Tag: Brennan Johnson

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Spurs match reports

Newcastle 4-0 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Our Defending for the First Goal

Odd to say now, or course – hindsight and all that – but for a third or so of the game (the first of them, in case you were wondering) I thought our lot looked pretty sharp. Newcastle started the game bursting at the seams with vim and vigour, which was understandable enough, and in such instances history tells us that Spurs are as likely to wilt as to respond in kind. It was therefore a most pleasant surprise to note that our lot had signed up for the former rather than the latter, and were doing a solid line in giving as good as they got.

Newcastle hounded away with their high press; our lot craftily dodged their hounding and high pressing, specifically by skipping away from challenges and firing out passes with a becoming crispness. When Newcastle nabbed possession from us and countered at a healthy lick, our lot raced back at a lick of equal velocity, and nascent flames were duly extinguished. We even fashioned the best chance of that opening half hour, and the AANP verdict at the 30-or-so-minute mark was that, if not necessarily of the highest quality, this was nevertheless close-run and fun-filed cuisine.

Of course the whole bally thing turned on and its head and disappeared down the drain with those first two goals. At which point I pause to air a grievance, because a two-goal deficit, while undoubtedly representing the deuce of an incline up which to go trudging, was nevertheless far from insurmountable. Two-nil, I rather fancy, is one of those score-lines possessed of devilish quality, in that whomever nabs the next goal tends to load up on momentum for the remainder. As such, had our heroes applied themselves sufficiently to fashion a presentable chance between approximately minutes 30 and 50, I’d have fancied us to make a decent stab of things thereafter. To see them instead simply meander through, rather than putting their backs into it, and then give up altogether dash it, after conceding the third, set the blood boiling like nobody’s business.

Back to those two goals conceded, and if you were to ask at whom the finger of blame ought to be directed, I would ask how many digits you had going spare. Those on telly-box duty seemed determined to lay it pretty thick all over Van de Ven. One understood the gist of course, the fellow’s curious but futile struggles against gravity being particularly eye-catching, but I was inclined to wave him an excusing hand. Perhaps I am too generous here, but it seems to that falling over is a bit of an occupational hazard in his line of work, rather than indicative of any major footballing deficiency.

I suppose one might argue that VDV brought it upon himself by racing back to his post too quickly, thereby quite literally setting himself up for a fall should a swift change in direction be needed, but I still bat it away as one of those things.

More culpable to the AANP eye were Messrs Udogie and Romero. Taken in order, Udogie had a preliminary bout to sink his teeth into, as the ball was hoicked up to halfway, and he and Gordon exchanged a few pleasantries. Frankly, at this point, with the ball bobbling up to head height and three of lilywhite (or skin-coloured atrocity) persuasion covering two attackers, one’s eyes would have popped out of the head if informed that within ten seconds the ball would have been in our net. And in fact, Udogie seemed to have got to the root of the matter and emerged triumphant, placing self between ball and Gordon, and looking to the future with sunny optimism – only to then take a tumble to earth for no good reason and under minimal contact.

This glaring error having been brandished for the watching world, the situation had darkened, for sure, but was hardly forlorn. Romero and VDV were left staring at the whites of the eyes of Gordon and Isak, and one would have fancied the chances of the former duo. It was not necessary for our pair to make off with the ball and dash up t’other end to score; the remit was simply to prevent any immediate danger from flaring.

Why, then, Romero went charging towards VDV’s man absolutely maddens me. There was really no need. VDV’s man, as the label suggests, was being closely monitored by VDV; but off charged Romero, and it was the work of an instant for Gordon (for thus do the documents of ‘VDV’s man’ state his legal name) to slip the ball into Isak. At this this point VDV recovered the ground and then fell, prompting that chorus of censure from the television studio; but to my mind those around him were equally complicit.

2. Our Defending for the Second Goal

As for the second, VDV’s ongoing to-dust-thou-shalt-return routine understandably reinforced him as the poster-boy of our defensive failings, but the real villain of the piece was undoubtedly Pedro Porro whose bizarre intervention set the blasted thing in motion.

If the early chapters of that particular scandal have slipped your mind they dashed well haven’t slipped mine, the gist being that a wayward clearance from Vicario towards our right was nodded back in our direction by a Newcastle head, presenting Master Porro with what might reasonably be described as a task for the to-do list, but hardly anything more demanding than that. In short, he had to reach a ball bouncing near the right-wing before an incoming Newcastle chappie, which task he accomplished without issue. All that remained was to deposit the ball into a location of minimal risk.

