Tag: Ben Davies

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Villa: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Bentancur and the Midfield Three

Ordinarily if one were to be ambushed on a Sunday lunchtime with the news that 100% of your first-choice midfield were to be unavailable, one might be excused for choking on a roast potato and offering a few choice lamentations. The absence of Maddison alone, after all, would be sorely felt at any time of year; an additional suspension for Bissouma would pose an almighty conundrum; but throw into that a muscle strain or some such rot for Sarr, and if every last drop of hope drained from the soul it would be a pretty understandable reaction.

This, however, was not really ordinary circumstance. For even as the AANP mind registered that young Sarr was indeed being added to the list of those unfit for public consumption, any dregs of despair were being swept away with a goodish amount of excitement, as the penny dropped that the new-look midfield triumvirate would comprise one each of Bentancur, Lo Celso and Kulusevski.

For a start, there is a pretty reasonable train of thought that, nine-month ACL-induced absence or not, Bentancur should really be part of the first-choice midfield anyway. Lo Celso I suppose, in this context, is a slightly more controversial type of chestnut, having officially been part of the N17 furniture for a goodish number of years now, yet having blown up so few skirts that you can count them on the fingers of one hand. But nevertheless, on a good day – or, put another way, in an Argentina shirt – he’s a pretty talented sort of bimbo, and one for whom AANP harbours secret admiration. And as for Kulusevski, the chap has a pretty deep reservoir of goodwill into which he can dip, so if Our Glorious Leader saw fit to shunt him into a Number 10 sort of role, the pre-match thinking process went, then that was good enough for me.

But more than the individual choices, the intriguing aspect of this was the collective, if you get my drift. Selecting all three of the undersigned to constitute a midfield in its entirety was not the move of a manager concerned about extra-thick layers of security to protect the midfield. In fact it was about as far removed from E-TLs of S as one could get. ‘Hojbjerg be damned’, seemed to be the attitude of The Brains Trust ahead of this one. Big Ange was shoving his every last chip at the Dreamy Attacking Build-Up option – and as you might expect, AANP was all in favour of such wild and romantic recklessness.

And frankly, it very nearly worked too. As one would expect of a laddie who is half-mortal, half footballing deity, Bentancur purred about the place, pretty quickly finding his range and beginning to settle into a routine of through-balls of the ‘Simple-Yet-Devastating’ variety, most of which really deserved better than the forward collective tripping over their shoelaces when within sight of goal.

Cunningly stationed at the base of midfield, and as such disguised as a defensive sort who is pretty clueless when it comes to his attacking eggs, Bentancur was duly granted a goodish amount of space in possession, and looked to me to be settling into quite the groove as a deep-lying creative sort. Moreover, his presence a few yards south seemed to inspire the happier sides of Lo Celso’s personality to emerge, and he began picking neat diagonals into the area. Between the two of them, the absence of Maddison could more or less be shrugged off; while further north, young Kulusevski in the Number 10 role gave the look of a man for whom this was not his first time.

While not quite the perfect 26 or so minutes of football, our attacking verve was still pretty impressive, the gist of the conversation being far more one-way than AANP had dared to expect against a direct rival. Indeed, but for the knuckle-headed antics of those in front of goal we might have been two or three up in that period.

Alas, poor old Bentancur then hobbled off, courtesy of the latest crippling swipe from Matty Cash Boo (he, you may recall, having been responsible for ending Matt Doherty’s season a couple of years back, just as the chap was finding his feet in the RWB role for us).

Thereafter, Hojbjerg came on to give one of the most Hojbjerg performances imaginable – diligently winning the ball high up the pitch before pinging a cross under no pressure straight into the arms of the goalkeeper – and the attacking flair on show decreased a gentle notch.

I actually thought we continued to make a decent fist of things going forward, until Villa took the lead and the dynamic of the thing was rather turned on its head (they being happy to defend a lot deeper at that point). It would be tempting to take one look at the outcome and emphatically stamp the words ‘Never Again’ across a midfield of Bentancur-Lo Celso-Kulusevski, but such was the early dominance that going forward I’d happily type in their names and press ‘Enter’.

The problem, rather obviously, was that it offered fairly minimal protection for those at the rear, and Villa did not exactly have to devise the most intricate plans to bypass our security levels – but these days the plan simply seems to keep attacking and hope we’ve got enough goals in the locker come the final curtain.

2. Porro

Pedro Porro is a bean who generally goes under the AANP radar, right up until the moment that he pops up in the opposition area. I’m not really sure why that is to be honest, as one can’t lob a brick these days without it hitting someone desperate to lecture you on the virtues of the fellow. Still, I maintain that if you’re actively trying to avoid noticing Porro he’s a pretty easy chap to fail to notice.

Yesterday, however, was a pretty momentous day at Casa Porro, as I had decided to give him the beady eye throughout. ‘See what all the fuss is about,’ was about the sum of my thinking there.

And ‘Pleasantly surprised’, was about the sum of my findings. It will come as no surprise to seasoned PP-watchers, or indeed to most lilywhites who have kept even half an eye on us so far this season, but young Porro is pretty dashed effective in the inverted full-back spot. It’s his passing from deep that really arrests the attention. AANP is a particular fan of those weighted passes inside an opposing defender, and Porro, perhaps knowing his audience, delivered a slew of these. Our first half dominance owed about as much to his positioning and creative juices as to any of the designated midfield three.

Which is not to say that he was without blemish. Towards the end of the first half his attempt to sing the gospel of Ange-Ball got rather stuck in his throat, as he was caught dithering in possession right outside our own penalty area. When Emerson Royal is the man bailing you out, you know you’ve made a bit of a hash of things.

In the final half hour or so I actually forgot that pre-match remit to which I had wedded myself on pain of death – the one about watching PP’s every move like a hawk – so I couldn’t really tell you much about what he did or failed to do, other than one overhit free-kick, but I suppose by that point I’d seen enough. Porro is a pretty important cog in the machine, and not just when galloping off into the final third, and all the more credit to him for re-inventing himself for this role, having arrived on these shores as something quite different.

3. Gil

It was a big day for the lesser-spotted Bryan Gil, another alumnus of that Lo Celso school of chappies who can look pretty impressive as long as they’ve rolled out of the right side of the bed. Alas, it’s fair to say that this wasn’t his finest hour. To suggest that he stank the place out would be over-egging it, but my pre-teen niece, casting eyes upon him for the first time, did not hang about in passing her judgement that he was utterly without merit and undeserving of his place in the team. One understood her train of thought.

I actually thought that, when not suddenly stopping attacks in order to drag the ball back and pass behind him, Gil made himself a nuisance. Put another way, he kept his opposing defender on his toes. If the opposing defender (Konsa?) had wanted to bed in for a gentle snooze he was in the wrong neck of the woods, for Gil was not lacking in eagerness to collect the ball and have a dart.

The problem was that having done all his scurrying, he didn’t really have an exciting conclusion with which to round off his stories. He delivered one gorgeous-looking cross that was an inch or two too high for Sonny, but that aside seemed repeatedly to choose the wrong option when it came to The Big Moment.

Not that he was alone in this, for, as alluded to above, none of the forward line exactly covered themselves in glory, each tripping over themselves to demonstrate different ways in which to bungle the simplest of chances.

Being rather a fan of young Gil, I rather hope that this is not his only opportunity under Big Ange. One mal-coordinated swallow doth not necessarily a dreary summer make, and I seem to recall about this time last year he began to impress when given a run of games under Conte (before rather oddly being shoved out the door and off on loan). He is clearly well down the pecking order, and the returns of Sarr and Bissouma will presumably see a rejig, but seeing as much of that aforementioned pecking order has been obliterated by injuries, opportunity ought still to knock for a few weeks yet.

4. The Centre Backs

It feels rather harsh to criticise Davies and Emerson for not being outstanding centre-backs. A bit like criticising a couple of horses for not being great whales. Not really their fault, what? Not really the roles for which their maker made them.

Still, there they were, and there it was. Whenever Villa ran at them on the counter, Davies and Emerson offered token resistance only. This was rather emphatically demonstrated in the early disallowed goal (Watkins header, immediately after our opener, in case you’re struggling to categorise all the offsides and VAR). A fairly perfunctory cross was swung in from a wide area – perfectly fine, decent pace and trajectory – but the mind-boggling, and pretty alarming element of all this was the wide old acreage in which Watkins was allowed to potter around. Squint the eyes and one might have made out Emerson on the far side, a sizeable distance away from Davies on the near side. And wandering between them like an abandoned stray was Watkins.

It didn’t help, of course, that our midfield were of the all-action-no-plot school, and therefore gave precious few cares about such issues as defensive cover. As and when Villa wanted, they strolled straight through the centre and had a pretty free run at our centre-backs.

Nevertheless, when called into action, Davies and Emerson gave it their all but were pretty worryingly out of their depth. The second goal again illustrated all of the above. Hojbjerg and I think Lo Celso did a good job of statically watching as the ball was passed around them and towards goal, and when it reached the edge of the area Davies and Emerson gave the air of men desperately trying to recall what was printed in the training manual as Watkins sauntered between them and did his thing.

Not really their faults, to emphasise, and I understood the decision to use those two instead of Dier, given that much of the game was to be spent playing a high line and sprinting backwards; but the return of Romero cannot come soon enough, and the need for another top-notch centre-back to join the gang is pretty stark.

RIP Terry Venables, nothing but the fondest memories

Categories
Spurs match reports

Wolves 2-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Opening Salvo

A funny thing about watching Spurs over the years is that normally when the heart sinks it does so in the blink of any eye, prompted by production of a red card for example, or the sight of a star player pulling up with grimace on face and hand on hamstring. Yesterday, in a bit of a departure from the norm, the light of hope took the full 90 minutes to go out, which, as disappointments go, felt a rather cruel performance by the Fates, the flame finally being extinguished for good in minute 96, with just about the last kick of the game.

As it happened – and as actually always seems to happen these days – the first 15 minutes or so was a pretty triumphant era. Our heroes seemed to boss possession, moving the ball quickly and often between the lines, and doing a handy line in those neat line changes of direction, whereby they look for all the world like they’re about to pass to Teammate A, thereby compelling the opponent to shuffle in that direction to close down the space, before at the last minute passing instead to Teammate B. Simple stuff, but pleasingly effective, and for that dreamy quarter-hour or so I even wondered whether Maddison’s absence would actually be felt at all.

The goal arrived before the dignitaries had finished taking their seats, and while young Master Johnson got to run off and do the knee-slide, various members of the supporting cast deserve much of the credit.

