was jolly rotten luck to find ourselves in that position at all.
Alternatively, Maybe We Really Were That Bad, And I Watched Through Beer Goggles?
On occasion over the years I have imparted some of that unique AANP wit and badinage upon the young ladies of London, who will appear stunning of an evening, only for a later rendez-vous to reveal them to be wretchedly disfigured and, frankly, ugly as sin. The blame for such erroneous initial visual assessments can be squarely traced back to the clouding of judgement by alcohol; and perhaps such beer-goggles have interfered with my interpretation of yesterday’s game too, for I suspect I’m in a minority with my assessment.
Whatever – It’s Done. Some Closing Sentiments.
‘Arry has made sure that the press have him down as angry about the defeat; AANP is disgusted at suggestions that this is just a ruse to make it appear, to fans who forked out last night, that he cares about the Carling Cup.
Young Master Bentley may have flicked his hair for the final time in Tottenham colours. One suspects that he did not quite do enough last night to convince management that he is a better option that Lennon on the right.
And we can all forget about the Carling Cup, just as we forgot about the Europa League last summer, and increase our focus on the battle for fourth spot in the Premiership. All competitions are equal, but some are more equal than others.
And as ever, all are most welcome to leave memories – and browse those of others – regarding some of the players to be featured in forthcoming book Spurs’ Cult Heroes: Danny Blanchflower here, Dave Mackay here, Cliff Jones here, Martin Chivers here, Alan Gilzean here, Pat Jennings here, Cyril Knowles here, Steve Perryman here, Glenn Hoddle here, Chris Waddle here, Ossie and Ricky here, Gary Mabbutt here, Graham Roberts here, Jimmy Greaves here, Clive Allen here, Jurgen Klinsmann here