As such, the world was his oyster. Pretty much everywhere was an option, and pretty much anywhere would have sufficed. The stands, the atmosphere, over his head and back up the line – even booting it further in front of him and out for a corner would have been an odd, but low-risk choice. The one thing he needed to avoid doing was fashion a way to deliver the ball towards his own goal and into the lap of an opposing forward; but given the abundance of better and easier choices available, such an eventuality hardly seemed worth mentioning.

And yet. For reasons that a crack team of psychologists would struggle to fathom, Porro looped the ball back over the head of not only the oncoming Newcastle johnnie but also of Cristian Romero, who had quietly snuck up to the action to keep an eye on things. If Porro were attempting to lob the ball directly to Romero, he deserves to have the offending limb amputated and tossed into a river for such woeful technique, for instead of dinking the ball he put such mileage upon it that Romero atop a step-ladder would have struggled to reach it. If Porro were attempting to lob the ball back to Vicario, he needs his brain removed and given a pretty thorough examination, because it was pretty obviously a route steeped in danger and lit by flashing lights and blaring sirens.

Whatever his rationale, the ball then landed in the path of that Gordon blighter, after which VDV promptly rolled out his new party-trick and hit the deck once more, and in the blink of an eye, and the delivery of three glaring defensive faux pas, we were two down.

3. Vicario’s Distribution

You may have noticed that in narrating the genesis of that second goal, I made mention of Vicario’s dubious distribution, and while such things as isolated incidents can be excused with little more than an arched eyebrow and gentle reprimand, with the acknowledgement that even Homer nods, their occurrence in every blasted passage of play seems to merit a less forgiving once-over.

For this was not Vicario’s finest hour and a half with ball at feet. Even acknowledging that Newcastle made things difficult, by virtue of their high, collective press, our resident last-line spent pretty much the entirety of the game pinging the ball exclusively to opponents, stationed at different coordinates on the pitch, whenever he looked beyond his own penalty area.

My eyes may deceive, I suppose, for I did not observe with pen and pad in hand, diligently noting each successful and unsuccessful pass; but then one does not need pen and pad to detect a certain rumminess manifesting. And the sense that Vicario’s distribution was stinking the place out emerged at some point relatively early during proceedings and lingered until the conclusion.

In mitigation, as mentioned, Newcastle pressed, and whenever one of our lot misplace a pass I am always inclined to subject his teammates to an enquiring eye, to ask whether they might have done more to make space; but as a man whose strength is supposed to lie in the art of picking passes from within his own penalty area and facilitating this play-from-the-back gubbins, Vicario seemed to go about it with the air of one completely new to the past-time.

4. Our Defending at Corners

Not for the first time – and if any other Premier League manager has their wits about them it dashed well won’t be the last time either – our defending at corners represented not so much a chink in the armour as an absolutely enormous gaping hole through which absolutely anyone was welcome to wander, make themselves at home and have a free pop at our goal, safe in the knowledge that their exploits would remain entirely unimpeded for the duration of their visit.

Remarkably, when we defend corners we often do so with literally every member of the squadron pulled back into the penalty area; and yet despite this, every single Newcastle corner swung into that same, densely-populated penalty area seemed to be met by an unchallenged Newcastle head. The laws of physics should simply not allow this happen, and yet it did so repeatedly.

It suggests that there is a pretty critical flaw at the heart of our zonal marking system, for if all ten of the outfield mob, plus goalkeeper, are failing, under the zonal system, to get their heads to the deliveries first, then some different zones ought to be explored and pronto.

The only surprise in all this was that it took Newcastle so long to score from a corner – they had racked up well over a dozen by the time they did. It was bad enough yesterday, but augurs appallingly for the future, our complete inability to deal with corners suggesting that the only solution will be to try not to concede any more of them between now and the end of the season.

5. Werner’s Finishing

It’s possible that none of the above would have been an issue if Timo Werner knew how to finish. But I suppose that’s akin to suggesting that we would have won if we’d been allowed twelve players and were facing a team of children, some of whom were blindfolded (no doubt they would still have posed a threat at corners). The reality is that Timo Werner is very much part of the fabric, and by virtue of his position, remit and willing, as often as not will pop up in key goalscoring positions, to unfurl new and scarcely believable ways to mangle perfectly presentable chances.

It should be repeated and with a spot of emphasis that he pops up in goalscoring positions. This is to be applauded, and probably would be, and with some feeling, if he didn’t then appear quite so incapable of controlling his limbs at the vital juncture. But inviting crosses require arriving forwards, and Werner has some talent in that regard, arriving on the end of crosses like the best of them.