Pedro Porro left his fingerprints all over the move, first popping up in an attacking central midfield sort of spot, to execute a dummy so convincing it seemed to make the Wolves lad opposite question his very existence. And moreover, P.P. was at pains to demonstrate that he is not one simply to complete a task and then sit back and admire his handiwork through a cloud of cigar smoke, for seconds later he could be identified in an inside right type of area, racing on to Kulusevki’s tee-up and delivering a pass that ticked all the box for young Johnson.

As mentioned, in between the good work from Porro and Porro again, the giveth and taketh was done by Kulusevski, and in those opening minutes he gave the impression that he was to be the central character in the afternoon’s entertainment. Our lot were on top in that period, and much of our good work was transported from back to front via his size nines.

He strikes me as one of the more curious beans around, in that he seems to be a pony of the single-trick variety, the sort who would cut inside onto his left foot even if his life depended on sticking to his right. I was therefore as shocked as any other seasoned Kulusevski-watcher to witness him, in the build-up to our goal, produce that delicate back-heeled flick into the path of Porro, in the process sending every nearby Wolves sort off into a different postcode.   

By and large, he seemed to be having the better of his particular thrashing out of matters out on the right. As ever, there was a degree of frustration at his eventual outputs, which, since his debut season, have tended to be pretty forgettable, either slammed into the nearest defender or sailing off into the mid-distance, but nevertheless yesterday one got the impression that he was set for great things.

2. Davies and Dier

Alas, after that pretty perky opening spell, our lot seemed to forget their lines somewhat. We didn’t have as much possession for a start, but as I’ve heard it put, under Big Ange our heroes have discovered the knack of controlling games even when not in possession, by virtue of the high-press and whatnot. This quality was sadly lacking yesterday, however. We may have led for 90 minutes, but there was much about our play of an aeroplane pilot who looks over his shoulders to see one wing has burst into flames and the other is disintegrating mid-air. Only the illusion of control, is what I’m getting at.

That we led for so long is largely due to the combined efforts of the defensive sorts, and in particular, the shift put in by of all people Messrs Dier and Davies. To say that this was a pleasant and most unexpected surprise would be to underplay the thing pretty seismically. It is not a stretch to report that feverish nightmares and cold sweats had been the way of things at AANP Towers all week as I contemplated the coming weeks of a central defence, and in particular a high-line, minus the delights of both Messrs Romero and VDV.  

Actually, rather sneakily, Dier and Davies largely avoided the nerve-shredding scenario of repeated sprints from halfway against the Wolves forwards by dropping a little deeper than anticipated – presumably a perk of taking to the field with a full complement of eleven.

Even so, any seasoned watcher of these things wouldn’t have had to give it too much thought before opining that the odds were stacked against our new-look central defence. For a start it has been so long since either of them have started one feared they might have forgotten what shape the ball was. Any rustiness would have been understandable, but no less acceptable. I watched on with brow duly furrowed with concern.

And early on I had good reason to throw a few well-chosen curses at Dier, for committing himself to a challenge on around halfway, missing his mark and turning to get back with all the swiftness of foot of a heavily-laden tanker. But I suppose in a way I had some reason to thank Dier for his leaden-footedness, for had he not erred on halfway then the world would not have been able to witness the stirring last-ditch challenge from Davies, scampering across from the left, to thwart an otherwise clear sight of goal for the relevant attacking Wolf.

And having been thrust – a little unwillingly, one suspects – into the defensive spotlight thusly, Davies proceeded to time to a similar level of accuracy just about every other defensive intervention he was called upon to make. The fact that we did not play quite such a shoot-self-in-foot high defensive line no doubt helped, removing from the equation the need for any breakneck pace, but nevertheless if his weary chums had on full-time formed a guard of honour and shoved Davies through it, few would have quibbled. (A dashed shame that the equaliser came from a run that might have registered on his radar a mite sooner, but I’m not sure he can be faulted too onerously for failing to prevent a strike of that oomph.)

Moreover, no doubt inspired by the smart thinking and acting of the chap to his immediate left, Dier gradually took the hint and started to warm to the task, using both head and feet to good effect defensively at various points, as well as demonstrating a clear grasp of the play-out-from-the-back memo slapped about HQ by The Brains Trust.

And had he continued to implement this approach into the 96th minute and beyond we might have tootled off with a point, but in the sort of misstep that he does tend to include in his baggage, he tried to execute an offside trap from twelve yards out in the last action of the game, rather than, say, racing across to block the shot, and the game was duly lost.

3. Hojbjerg

One of the other consequences of Monday night’s jamboree was the need to jimmy someone into the Maddison-shaped hole in midfield. While I’d offered up a sacrificial lamb or two in the hope that Bentancur might get the nod, it was presumably decided that the fellow is not quite ripe enough to pick from the start just yet. Instead, in a triumph for fans of the deeply underwhelming, the shirt was thrown at Master Hojbjerg.

And in a nutshell it struck me that if someone were to bottle the essence of Hojbjerg and uncork it at a later date, yesterday’s performance would be what would flow out.

He seemed pretty keen to make clear from the outset to even those of the meanest intelligence that he was very much not a like-for-like replacement for Maddison. As such, progressive passes were at something of a premium, and Hojbjerg instead generally kept things on the unremarkable end of the spectrum, focusing instead on his pointing and shouting.

As the game wore on he did occasionally seem to become inhabited by some intriguing sense of adventure that prompted him to venture forward into the final third as a temporary auxiliary attacker, but not really to any great effect.

Less pleasingly, his penchant remained undimmed for hurling himself to the floor at every given opportunity and campaigning for official intervention, which I suppose is hardly the front-page stuff it used to be but still grates no end around these parts.

Worse than that however, for all his pointing and shouting the chap still has a tendency to neglect his defensive duties when the cry goes up of ‘All hands on deck’. Whether he simply lacks the fitness or considers it beneath him I’m not too sure, but throughout his lilywhite career and again on Saturday, he could be spotted a good ten yards behind the action as Wolves bodies sped forward. (Indeed the winning goal might have been prevented had Hojbjerg carried on tracking back rather than slowing to a stop – although others around him were probably more culpable.)

The return of a presumably chastened Romero in a few weeks will hopefully ease the pain, but for all the good intentions there was a pretty significant absence of thrust about our work. If this really were a glimpse of how the coming couple of months will play out one might want to keep the bourbon handy.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Palace 1-2 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1.  Davies vs Royal at Left-Back

Squad depth – or lack thereof – seems as likely as anything else to unstrap the safety harness and eject us from the vehicle this season. It’s hardly cold sweats in the middle of the night territory just yet, but the thought of pretty much any two or three of the choice XI (bar poor old Richarlison, perhaps) being simultaneously absented from a performance does make one widen the eyes and murmur, “Golly.”

And given this context I’ve been rather grateful to those gods responsible for these things for dealing us but a single absentee each week, allowing us just to dip a tentative toe into the ‘Strength In Reserve’ waters rather than having to plunge in fully and immerse the whole frame. Last week Bissouma was missing; this week Bissouma was back, and Udogie was missing.

In the sort of move that would baffle AANP’s better half, Our Glorious Leader therefore made an entirely rationale decision, and opted for Ben Davies – but any fans of like-for-like performance-matching might have been advised to prepare for a bit of a letdown. Where Udogie gives the term “Left-Back” the loosest possible interpretation, and bounds off to see what’s happening in midfield and attack and so forth, Davies’ approach is what you might call a tad more traditional.

Giving the air of a schoolboy who always did as told, Davies obediently trotted off to the left side of our defence, and made safe upkeep of this territory his priority. Which is not to say he didn’t partake in Ange-Ball and its liberal use of full-backs in attacking areas, but somehow when he ventured up the field he seemed to do so in a slightly robotic manner. If Richarlison received the ball on the left touchline and in advance of halfway, Davies took this as his cue, and dutifully trotted about 20 yards in advance of the action, and waved his arms around as instructed.

Now one could argue that this was precisely what was required, and in precisely the right circumstances – yet somehow this very precision was the problem. Much of the joy of Udogie’s performances is that one never knows quite what the hell he’ll do next, or where for that matter, whereas one could set one’s clock by Ben Davies.

On top of which, I’m not entirely convinced that Davies even had the conventional, defensive duties of a left-back entirely under control. Ayew and various others seemed to cause a spot of consternation down that particular flank, and with such limited outputs in either northerly or southerly directions, one understood the half-time move to trade in a Davies, B. for a Royal, E.

Emerson, whose lilywhite career has already waxed and waned like nobody’s business, is now finding himself having to make a fist of things as a reserve inverted left-back. And while on paper this might sound a bit thick for a born and bred right-back, it’s a role so madcap that it suited rather well a chap quite clearly missing a few key screw upstairs. Emerson swiftly beetled off into a deep-lying central midfield sort of role – alongside Porro, naturally – and the slightly chaotic nature of Ange-Ball’s formations was restored.

2. Richarlison vs Brennan Johnson

As ever, it was a tough old gig for Richarlison, who could not look more like a square peg struggling with a round hole if he were composed entirely of right angles and straight lines. As ever, there was no faulting his effort. Worker ants of the tireless variety could take a few tips from the lad, as he closed down Palace defenders, tracked back after their more attacking bimbos and patiently tried to outwit his man when actually in possession.

He might even have set up a first half goal, and quite brilliantly too, stretching all available sinews to head delicately back into play a ball that seemed to be sailing pretty serenely off into the stands – only for Maddison to lash the resulting gift off into the gods.

But while the various members of the backroom staff will no doubt be lining up to slap his back and commend him on his effort, the slightly awkward truth is that he’s not really delivering much in the way of an attacking harvest.

It’s probably worth reiterating his value in assisting our high press, for this seems to have brought about a decent percentage of the goals we’ve scored in recent weeks – and I can think of one recently-departed member of this parish who, for all his goalscoring, didn’t have the puff to chase down the opposition defence non-stop over the course of a full 90.

But alas. When it came to key passes, tantalising crosses or shots on target, the cup could hardly be said to floweth over. There have been a few inviting passes into dangerous areas during Richarlison’s stint on the left, and a fair number of shots from in and around the area, of varying degrees of inaccuracy. All ten-out-of-ten-for-effort sort of stuff, but it’s not really only effort we’re after, what?

Enter Brennan Johnson, who within about two shakes of a lamb’s tail had played a pretty critical part in a goal, first in rather inventive use of the forehead to control a cross and pass to a chum in the same motion; and then in dashing to the by-line to set up Sonny for a tap-in.

Better minds than mine will pore over the tactical minutiae that distinguished Richarlison’s performance from Johnson’s, but, put bluntly, we just seem to have a bit more attacking threat with the latter buzzing around on the left. One for Our Glorious Leader to ponder in the coming days.

3. Neil Ruddock and Des Walker

Back in the summer of 1993, a pre-teen AANP could be heard excitedly nattering away to anyone who would listen, and many who wouldn’t, that the gossip pages of 90 Minutes and Shoot and whatnot suggested that the lightning quick feet of Des Walker would imminently be speeding around the hallowed turf of White Hart Lane. This would have been pretty sensational stuff on its own, but the prospect of the jet-heeled Walker partnering with resident centre-back Neil Ruddock, a chap whose dispute-settling style might generously be termed ‘firm’, had the youthful AANP pretty giddy with excitement.

Alas, in confirmation of what had gone before, and a dashed certain omen of what was to come, Spurs rather broke my heart, by not only failing to bring Walker to our shores, but also parting with Ruddock that same summer.

The intervening thirty years spent watching our heroes have occasionally been somewhat trying – in fact, at times, particularly during the 90s, it felt like the life has rather drained from my core while watching our lot – but finally it feels that that promise of pace and power at the heart of our defence is being realised. Van de Ven and Romero are quickly morphing into a pretty sensational combo.

Both are about as comfortable in possession as central defenders come these days, which I’m not sure is the sort of accusation that could ever have been levelled at either of Messrs N.R. or D.W. But it is the glorious marriage of Romero’s clattering tackles – light on nonsense, heavy on force – and VDV’s swiftness of travel between points A and B that gives the impression that we have stumbled upon something special here.

Both were, in their own ways, in fine old fettle on Friday night. When Palace did breach the rear – which they did a mite too often in the first half – it seemed to be despite rather than because of our centre-backs, and indeed, Romero and VDV could as often as not be spotted planting a well-timed intervening clog in the way of things, to abate incoming trouble.

The earlier concern, about the potential absence of critical bodies, applies more to Romero and VDV than most, and another Top Four-standard centre-back will almost certainly be needed at some point between now and May. For the time being however, we might as well just enjoy the rare delights of a solid centre-back pairing.

4. Slow-Slow-Fast

My old man, AANP Senior, had the honour of being a regular at the Lane during our Double-winning season no less, so was presumably as excitable as the rest of us in his prime; but now, in his 91st year, he casts the beady eye in rather less forgiving manner. And when Messrs Romero and Vicario spent sizeable chunks of the second half dwelling on the ball under no pressure, before shrugging their shoulders and rolling it between each other, a certain cantankerous gruffling emanated from the aged relative. He was not amused.

Which was a shame, because I thought it was an absolute blast. Palace, understandably enough, had had a game-plan at nil-nil, to sit back and allow our goalkeeper and defenders all the possession they wanted, safe in the knowledge that no harm would come of it. But once our lot were one-nil up, it took a while for Palace to compute that their cause was not helped by simply sitting back and allowing Romero and Vicario to light cigars and natter away amongst themselves.

Eventually therefore, our hosts rather reluctantly committed a body or two towards the ball, and our heroes duly picked them off with aplomb. On several occasions, as soon as a Palace forward inched towards Romero or Vicario, one or other of this pair expertly bisected approximately half their team with a sudden forward pass into midfield.

This in itself provided a healthy dollop of aesthetic reward, but the fun didn’t stop there, as those receiving the thing in midfield were clearly well up on current events, and fully aware of the next stage of the plan. Whether it was Hojbjerg, Porro, Maddison or Sarr, the midfield johnnie receiving the ball would ping it wide, first-time and on the half-turn, and before you could say “This slow-slow-quick approach allows our lot to cut through Palace like a knife through butter, what?”, our heroes were in on goal.

This impeccable choreography was rarely better displayed than in our second goal, that slow-slow-quick approach being at the very core of the move. Romero dwelt and dwelt before neatly picking out Hojbjerg, and he swiftly conveyed the thing to Sarr, who crowned what I thought was a man-of-the-match performance with a glorious cross-field switch, from an innocuous right-back position over to Brennan Johnson in a more threatening left-wing spot. Johnson, as alluded to earlier, used his head to good effect, and a couple of classic Ange-Ball one-touch passes later Sonny was tapping in from point-blank range.

The move, in its entirety from back to front, was an absolute masterpiece, and while the television bods seemed to underplay it a tad, the fact that even AANP Senior was moved to mutter a pithy word or two of semi-satisfaction more accurately reflected its quality.

The late goal – which could be pinned pretty squarely on the otherwise decent Porro – was a reminder to our lot not to settle in for their nap before time is up, but this on balance was another deserved win, leaving only the question of whether Bentancur and Gil will make enough appearances this season to collect their League-winners’ medals in May.

Categories
Spurs news, rants

Spurs’ Pre-Season: Eight Tottenham Talking Points

What ho. With the new season rumbling into view we might as well pour ourselves a splash of something with a bit of oof to it, and bring ourselves up to speed on recent events, what?

1. Ange Postecoglou

Now here’s a man the cut of whose jib I can straight away give the approving nod. Ultimately, of course, it will all come down to the meat and veg of the Premier League, but nevertheless, Ange has all made all the right moves so far.

For a start there are his no-nonsense interviews, giving short shrift to baiters and sycophants alike, and generally cutting through the guff. His response to the Bayern shirt stunt in particular, and the Kane noise in general, has neatly summed up much of what there is to like about the fellow – not one to suffer fools, not one to skirt around a point and, one gets the impression, not the sort of chap one wants to antagonise any more than is absolutely necessary.

Nor does the new man give the impression that this set of players, fans, team and whole bally undertaking is beneath him, à la the last couple of incumbents. Whether or not one whole-heartedly buys into every quirk and idiosyncrasy, the broad approach – of wanting to roll up the sleeves and get the best out of our mob – is easy enough to get on board with.

I was also rather taken by Postecoglou’s comments about our heroes’ collective approach to those last few minutes of the first half against Shaktar. The gist of his thoughts on the matter were that, as a collective, they needed a slap about the face with a wet fish (I paraphrase) for indulging in a spot of motions-going-through and clock-playing-down as the half-time whistle approached.

Ange-ball, it appears, does not tolerate taking one’s foot off the pedal and batting for the close of play, as it were. His anthem is something more along the lines of ‘If we have the ball let’s dashed well attack, irrespective of the clock’, and this attitude meets with a pretty rousing chorus of approval at AANP Towers.

2. The New Style of Play

And then there’s the breath of fresh air that is our new style of play. Having spent the last three years positively yowling for something at least vaguely progressive, and instead being treated to a diet of deep-lying defences and vain attempts to soak up pressure – despite the attacking riches available – to say that Ange-ball is a pretty welcome sight understates the thing just a bit.

My spies who like to sit there and count these sorts of things reckon that in the three games so far we’ve totalled over 100 shots on goal. Now caveats abound of course. Our opponents have been so alarmingly weak that I suspect we’d have triumphed even if playing with boots tied together and blindfolds about the head. But nevertheless, it’s hard to imagine racking up a century of shots against these three in the Jose or Conte eras.

And the football itself has quite simply been a lot more fun to watch. It’s all a bit zippier for a start, with one- and two-touch gospels evidently having been drilled into hearts and minds throughout the place.

There seems to have been a collective agreement amongst our lot that these days the ball is going to be shoved from Defence to Midfield to Attack without too many wistful glances backward.

The days of having two poor saps in midfield outnumbered and flogged until they can barely stand also appear to have been given the Orwellian heave-ho. It’s a three-man job these days – or at least it will be on the shiny TV graphics pre-match, but once the starter’s gun fires our lot seem to be buzz about all over the place, with full-backs inverting and midfielders dropping and goodness what else. But AANP is not one to get too bogged down in the minutiae of life. Give me a good bourbon and some one-touch triangles, and I’m a pretty content sort of conker. And the early indications are that Ange-ball’s attacking 4-3-3 will hit the spot.

Until we have to defend, of course.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose is the rather wearied AANP take on our the current state of our back-four. Which is to say it’s pretty much the same old rot in the southernmost quarter, what? Better minds than mine can no doubt grab a scalpel and get into the small-print of precisely how and why we’re conceding chances and goals to even the most amateurish teams out there, but the general sense is that it remains awfully straightforward to waltz through our lot and have a pop.

Reinforcements are apparently incoming (and for what it’s worth, I’d give serious consideration to sacrificing one of my lesser-used limbs in order to secure the services of that Laporte bean), but when Ben Davies is being preferred at centre-back to Messrs Sanchez, Tanganga, Rodon and whomever else, one does conjure up the image of a rather stern-looking Ange giving the barrel a good scrape.

Still, such things take time to perfect, I suppose, and the grand fromage does at least appear acutely aware that the current back-four, and in particular the coterie of centre-backs, is not really fit for purpose.

3. Maddison

So to our new arrivals, and the early indications are that James Maddison is pretty much everything we hoped and dreamed.

Not without good reason Daniel Levy takes the occasional slosh around the ear from the faithful, but credit where due, he didn’t hang around in crossing t’s and dotting i’s to get young J. M. bunged into an uber heading up the High Road. The apparent price was pretty reasonable, and again, a silent prayer of thanks was offered for Levy not pulling his usual stunt of haggling over the last fiver and whatnot.

And the chap himself seems to have taken to life in our midfield without too much fuss, and actually with a fair amount of pleasure. It’s no exaggeration to say it’s been years since we had a spot of creativity in central midfield, and with a couple of chums handily placed around him to keep an eye on things, Maddison has appeared to have a whale of a time so far. Long may that continue.

4. Manor Solomon

The ins and outs of his transfer may be a tad confusing to simple folk such as AANP, but on the pitch young Solomon seems to have a few good habits about him.

Some quick-footed trickery is always a good bet to melt the hearts of the watching public, but counts for naught if it ends with a fellow skipping off into a cul-de-sac and ending up in a heap on the floor. Mercifully however, this Solomon bean appears to have the good sense to attach a spot of end-product to his hop-skip-and-jumping, and is happy to hang up a cross or deliver a pull-back as appropriate.

One rather disappointing offshoot of the Solomon Gambit appears to be the elbowing out of shot of young Bryan Gil, a creature of whom I’d grown rather fond in his occasional cameos last season. Injured, at the moment, apparently, but once fit I imagine he’d be quite a long way down the waiting list.

I also personally hope that Ivan Perisic sticks around, particularly if he is to be relieved of defensive duties and deployed solely in the wide attacking role for which Nature appears to have fitted him. Not necessarily a popular opinion, that one, so I won’t labour it, but if the ability to beat a man and whip in a cross with either foot is of value, then he strikes me as an egg it is worth having about the place.

5. Vicario

The brow furrows a bit here, I must confess. A bit early to make any sort of call on the new chappie tasked with ensuring the back-door is locked. All goals he’s conceded so far seem to have come from close range and not really given him too much chance.

That said, of the snippets of action over which I’ve cast my eye, I’ve not really had the old skirt blown up by his attitude towards dealing with crosses, he not yet having given the impression of being of the school of wiping out all in his path and thwacking the ball away with a bit of meat.

He does at least appear to be a bit more comfortable with ball at feet than poor old Monsieur Lloris – a low bar admittedly – and these days all the young folk are starting attacks from goal-kicks, so we might as well not fight it. But one over whom to keep a watchful eye, for now.

6. Van de Ven

AANP has spent his summer in man edifying ways – improving the mind, penning a book or two, giving the Aussies some clobber from the sidelines – but alas, I must confess that that time has not really been spent poring over hours of footage of young Master Van de Ven.

As such, he’s a bit of an unknown quantity in these parts; but consider at least what is known about the fellow. For a start, he’s supposed to one of the quicker of the featherless bipeds plying their trade in these parts – and if we’re going to be playing a high line, that will likely be a handy trait.

He’s also left-footed, which might not sound like much I suppose, but in his line of work, and given the current state of our centre-back menagerie, actually fits rather swimmingly into the broader piece.

None of this conjecture counts for much of course, until Sunday lunchtime, but with Eric Dier still knocking about the place as first reserve I fancy we have a further spot of shopping to do. In theory at least, a Romero-VDV defensive combo sounds like it ought to hit the spot. Fingers crossed for the chap.

7. Fare Thee Well, Young Master Winks

A quick valedictory note on poor old Harry Winks too, who’s biffed off down a division, which seems a tad unfortunate, to Leicester.

The young sport was never short of willing or devotion to the club, and as such will always be welcome for a bourbon at AANP Towers, but he was definitely one of those – and we’ve had a few – who appeared to have a lot of the ‘Cultured Midfielder’ about him but somehow seemed unable to kick on.

A decent enough first touch, and a willingness to collect the ball from his defensive chums seemed to bode well, but was too often topped off with an immediate shovel straight back to the defence, rather than an instinct for something a bit more ambitious.

Still, the chap was arguably our best player in the Champions League Final, which sounds like being an unlikely quiz question in years to come. So he’s no doubt deserving of kind words, but sic transit gloria mundi and all that. Better for everyone this way.

8. Kane

Who knows, eh?

Opinions differ, naturally, and the AANP take is that I’d rather have Kane for a season than £100 million. Not least because our record of exchanging great big swathes of cash for footballers has been pretty patchy (the mind cannot help but flit back to the Bale money, and Soldado, Chiriches, Paulinho et al); but also because even if we did spend wisely, we would never bring in someone of his quality. There’s a train of thought that if he gets us into the Champions League (which apparently extends to a Top Five this season) then he immediately nets us £50m or whatever, but even brushing aside that argument, I’m still firmly rooted in the ‘Keep The Blighter’ camp.

I’m quite content with the thought of 25 or so of his goals, a dozen or so assists and a cheery wave goodbye next summer. In fact, given that we didn’t spend anything to acquire him there’s even a spot of the from-dust-he-came-to-dust-he-shall-return about losing him on a free. Obviously not ideal, but if that were to transpire I’d lap it up happily enough. And who knows, if Ange-ball really takes off he might hang around and start scouting out the retirement homes of N17.

Bayern have been doing their pantomime villain stuff pretty well, going about their business in dastardly and, frankly, wildly ill-advised fashion. Most peculiar, actually. For a start their Brains Trust seems to have spent several weeks missing the quite straightforward point that they won’t get their man unless they pay the required fee. Seems a pretty obvious one, that.

On top of which, at least one of their number ought really to have done a bit of basic homework on Daniel Levy and his negotiating style, but again, they’ve sailed through that one with seemingly blissful ignorance, presumably adopting an approach that works domestically, of simply demanding and expecting then to receive. To give Levy another little doff of the cap, that he allegedly responded to their arbitrary deadline last week by first ignoring it and then jetting off on holiday is, if true (and it’s debatable) pretty ripping stuff.

As for Kane himself, he’s obviously convinced it’s the move of choice, but it seems a rummy old one to me. I suppose if the chap absolutely desperately wants a medal, then there are fewer surer bets than a Bundesliga at Bayern; but when the curtain comes down on him I doubt anyone will remember him for that rather than his goalscoring records with club and country (in the same way as Alan Shearer is generally thought of as a record goalscorer rather than Premier League winner with Blackburn). But to each their own. These young people will follow their own peculiar whims.

And that pretty much brings us up to speed. Admittedly it’s all a state of flux, and it seems there will be quite a few more bodies shoved out of one door while one or two are dragged in another, but one gets the gist – and by the time our paths next cross, the new season will be upon us!

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-3 Brentford: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. That Rather Enjoyable First Half

Say what you like about young Mason – and this particular pen has scribbled a few choice descriptions in recent weeks – but when it comes to binning what went before and trying something completely novel, he is not lacking in pluck and vim. Where Conte would stick to 3-4-3 even if his life depended on some minute alteration, Mason scatters around new approaches like confetti. Having flirted with some distant cousin of 4-4-2 in recent weeks, yesterday he made a pretty abrupt pivot off into the land of 4-2-3-1, earning an admiring glance from AANP Towers in the process.

And for 45 minutes, the thing operation tootled along pretty swimmingly. More goals would have helped of course, particularly if you are the sort who assesses these things with rather dead-eyed steeliness, caring only for wins won, no matter the fashion in which they are achieved (or, in other words, if your name is Jose or Antonio).

But for those of us who would have gladly donated a liver just to see some entertaining football at some point over the last three years dash it, that we only scored one goal was a pretty incidental footnote. The real headline was that there was genuinely enjoyable football on show.

No doubt Brentford played into our hands in that first half. They seemed as surprised as anyone else to see our lot take to the field with four fully functioning attackers primed and ready, and could regularly be sighted scampering back into position with looks of concern etched all over their maps, repeatedly undermanned whenever our heroes counter-attacked.

Members of our attacking quartet at various points took turns to station themselves in cunning pockets of space that seemed to fall under the jurisdiction of neither the Brentford defence or midfield, and also took to gaily swapping positions, looking for all the world as if this football business could actually be rather a lark, which is a pretty rare sight around these parts.

Moreover, once in possession, we positively brimmed with exciting and innovative ideas about how to jig all the way into the penalty area in order to get shots away. There were crosses, and one-twos, and AANP’s personal favourite, the neat diagonal passes played inside a defender. That our only goal was from a free-kick was rather a curiosity, because Sonny, Danjuma and even Emerson Royal each seemed to come within a well-placed Brentford limb of adding to the tally by virtue of some well-crafted routine during that opening 45. Frankly I didn’t know we had it in us.

2. Bissouma

The front four may have been the principals, but a pretty vital cog in this 4-2-3-1 was the 2, and Messrs Skipp and Bissouma were in imperious form, at least in that first half.

Bissouma carried out his duties with the relish of a fellow who wakes up every morning determined to wring every last ounce of pleasure from his day. Where some might react with a scowl to being told to spend all day tidying up in midfield, Bissouma flipped the thing on its head, treating every crowded coming-together as an opportunity to display his full range of nifty footwork. If Brentford johnnies descended upon him en masse and with nefarious intent, he simply pirouetted out of trouble, as often as not picking some eye-catching pass at the end of it all too, as an unexpected treat.

He threw in his usual needless crunch at one point, earning the standard yellow card that seems to accompany his every appearance in lilywhite, but that aside, he generally made the grubby job of midfield guard-dog look a lot more glamorous and elegant than one would have thought possible. As with much else on display in that first half, it gave a bit of a whiff of a potentially brighter future around these parts, if the right sort of bean can come along and make a fist of the old wheat-chaff separation routine.

3: Skipp

Young Skipp, while perhaps not quite as easy upon the eye, was also doing a heck of a job fighting the good fight within that deep-lying midfield pair. If it were Bissouma’s job to tiptoe out of increasingly complex situations and ever-diminishing spaces, Skipp’s role seemed to be simply to hunt down loose balls wherever they happened to spring up.

The young whelp’s motivation appeared in no way dimmed by his billing as the less refined of the pair, he seeming to be all in favour of spending his afternoon racing off to win the thing over and over again. Young Skipp also appeared to be blessed with a decent sense of dramatic timing, typically leaving his interventions until the last possible moment before haring in from distance to nick the ball away, amidst a flailing opposition leg.

It will no doubt go under the radar, but on one such occasion, having rolled out his nick-of-time routine to win a 50-50, he was dumped to the floor by an opponent by way of reward, bringing about the free-kick from which we scored. Kane might have hit the thing, Davies might have shoved the laddie aside in the wall; but Skipp earned the opportunity in the first place.

A shame, then, that his eagerness to show a spot of initiative later on went pretty seriously awry, resulting in the Brentford third. Skipp’s intent in this incident had been pretty wholesome, collecting a throw-in deep inside his own half, with a view, no doubt, to setting in motion some campaign for an equaliser. However, he got off to a poor start, taking his eye off the package and letting it bobble past him, which rather set the tone for how the whole incident would play out. While his attempt to bring the situation back under control by means of a spot of wriggling and opponent-dodging was laudable in theory, it met with some pretty significant obstacles in practice – not least being shoved to the ground and having his belongings pilfered from him.

Not his finest hour, but it says much of Skipp’s general attitude and contribution that there were not too many irate fingers wagging in his direction. “Accidents will happen,” seemed to be the gist of the reaction, on realising the identity of the culprit on this occasion. Young Skipp has a fair amount of credit in the bank. Our multitude of woes over the course of this season have many roots, but the efforts of O. Skipp Esq. is not among them.

4. Davies and Lenglet

By contrast, Messrs Davies and Lenglet do not get off so lightly. Even in the first half, in which, thanks to the efforts of those positioned north of them, they were not too onerously employed, they still seemed to make rather a production of the fairly menial tasks thrown their way. However, being swept along by the general gaiety of the occasion one brushed it aside.

There was no brushing it aside in the second half however, as that well-earned one-nil lead became a two-one deficit without Brentford having to do much more than wander into our penalty area and peer about the place, thanks to the idiotic bumblings of Davies and Lenglet.

That the equaliser should have been allowed to happen still makes the blood boil, a good twenty-four hours and more after the event. Brentford dully wibbled the ball from somewhere vaguely left to somewhere vaguely right, and with two defenders and a goalkeeper barring the path to goal, an immediate equaliser ought to have been one of the lowest-ranked of likely outcomes. That some danger was imminent was not in doubt, for the chappie was in our area, and behind the scenes various of our party could be seen scuttling to and fro to prevent any harm occurring once the ball was passed along and Stage Two of the operation got underway. But any immediate shot seemed to carry minimal threat.

And yet somehow, Davies and Lenglet, intent on a programme of utterly passive non-interference, contrived not only to allow that Mbuemo to have a shot, but between them constructed the flimsiest conceivable barrier. Had Mbuemo struck the thing like an Exocet, or had he shimmied and tricked until they lost their footing, one might have held up the hands and done him some homage. But the blighter did none of the above. Frankly, I’ve seen passes hit with more ferocity than his shot. And yet Davies and Lenglet backed off him as if he brandished a machete, and then somehow allowed his shot a route through all four of their combined legs.

And if any in the paying galleries were expecting the following minutes to bring a display of contrition and redemption from this combo they were in for the sort of disappointment for which only a season of this dross can really prepare the soul. As Mbeumo was released for his second, he and Davies were neck and neck in a straightforward sprint for the ball. Mbuemo arguably had the advantage, already being well in his stride, but nevertheless one would have anticipated Davies having sufficient pace to keep within clattering distance of him, or at the very least manoeuvring his frame in that cunning way of the wiliest old devils, blocking off the route of Mbuemo and resulting in a satisfying display of arm-waving frustration. As previously, at the point of release, danger seemed fairly minimal.

Incredibly, however, Davies managed to concede a five-yard gap over a ten-yard sprint. I simply could not believe what I was watching. He moved as if he had hoisted one of his teammates onto his back and then attempted simply to get from A to B without falling over, no matter how long it took him. Anyone convinced that a Premier League footballer, when required to sprint twenty yards, might whir the legs until a hamstring pinged and a lung exploded would have wept in dismay.

I suppose if Davies had been remotely competent then Monsieur Lenglet would not have been dragged into this; but dragged into it he was, and he reacted by unleashing, of all things, his Ben Davies Tribute Act.

Having gawped in disbelief at the sight of Davies running as if through quicksand, the rescue act five yards inside him ran as if with lead in his boots. Moreover, having been gifted an unlikely second chance to intervene, by virtue of Mbuemo pausing – to compose his thoughts, and untangle his feet and whatnot, ahead of his shot – Lenglet then slid in as if to block the shot, but neglected to extend his leg fully. Had he done so, there was a pretty strong chance he might have effected some sort of block; but instead he seemed, when sliding in, to withdraw the limb in question, as if convinced at the last that it would be better simply to avoid interfering and let the Fates decide.

That we lost the thing was not, of course, solely down to the deficiencies of this rotten pair, maddening as they were. In the second half Brentford seemed to exercise a mite more caution in their approach, flinging fewer bodies forward and keeping staff numbers high at the back, a tweak that left our lot completely stumped. As mentioned, they were barely made to work for any of their goals; but as galling was the fact that the footloose and fancy-free approach of the first half was replaced by one of laboured build-up and generally blank looks in the second.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Nottingham Forest: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Richarlison

Senor Conte’s popularity at AANP Towers has dropped in recent weeks at a rate that would have lead balloons looking on enviously, but if he were aiming to worm his way back into AANP’s affections (this no doubt being amongst his primary concerns) his inclusion of Richarlison from the off was a smart move.  

And the Brazilian didn’t disappoint. The headlines alone attest to this – with a goal pedantically disallowed, a penalty won and some robust spots of jiggery-pokery in the build-up to two other goals all featuring on his CV. Had he contributed nothing else of note these would have been worth the entrance fee, but it was Richarlison’s broader performance that prompted a spot of proud avuncular clucking from this end.

Ask me for the likely tactical instruction bestowed upon the chap and you’d be treated to one of my blanker looks, as it wasn’t particularly clear to me whether he were being asked to fulfil specific duties in specific situations. I mean, presumably he had all sorts of tactical equations ringing in his ears, as Conte hasn’t really come across to date as the sort of egg who will simply give a shrug and tell his players just to go out on the pitch and make it up as they go along.

So it is safe to assume that Richarlison was under various orders, to be in certain places at certain times and whatnot, but aside from all those specifics I was taken by the more general way he set about his business. He seemed to adopt an attitude that if a job were worth doing, it were worth doing with energy and aggression. His To-Do List seemed to include both exploratory trips into the right-hand side of the final third, and the less glamorous business of nibbling at opponents when we were out of possession, in order to win back the thing; but irrespective of the nature of the task at hand, he always went about in a way that was quintessentially Richarlison-esque. One watched on rather approvingly.

He took his disallowed goal mightily impressively. I had been under the impression from his various considered observations of the last few days that his lack of playing time had had a detrimental effect upon his mood and performance levels and such things, but one would never have known judging by the way he walloped home his effort just three minutes in.

He made it look pretty straightforward – which, I understand, in industry circles, is quite the seal of approval – but from my vantage point it seemed anything but. The ball was bouncing for a start, which tipped the scales heavily in favour of a shot disappearing off into the upper stand. For added complication the ball also looked for all the world like it was more interested in getting away from Richarlison rather than teaming up with him for collaborative adventures. That our man made light of both challenges, and simply leathered the ball into the roof of the night, was massively to his credit. Just a shame that it amounted to naught, what?

Quite when he will register his first league goals for us is anyone’s guess (I noticed him shoot a rather pleading look at Kane when the penalty was awarded), but his contributions elsewhere were valuable, and his ability to add presence within the penalty area as well as outside it offers a handy extra attacking string to the lilywhite bow.

2. Pedro Porro

Another whom AANP eyes with affection is young Master Porro.

The fellow is certainly eager to please, taking every opportunity to yell angrily in the face of the nearest opponent, presumably in order to convince us of how much he cares. It all seemed a bit of an act, in truth, working himself up into a state after every tackle, successful or otherwise. Perhaps it is something in the Latin blood. Either way, it didn’t matter much to me one way or another as long as he continued that business of whipping in his crosses.

Now that was where the lad earned his beans. He crosseth like a demon. In fact, if anything I chide the chap for not doing so more frequently. I’ve bleated away often enough about the need for our wing-backs to offer some attacking flavour in order to make this whole 3-4-3 business hum and whirr, and in Pedro Porro we finally have a lad who can make the eyes water with a hot line in crosses whipped at pace from the flank and into a general area of mischief, the sort that does all the hard work itself, requiring the forward only to make contact in order to complete the deal.

Funnily enough however, the goal Porro actually created relied upon a lot more finesse than the sort to which I allude above. Instead, this was more of a delicately-nurtured chip, tailored for the head of Harry Kane, and coming with a pretty specific set of next-step instructions. Rather than ‘Any Contact Will Do’, this required Kane to angle himself and steer the thing (which, being Harry Kane, was barely an inconvenience).

Nevertheless, Porro’s work was still an underrated masterpiece. Both time and space were in short supply when he took possession of the thing, for he was not roaming the great plains of the flank, but was jostling for space within the rather crowded confines of the penalty area. When he took possession it was already rush-hour. With Richarlison dinking in crosses from the right, Davies effecting full-body sliding passes on the left and no fewer than eight extras from Forest scattered around the area, one could not have swung a cat without bumping into at least three other sweaty frames . When the ball eventually came to Porro, it was clear that this was no time to pause and take stock.

However, if such concerns weighed on him, he certainly didn’t show it. Within a trice he had the ball out of his feet and curling inch-perfectly toward the head of Kane, somehow making time in his crowded schedule for a brief glance to identify his target in the process. On top of which, being a short-distance sort of affair, this was not the type of cross one could deliver through a gay old swing of the clog. In order to hit his mark from a distance of no more than ten yards, Porro had to re-programme from Power to Deftness in double-quick time.

That Porro executed the entire manoeuvre precisely the required proportions of speed, delicacy and accuracy suggested that here was a chap for whom this was not his first time. Porro is clearly a man who knows his apples from his oranges when it comes to delivering for his forwards. This could be the start of something special.

3. Ben Davies

On the subject of wing-backs, I aim a sightly grudging nod of appreciation at Ben Davies over on the left. Make no mistake, it pains me to voice such a sentiment. A chap like Ben Davies, while never wanting for effort, and almost certainly a thoroughly pleasant egg, is hardly the sort whose presence makes the heart skip a beat or two. ‘Handy Reserve’ about sums it up.

Always pretty game, Ben Davies’ principal failing as a wing-back is that his crosses miss as often as they hit. And having banged on a fair bit above about the virtues of a dead-eyed crosser of the ball from the wide positions, you will understand that this shortcoming grates. Perisic may have offered precious little value in literally any other field since joining the gang, but he does at least swing in a mean old cross. Ben Davies does not.

However, as amply demonstrated yesterday, Ben Davies does make the most of whatever other tools he lugs around with him. Take his positional sense, for example. It may sound like the faintest possible praise with which to damn a poor chap, but when our heroes scurry forward he does position himself in locations that make the opposition think a bit, and occupy a spot of their manpower, be it out wide on the flank, or scuttling off into the area to offer the option of a slide-rule pass towards the by-line. Most of the time he’s ignored by his colleagues, a decision-making route one certainly understands, but his presence in these spots does assist the general operation.

And his eagerness to toe the Conte line, requiring all wing-backs to augment the attack by taking up positions inside the penalty area because the midfielders sure as heck won’t, bore some fruit yesterday when he kept the ball alive by the skin of his teeth, in the build-up to our opener. Indeed, he popped up as an auxiliary attacker on a couple of other occasions – a header here, a drilled effort this – this being the sort of game in which a wing-back didn’t have to worry too much about what was happening at the rear.

And there’s the rub, I suppose. This was not the sort of game in which we had to worry too much about the defence, it was the sort of game in which Ben Davies caught the eye as a handy contributor. One might say it was “only” Nottingham Forest, but a week ago it was “only” Wolves, and that didn’t stop our heroes making a solid pig’s ear of things, so I’ll happily take this week’s harvest – and Liverpool’s little gift – and move on.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-0 Chelsea: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Skipp Goal

Flitting over the first half handbags and jollies, that Skipp goal positively burst at the seams with all the right sort of stuff.

For a start, it came straight from second half kick-off. I suppose you might say there is nothing so remarkable about that – the game does have to restart somehow after all. Nevertheless I’ve sometimes watched our lot peddle this same routine each game, and wondered if they might not rustle up something with a touch more grace and elan than simply giving it to Dier to clout up into the heavens and loading the left flank with runners in preparation for when gravity does its thing.

I would have expected that Chelsea would a) have been wise to this approach, it being the one we adopt just about without fail every time we start a half, and b) not had too much difficulty in countering it.

But there it was, considerably higher on altitude than subtlety, with Davies, Richarlison and Kane queueing to see what would be on offer once the thing fell to earth. Davies and Richarlison were the principals in this instance, the former plucking the ball from the sky whilst the latter did an impressive spot of swivel-and-onward-shovelling towards the centre. And when the Skipp household crack open their umpteenth bottle of champagne tonight and light up a cigar or two to round the thing off, they may want to offer a toast to the neat footwork and general alertness of Richarlison, in rotating affairs from a position of no more than general promise, on an inside left perch and with back to goal, to a position of considerable threat, with Kulusevski and inside the D.

There then followed a sequence of suitably dramatic events in the build-up to Skipp’s big moment, which included a few helping hands from our odious guests. For a start Kulusevski found Emerson, whose presence in the prime attacking spot should no longer surprise anyone. His shot was handled by the Chelsea ‘keeper with considerably greater theatre than necessary, meaning that rather than slamming the door on the whole episode it instead created a even glitzier sequel.

Another Chelsea fellow picked up the baton and handily threw in a rubbish clearance, which kept things alive. And at this point young Master Skipp cleared his throat and marched onto the stage for his big moment.

Amidst all the fuss over his finish – and it oozed with quality, make no mistake – the preamble might easily be ignored, but I was particularly taken by it. It involved the fine young fellow winning a ball for which he was, if not exactly a rank outsider, certainly second favourite. But a spot of upper body beef, did half the job, and it was topped off by a general desire and will to win that I wouldn’t normally associate with our lot. And yet there it was, and against the odds Skipp emerged from the conflab as master of all he surveyed.

All that remained at this point was for him to close the eyes, swing the peg and hope that the outcome was one of those half volleys bestowed once or twice a lifetime from on high. Not only did he catch the thing on its sweetest possible spot, the ball also slapped off the underside of the bar – an element that, as is universally acknowledged, augments the aesthetic value of any goal by around a thousand per cent.


One cannot but help beam with avuncular pride for young Skipp. Such an earnest soul, and a Tottenham boy from root to stem, but by virtue of his role in life rarely the sort to receive much acclaim. It was pleasing enough to see him score his first goal for the club, but to do so in quite such glorious fashion really does make the heart sing a bit.

2. Romero

It says much for all concerned in the lilywhite defensive ranks that Chelsea didn’t really get a decent view of goal the whole match. Sterling’s first half sprints had me chewing the lip once or twice, and there may have been a long shot or two, but really nothing to make the blood freeze over and spine quiver.

On one of the few occasions in which they did threaten, courtesy of a couple of neat diagonal passes through the lines that shifted things from ‘Minimum Threat’ to ‘Clean Through On Goal’, I for one was grateful for the intervention of one C. Romero Esquire. On that particular occasion, Romero displayed in the first place a decent sense of awareness of current affairs, in springing from his usual spot on the right of the centre-backs, to cover a breach on the left. On top of which, he then had the bright idea to pursue a policy of minimal contact in order to see out the danger.

Romero, as is public knowledge, is the sort of egg who cannot resist solving life’s problems by throwing a full-blooded limb or two at it. Recourse to such action in the penalty area, and indeed in the six-yard box, might have had some pretty dangerous consequences. In this instance, however, he opted to insert his frame in between the ball and the onrushing Chelsea forward, and the ploy worked to perfection. What had threatened to escalate into a clear-cut opportunity, instead fizzled out quietly, as Romero guided the ball to safety much like a responsible adult escorting some unruly child across a road.

It was one of a number of pretty impressive interventions from Romero throughout. In recent weeks – just about every week, in fact – I have cocked a pretty dubious eyebrow as he has flung himself, body and soul, into a challenge, seemingly not content unless some furniture is damaged and a card brandished at him. Today, by contrast, the feist and aggression were on show, but always in controlled and regulated fashion. He tackled firmly, cut out passes and crosses and the like, and also did a spot of overtime covering in random areas like left-back whenever the situation arose.

Those casual moments when he mistook our one-nil lead for an eight-nil lead and rather complacently allowed the ball to be nipped from him took the sheen off things, but I wave a forgiving hand in this instance. He carried out the nuts and bolts of defending pretty robustly, and I was all for it.

3. Forster

Another chap whose name is likely to receive only the briefest mention, but whose occasional inputs caught the AANP eye, was Fraser Forster. Not that he was exactly overburdened – the five colleagues directly in front of him, and indeed the five in front of those, all contributing pretty diligently, leaving Chelsea unable to muster more than a shot or two in anger.

 And in fact, one of the few shots that Forster did have to deal with, in the first half, he made rather a pig’s ear of. It was one that either needed a clutching to self or shoving pretty mightily off to the margins, but Forster did neither, the ball popping from his frame and requiring an intervening bloot from Ben Davies to extinguish.

But in the second half, the gigantic chap seemed to get the message, seemingly struck by the benefits of doing simple things well. Most notably this happened when one or other of the Chelsea mob wriggled their way into the area and looked for all the world like the next item on their agenda would be one or other of rounding the ‘keeper or toe-poking into the net. Either way, a spot of pretty serious peril loomed.

Now wandering off on a tangent, I suppose it is possibly a mite unfair to criticise a chap both in his absence and for a crime he didn’t even commit, but at this point the curious thought that flashed to my mind was that if Hugo Lloris had been in situ and minding affairs, I would have bet my mortgage on him somehow uprooting the Chelsea forward, at considerable cost to the overall masterplan.

However, we were blessed in this instance not with Lloris but with Forster, and he pretty admirably addressed this crisis by catapulting every inch of his eleventy-foot frame forward across the turf, so as to snatch the ball from the toe of the blighter, thus averting either toe-poke or rounding-of-‘keeper scenarios.

In common with Romero’s intervention described earlier, since the net result was an absence of any damage, and what one might describe as a dot ball in the scorers’ book, it would be easy to shrug off the whole affair and pretend it never happened. But AANP has made a habit of getting rather too carried away with the small print when watching Spurs, and through this intervention (plus the handful of crosses caught with minimal fuss and dressing), Forster, in my book, earned his evening bourbon.

And there we have it. To a man our lot scrapped and fought as required, threw in a couple of moments of quality in the final third, and tootled off with another pretty comfortable win. Long live that Stellini chap.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-0 West Ham: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Emerson Royal, Cult Hero

Over in the West Wing of AANP Towers, I once idled away a few months writing a full-on tome about our lot. I mention this not to drum up sales (although if you will insist then step right this way) but because the title of the thing – Spurs’ Cult Heroes – hove to mind yesterday as I watched Emerson Royal complete his stunning character arc from hopeless incompetent whose every involvement brought howls of rage, to dashing conqueror, whose every touch cheer was cheered to the rafters.

The definition of a ‘Cult Hero’ is pretty loose (one man’s Tony Parks penalty save is another man’s 866 Steve Perryman appearances, if you get the gist), but most seem to agree that there is a distinct category carved out for those maverick sorts, who by virtue of, amongst other things, a) being slightly batty, and b) committing every fibre of their being to the cause, are taken to heart by the adoring masses. Throw in a villain-to-hero redemption arc and it all becomes pretty irresistible stuff. Watching in awe as Emerson went into overdrive yesterday, I was forced to admit that his had suddenly become a pretty strong nomination for Cult Hero.

Emerson did not have to spend much time dusting down his defensive frock yesterday, given that West Ham did not really take any interest in crossing the halfway line. If a winger had to be tracked and his cross stifled, Emerson tracked and stifled obediently, but this was hardly a day on which the “Back” part of the “Wing-Back” role featured too heavily. (Which is mildly ironic, as the defensive lark seems to be his forte, he being arguably more naturally sculpted to be a full-back than a wing-back.)

As with his ten chums, any letters sent to his loved ones about the first half would have made for pretty brief reading. ‘Huff’, ‘Puff’ and ‘Some laboured passing’ pretty much covered the contributions from all in lilywhite in minutes 1 to 45.

But it was in the second half that Emerson really burst into life, starting with his goal. It should come as no surprise to anyone by now that he insists on augmenting our counter-attacks by nominating himself as makeshift centre-forward. I suspect that where once Kane, Sonny and chums may have tried to talk him down, they now simply give the shoulders a shrug and let him do his thing, finding life easier that way.

And thus it happened that with Hojbjerg looking to unleash his inner Modric, and Richarlison and Kane mooching about in deeper territory, Davies and Emerson arrived at the identical conclusion of “Well, why the hell not?” and effortlessly morphed into an oddly lethal strike pairing.

Having made all that effort to get into prime goalscoring territory, Emerson was not about to let the opportunity slip, and rolled the ball home with the debonair style of a fellow who’s done such things a good 267 times previously.

I suppose conventional wisdom would have had it that at this point, with those bizarre sprints into the centre-forward spot having brought him his goal, Emerson might have considered it a fine day’s work and gently eased off into the background, feeling rather pleased with himself and content to wind down the clock. But Emerson is not conventional. These maverick cult hero sorts rarely are. He instead regarded that goal as the springboard for The Emerson Royal Show, and played the remainder of the game as if determined that his every following touch would make the highlights reel. Thus we were treated to no-look passes, thumping slide tackles and the general sense of a man having the absolute night of his life. He is – and I cannot stress this enough – a most extraordinary young bean.

2. Ben Davies, Wing-Back

Ever since young Sessegnon was bundled off to A&E I’ve given the chin a thoughtful stroke or two when puzzling over who might give Perisic a breather on the left, but for some reason the concept of Ben Davies wing-backing it never really dawned on me. No explanation for it, but my mind always veered off into Emerson Royal country. Strange the way the mind works, what?

Anyway, Ben Davies did well enough in the role yesterday to suggest that he might be a viable alternative to Perisic. (In fact, given Perisic’s rather bonkers cameo, which involved two needlessly aggressive hacks at opponents, plus a pitiful attempt to defend his own area that contained little in the way of tackling and much in the way of tumbling over his own collapsible limbs, I wonder if Davies at LWB might become a more permanent option simply by default.)

The TV bod gave Ben Davies the MOTM bauble last night, which seemed to me to stretch the concept a tad, but I followed the point – namely that he did all that might reasonably be asked of a fellow, and without too many alarms.

As with Emerson on the right, there was little in the way of defensive employment, so most of his energies were devoted to invading the opposition half and giving the arms a manic wave, so as to attract the attention of whomever happened upon possession at that point.

All this was well and good, and evidently blew the minds of the Sky Sports detectives, but I was vastly more concerned about the outputs Davies conjured up, once in receipt of the ball. Now here, I fancy I do the fellow a dastardly turn, for in gauging his abilities up the left flank I cannot help but compare his crossing to that of Perisic. And for all Perisic’s flaws when it comes to aggressive hacks and collapsible limbs, it is widely acknowledged that his crosses are of a most devilish vintage.

Davies, by contrast, and in common with everything about him, delivers crosses that do everything stated in the Instruction Manual, while offering precious little to make the jaw drop and eyes bulge. Davies’ crossing was acceptable enough. His short passing was acceptable enough. His tackles were acceptable enough. All of which was comfortably good enough to sink West Ham, but none of which arrested the attention and drew me towards the fellow as the game’s outstanding performer. Still, one man’s meat and all that, what?

And moreover, at the critical juncture, Davies rattled off his lines to perfection, galloping in from the flank to take Hojbjerg’s pass in his stride, effecting a handy swerve infield to wrongfoot no fewer than three West Ham fiends and then rolling the ball into the path of Emerson, for the opener.


3. Hojbjerg’s Pass

Talking of which, amidst all the rattle and hum about Emerson’s one-eighty, and Davies’ supposed match-winning innings, I’m inclined to stamp an indignant foot and demand that all in attendance stop prattling and do a bit of homage to that pass from Hojbjerg, which set everything in motion in the first place.

Now it is true that until and beyond that point this all felt like standard Hojbjerg stuff. He pottered around and looked increasingly irate, as he usually does, but one could not really put a hand on the Bible and swear to the Almighty that one chap and one chap only was dominating this particular midfield and that chap’s name was Hojbjerg.

He did enough – so no doubt Ben Davies was goggling away at him in awe – but at nil-nil, he, like most others, was plodding along a bit.

Until he suddenly unleashed from nowhere one of the best passes of the season. I suppose one could point out that the was generously gifted all the time in the world by the West Ham mob, as well as the freedom of pretty much the centre circle – but still. At the time at which he hit ‘Send’, Ben Davies was but a twinkle in the eye, stationed on the left touchline, and literally half the West Ham team were blocking the smooth delivery from starting point to destination.

None of this mattered a jot to Hojbjerg, who directed and weighted the ball to absolute perfection, allowing Davies to seize upon it without breaking stride. It was the sort of creative brainwave for which our heroes had been absolutely howling, at least in the first half, and while things were bucking up a bit in the second, this was nevertheless game-changing stuff.

While saluting Hojbjerg for his moment of inspiration, the whole joyous episode did make me wonder – if this talent for spotting and pinging a pass from the gods is something of which is the rightful, legal proprietor, might the fine fellow not attempt one or two of these each game?

4. The Penalty Shout

It doesn’t matter now, of course, and I daresay some amongst you might give the head a sad shake and wonder where it all went wrong with AANP – but I can’t get over this gubbins about the penalty in the first half.

Or rather, the non-penalty. Of course, the AANP lineage strictly forbids that the appointed arbiter of proceedings be questioned: the ref’s word is law, and shall be respected as such, without exception.

And I suppose that should be the end of it really. Yet when I see dastardly goings-on inside the penalty area gaily waved away, when they would almost certainly attract a stern eyebrow and wagging finger anywhere else on the pitch, I do tend to dissolve into a fit of apoplexy and let a few of the fruitier elements of Anglo-Saxon fire from my mouth like shots from a gun.

The official line is, apparently, some perfect drivel along the lines that if a fellow is having trouble with gravity and taking a dive to the dirt, then he has absolute carte blanche to scoop up the ball in his hands and bestow upon it loving caresses, until such time as he has restored his balance. At which point, presumably the suspension of the game’s laws ends, and we play football once again.

Utter rot, of course. I mean, the ruling itself has an element of sense about it – if a grown man has somersaulted into the atmosphere and is about to land on his nose, one permits him to eject a paw in order to preserve his decency – but the West Ham blighter was in no such predicament, and Solomon himself could not convince me otherwise. The W.H.B. wobbled a bit, shot out an arm to give the ball a friendly pat and then restored his apparatus perfectly comfortably. As above, anywhere else on the pitch and there is not a referee alive who would have passed on the opportunity to make his whistle heard.

Still, as stated, one simply accepts these calls with good grace. Mercifully it mattered little anyway, and, as I saw it writ elsewhere last night, remarkably we are now in the Top Four despite seeming to have lost just about every game we’ve played this season. Long live that Stellini chap, what?

Categories
Spurs transfers Uncategorized

Spurs’ Transfer Window: 6 Tottenham Talking Points

Yes it’s a tad late, but quite appropriate for Spurs’ transfer window, n’est ce pas?

I’m not normally one for piping up about the comings and goings. Largely because one just ends up speculating, and then looking rather an oaf when the chappie one praised to the heavens turns out not to know his right foot from his left when he eventually trots out onto the field. Better to lay low, I’ve found, and let the various cast members pickle their own insides. Much easier to cast judgement on a fellow with the benefit of hindsight after all, what?

This time, however, I do feel moved to act. Not to such extremes as penning a violently-worded letter to The Times, you understand – there is, after all, a time and a place. But dash it all, packaging off Bryan Gil? Forsooth! Erasing from existence Matt Doherty because of a last-minute administrative error? What the devil?

Not to distract from the fact that we’ve ended up making a couple of natty moves, but one does sometimes look at our lot and find there’s no other thing to do but scratch the loaf and goggle a bit.

1. Pedro Porro

First the spiffing stuff. He may sound like the headline act of a nursery rhyme, but young Pedro Porro ought to be precisely the cog this particular machine has been yelling for. No need to insult anyone’s intelligence by banging on about how Conte-ball absolutely positively must, as a matter of the utmost urgency, deploy fizz-popping wing-backs in order to work. The problem has been staring us all in the face for months now, but finally the great purse-string holder in the sky has flung a bit of money at the problem.

Not that a thick old wad of notes is any sort of guarantee to solve this sort of frightful mess. After all, upon flogging Kyle Walker we threw half of the winnings on Serge Aurier of all people.

But in this instance, I’m willing to go out on a cautious limb and suggest that we haven’t necessarily bought ourselves a complete dud. (Which is pretty high praise around these parts.) Two Champions League games doth not a comprehensive dossier of a chap’s abilities make, but I do remember thinking when he played against us something along the lines of “Golly, I’d rather have that bounder than Emerson plugging away on the right”.

Admittedly the chap may not know the first dashed thing about defending for all I know, but on the front foot he seemed rather handy, and goodness knows our lot our screaming out for that sort of muck from a wing-back. Indeed, the notion of Messrs Romero, Bentancur, Kulusevski and – if he lives up to the billing – P.P. all ganging up together to cause a spot of mischief on the right, makes the AANP heart sing a bit.

Porro (Pedro? Some ludicrous nickname?) appears blessed with a burst of pace and a rather fruity right foot, which ought to help. On top of which he gives the air of one of those old boys who was rather miffed to be cast as a Defender when the jerseys were being handed out back at school, and has spent every day since pointedly charging forward into the final third in an ongoing act of pique.

There is, naturally, a Bissouma-shaped disclaimer here. For no matter how competent a laddie looks when coming up against us in days gone by, there’s a fair old chance that on arriving in N17 and donning the lilywhite he will immediately morph into an incompetent charlatan who is not entirely sure what shape the ball ought to be.

But nevertheless. We needed a right wing-back who a) is well acquainted with the do’s and don’ts of the wing-back trade, and b) Our Glorious Leader could actually tolerate. We now have the aforementioned. Time to get down to brass tacks.

2. Danjuma

I feel something of a fraud here, as there’s not much I can add about Danjuma that I didn’t rabbit on about at the weekend, following his Preston jolly. In short, never having set eyes upon him before, I was happy enough to witness him roll up his sleeves and muck in. No shirking from this one. He waded into the thick of things from the off, seemed nimble of foot and bludgeoned himself a goal by virtue of insisting that he ought to have one rather than any particular finesse.

Positionally, he appears to be rubbing shoulders with Sonny and Richarlison in the little tub of bodies marked “Kane’s Backup”, and apparently can also wander off to the left if the need arises.

With Conte evidently deeming young Gil the sort of egg whose exit from the premises couldn’t come soon enough (more on that anon) we seemed to need an extra pair of attacking legs, and in sharp contradistinction to the unfortunate young Gil, Danjuma seems to come with a few additional slabs of meat and muscle plastered about his frame.

I’ll be honest, the whole thing has more than a whiff of the Bergwijn about it, but that, I suppose, is no bad thing.

3. Bryan Gil

At this point, however, things take a turn for the rummy.

A couple of potentially handy signings (or, more specifically, one potentially crucial signing and one potentially handy one) is all well and good, but for Conte to haul up Gil by the ear and kick him out of the country seemed a bit thick. I liked Gil. Gil made the pulse quicken. In a team that too often lapsed into endless sideways and backwards passing, Gil seemed forever gripped with the notion of simply tearing around the place and seeing what good works came of it.

Still, for all his fine efforts and endless energy, Gil did rather lack in the physique department. Conte, slippery eel that he is, had given the impression post-World Cup that he was actually coming round to the young pill – consecutive starts and whatnot – but it was all a spot of dastardly misdirection. All along Conte had him down as no more than skin, bone and hair, so off he bobs.

Mercifully it is but a temporary arrangement, and with a bit of luck the young specimen will return in the summer beefed as well as bronzed. But the element that really grates is that he is returning to his former digs, at Sevilla.

No concerns there, one might think – until recalling that in order to obtain the chap in the first place, we gave the very same Sevilla one serviceable Erik Lamela plus somewhere in the region of £25 million. And now, as a result of this latest spot of jiggery-pokery, Sevilla find themselves in possession of Lamela, approximately £25 million – and Bryan Gil, dash it! I mean really, what the hell sort of deal is that?

4. Matt Doherty

If the mechanics of the Bryan Gil deal seem to be slathered on a bit thick, it’s a mere bagatelle compared to the absurdities seeping from every orifice of the Matt Doherty fiasco.

On the face of it, the release of one of multiple right wing-backs, in order to facilitate the serene entry of a new, more advanced model, seems about as neat and tidy as they come. Firm handshakes all round would seem to be the order of the day.

Peel back the layers however – and one really doesn’t have to peel back too many, the top layer here will suffice – and a spot of mind-boggling incompetence takes shape. The rub of the thing is that the original plan was to slap a sign saying ‘Loan’ on Doherty’s forehead and bundle him onto a plane bound for Madrid, where he would stay until the summer, by which point a state of perfect equanimity and sense would have engulfed the running of THFC.

This being Spurs, however, such a straightforward course of action was never going to land. It turns out that, loosely speaking, these days clubs are not allowed to loan out more than 8 players at a time. A new one on me, I admit, but then I’m not a major European football club, for whom the loaning of players is part of the routine. For any such club, this ought not really to have been an issue as long as they were able to grasp the basics. Our lot, however, seemed to sally along blissfully unaware that such a rule existed; or perhaps fully aware, but not staffed by anyone capable of counting above 8.

Either way, the upshot was that with literally an hour or two until the deadline passed we found ourselves in possession of one excess Doherty, and at a bit of a loss as to how to shift him. At this stage I would have thought that, having only last season spent £15 million to bring the fellow in, simply cutting the cord and letting him drift off elsewhere would pretty much be the nuclear option. I mean to say, the chances of us recovering a full £15 million for him might have been thin, but the chances of us recovering something for him seemed middling-to-fair.

Incredibly however, the grands fromages of the club – presumably the same mob who are down in folklore for haggling into the wee small hours of deadline days gone by for a pittance here and a desultory payment there – just casually wiped off this £15 million asset in its entirety, tearing up Dhoerty’s contract, one imagines with a gay old smile and cheeky wink, and elbowing Doherty out of the club’s existence without much more than a muffled “Adio– ah, Pedro!”

My mind, which until then had been boggling away like nobody’s business at the combination of incompetence and absurdity, at this point gave up and simply melted away. It was simply too much to wrap the bean around. Irrespective of Doherty’s virtues or otherwise as a player and employee, I simply couldn’t fathom how a professional establishment could be that unaware of a key regulation; leave until literally the eleventh hour that for which they’d had a month to prepare; and then write off a multi-million pound asset with little more than a shrug.

As for the footballing side of all this, it certainly crept up from behind and shouted ‘Boo!’, but with the dust – and, more pertinently Pedro Porro – settling I’d qualify this as one I can stomach comfortably enough.

Poor old Doherty never really got to grips with things, for which he only takes a small portion of the blame in truth. There was a point, towards the end of last season, where he seemed to find his straps, and went on a run of half a dozen or so consecutive games at right wing-back, during which he did a decent impression of a chap who knew what he was about. Cutting in towards the area, popping up at the far post as an auxiliary attacker – that sort of good, honest muck.

Alas, that was all ended by the footballing equivalent of being attacked by a maniac with an axe, against Villa I think, and thereafter the chap never really managed more than an hour here or a ten-minute stretch-of-the-legs there, before being written out of the script in most peculiar fashion. Curious stuff, if no great loss.

5. Djed Spence

The other major outgoing was the no doubt pretty bewildered Djed Spence, a young flower to whom Our Glorious Leader seemed to take an instant dislike, and then made it his mission to ensure everyone knew it too.

A little green behind the ears he may presumably have been (I say ‘presumably’ because the lad never got to play long enough for anyone to find out), but given that Conte worshipped at the altar of attacking wing-backs it seemed pretty dashed rummy that he should have had quite such an aversion to the chap.

As far as anyone could make out, Spence was one of those coves who thinks that if he’s on a football pitch he might as well be attacking the opposition’s goal, and in each of his little cameo appearances he pretty clearly lived by that mantra. In the absence of anyone else doing much better at RWB, his repeated omission certainly made one remove the hat and give the hair a contemplative ruffle, but there we are. At least until the summer, young Master Spence is no longer of this establishment.

(As an aside, I admire his beans in opting for Rennes, rather than some more glamorous locale. The young bounder wants minutes; and, one imagines, at Rennes, minutes he shall have.)

6. Deals Not Done

While I suspect a few of us could debate long into the night the wisdom of ditching Doherty and Spence while retaining Emerson ruddy Royale, by and large this seemed a transfer window in which the stated aims were more or less met, and as such it’s one of those Satisfactory Enough type of gigs.

That said, however, AANP is the sort of chap who, on being gifted a dozen gleaming sports cars, would pause and question why it wasn’t a dozen and one. And as such, I’ll happily pop a hand on each hip and bleat about the wisdom of ending the transfer window without reinforcements in key areas. Viz, a goalkeeper, a centre-back, a creative midfield sort and another centre-back.

I know the official party line, of course. We all do. There was no way Monsieur Lloris was going to suffer some Doherty-esque ignominy and be cast aside mid-season with nary a mention on the club website. Severely in need of a goalkeeping upgrade we might be, but it is not happening any time before the clocks go forward.

Similarly at centre-back, Eric Dier will get to make as many more bizarrely off-kilter attempted clearances as he likes, because Conte seems taken by him, and that is sufficient. The Davies-Lenglet hokey-cokey will continue likewise. Come the summer, one would expect some serious signings in these areas to be discussed (before those targets head elsewhere and we settle for second-best); but for now, we’re stuck with what we’ve got.

Such is life. In truth I’m grateful that some new blood was brough in at all, particularly at right wing-back. And with Conte’s future still up in the air it may be just as well not to bring in too many of his acolytes. A dashed peculiar transfer window, then, but all told, one that was not too shabby. On we bobble.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-0 Portsmouth: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Gil

AANP has never really been a dog person. No objection to the fine beasts, you understand, I’ve just not really got much connection to them. As such, happy to let them go about their business, and have them extend the same courtesy back. ‘Non-aggression pact’ about sums it up, and that’s the way it’s been for a few decades, until my sister recently came into possession of a pup of some breed unknown to me.

I mention this gripping aside because the sister’s pup’s behaviour is most prominently characterised by boundless energy and unshakeable optimism, in relation to whatever task it is approaching. And watching young Bryan Gil treating his every involvement in today’s game as if it were the most fun he had ever experienced, I was struck by his similarity to the aforementioned bonhomous canine.

Gil has now been a lilywhite 18 months, in which time he has not yet made 18 appearances – but if anyone thought that these deliberate oversights on the part of the Top Brass would dampen his spirits they will have some pretty comprehensive re-thinking to do. Rather than let week after week of inactivity (and a release on loan for six months) chip away at his mood, it seems simply to have heightened his excitement. I get the impression that each time he was omitted he simply became even more beside himself with elation, reasoning that his big chance was therefore even likelier to arrive the following week.

A charming attitude, and one he seemed determined to advertise to the entire viewing public once the game started. If he were not in possession he eagerly buzzed around seeking it; and once he received it he wasted no time in flicking through the repertoire to find the most effective means of making a positive dent in things. Watching his infectious enthusiasm I rather wished someone would throw a stick in his radius, just to see if he would bound after it.

Enthusiasm on its own, however, is not worth a great deal unless married to a certain degree of effectiveness (thought processes around this hypothesis might be aided by reflection on Oliver Skipp’s recent performances). Merrily, Gil was, for the second consecutive game, amongst the more eye-catching young pills on display.

We were treated at various points to stepovers and whatnot, and quick jinking feet, but also crisp and aware shot passes, the sort that bisect opposing bodies and give a sense of urgency.

Gil has pretty swiftly elevated himself to the sort who quickens the pulse every time he receives the ball – and given that a fortnight ago he had not yet made a League start for us, this is one heck of a trajectory. All sorts of complications stand in the way of him becoming a regular any time soon, and I doubt that any amongst us would try arguing against Kulusevski waltzing straight back into the cast list for the visit of Woolwich next week, but Gil has taken his opportunities with aplomb, and is looking an increasingly viable option.

2. Sarr

A spot of post-match hobnobbing with various Spurs-supporting beans suggests that I might be ploughing a slightly lonely furrow with this one, but I thought that young Sarr once again earned himself a respectful salute.

“Neat and tidy” seemed to be the anthem on his lips, and not a bad philosophy either, to bring into a day’s work as a slightly defensive-minded midfield bod. His midweek cameo had featured ticks in such columns as ‘Interceptions’, ‘Tackles’ and ‘Passes (sub-heading: Unfussy and Prompt)’. And, clearly one of those fellows who thinks that if he’s onto a good thing he might as well just keep peddling it over and over, he brought that approach from his substitute appearance vs Palace into his starting appearance vs Pompey.

With Skipp seemingly keen to elbow his way into the final third at every opportunity, Sarr played yang to that particular ying, positioning himself back at basecamp as something of a security guard for the midfield.

As against Palace, who were dead and buried by the time he emerged, one is hesitant to lavish too much praise upon a performance against a team that I don’t think managed two shots on target. Nevertheless, one can only hope, when one flings a young buck into the arena, that he will do all asked of him and to a decent standard, and in this respect it was a pretty successful afternoon’s work for Sarr.

3. Kane

Nevertheless, this was yet another of those performances that was drifting slightly aimlessly in the first half. One could see that various in lilywhite were remembering vague ideas and trying to apply them – Sessegnon popped in a stream of crosses that didn’t really hit the mark; Davies repeatedly trotted forward with a determined look on his map, before passing harmlessly sideways; Son dipped his shoulder and put his head down, before being robbed off the ball and left in a heap. And so on. Things were not really clicking. Things were not even doing whatever it is happens in the moments before they click. Life was just passing us all by.

So yet again it was left to Kane to drop a little deeper and perform his weekly alchemy. When he received the ball, 25 or so yards from goal, it appeared that a scene regularly witnessed was about to unfold yet again, for many in lilywhite had had possession in these sort of spots, and faced with pretty much every Portsmouth player stationed between ball and goal.

And yet, somehow, where all others had tried and failed to make any useful inroad, Kane simply forced his way through with that curious mixture of brute force, classy touch and sheer act of will. Before one could say “Was that an intentional one-two?” he had in one movement received the ball back from Sessegnon, escaped his marker, dug the ball out of his feet and set himself for a shot.

I suppose it hardly sounds like rocket science when spelled out like that, but yet again it was all of a level a country mile above that being produced by anyone else.

There then, of course, followed a shot like an Exocet missile, the sort of finish that would have had us gasping in a giddy mix of shock and joy if it had come from the clog of pretty much anyone else in our number – but when produced by Kane simply prompts a knowing nod, as if to say, “As expected, what?”

It was a moment worthy of winning a game, and helpfully changed the dynamics of what might potentially have been an awkward scrap, the sort that prompts dubious murmurings about the players, manager, chairman and so on. It also sets the chap up nicely to become our record scorer against slightly more notable opponents next weekend.

The second half in general did see an improved performance, the general sense after the opener being that we were more likely to score again than concede. While an all-singing, all-dancing, multi-goal salvo would have been fun, safe negotiation of these early rounds is pretty much all that is needed.

(Not that any of this detracted from the giddy excitement of three younger members of the AANP clan, visiting from Australia of all places, to see their first ever Spurs game – a charming reminder of how the lifelong attachment begins.)