However, his treatment of Brennan Johnson’s early cross summed up better than a whole multi-tome thesis ever could quite how aberrant his finishing is. With the ball arriving at head-height, and no opposing defender blotting the horizon with their presence, Werner somehow managed so splay his limbs in every conceivable direction – an arm pointing here, a leg over there, his head doing its best to wobble from its moorings – and tumbling into view in this fashion it is hardly surprising that he failed to apply the delicate touch needed. As if to hammer home quite what a tangle he had got himself into, he concluded the operation by blasting the ball so high that it may have travelled vertically rather than diagonally or horizontally.

Later on in the piece, while the game was still goalless, our lot produced a lovely slick move on the left (a move that contributed to my thinking, at 0-0, that this was one in which we were capable of getting our noses in front), which culminated in Maddison beating his man and cutting the ball back into the six-yard box. And there, again to his credit, lurked Werner, demonstrating once again that admirable ability to sniff out goalscoring opportunity.

Alas, once again, as sure as summer follows spring, Werner’s sniffing of opportunity was followed by Werner missing a presentable chance, and while it was probably more difficult than the earlier opportunity, one can nevertheless make the case that a chap who’s spent his whole life being drilled in the art of kicking a ball into the precise spot of his choosing ought to have steered the blasted thing on target.

Make no mistake, however, this defeat was not down to Timo Werner and his finishing. The whole lot were rotten to the core. For all its virtues and for whatever talent lurks within the constituent parts, the Postecoglou Operation is evidently one that requires a considerable amount of further work.

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Spurs match reports

West Ham 1-1 Spurs: Two Tottenham Talking Points

1. Winger to Winger

It only took eight months, but with Our Glorious Leader reasoning that right-footed chaps on the right and left-footed chaps on the left might be a ruse with something about it, within five minutes we had drawn blood.

Bentancur, Bissouma and Maddison as a midfield three might have attracted a murmur or two of respectful query, having possibly a little too mich of the neat and tidy, on an evening on which I imagined more of a need for blood and thunder, but as it turned out in the opening exchanges the trio were keen to showcase their very best. They simply passed their way around the other lot, and lilywhite eyes about the place promptly lit up.

Young Herr Werner was the early recipient of their impressive output, and here was where Ange’s masterplan really kicked in. He’s mumbled a few times about the value of one winger finishing a cross from t’other winger, but with someone like Kulusevski skulking about on the right one just had to sigh a long-suffering one and let the imagination do the rest.

Yesterday, however, was different. In Brennan Johnson we have a cove with the standard distribution of strengths and weaknesses; but crucially, in the former category falls the inclination to scurry into the penalty area towards the far post and have a nosey about the place. Why Kulusevski can never motivate himself to do this too is an odd one. Seems an easy win to me. Either the cross from afar never arrives, in which case no real harm done; or it does arrive, in which case one can lick the lips and treat oneself to one of the simpler moments of glory.

Anyway, Kulusevski may not be in the market for the all-you-can-eat buffet, strange chap, but young Johnson has demonstrated a few times this season an eagerness to be first in the queue. Last night, once Werner had taken possession on the right, Johnson was bobbing about the penalty area with all the childlike excitement of one about to be let loose in a sweetshop.

Werner’s cross was sufficient, and Johnson, having the presence of mind to rearrange his feet – a skill that ought not to be underrated when observing the troubles Sonny had in controlling the watered ball all night – was able to pop the treasured orb the requisite yard or two into the empty net.

A highly promising start we can all agree, and I saw no need to ration the stuff. If Werner and Johnson had spent the rest of the night squaring the ball across the goal for the other to tap in, I’d have applauded long into the night. In fairness, Johnson seemed game, and actually appeared set on repeating the routine every time he got hold of the ball – possibly overdoing it, the loveable young rascal – but out on the right Werner’s wings were strangely clipped, and he instead seemed content to keep to himself for the rest of the evening.

His prerogative I suppose, but it didn’t really benefit the cause, what? And irritatingly, with West Ham pulling back into the penalty area every man, woman and child, we struggled to find any other routes to goal.

2. Defending Corners

This being a school night, and AANP being a man of all sorts of solemn oaths and promises these days, there are but two bullet points on the agenda. This business of corners, however, and specifically the wild and petrified horror with which our entire collective greet them, is one worthy of a bit of contemplation and debate.

For a start, someone at base camp ought to sit the players down and explain to them clearly and slowly that when we concede a corner, what is subsequently lobbed into the area is not some sort of laser-guided missile but still the same old toy that they’ve so merrily been knocking around amongst themselves all game.

Which is to say that any one of the troupe would be perfectly within their rights to extend their frame and try to stick a head on it. Such behaviour, the instruction ought to continue, is allowed, and in fact heartily encouraged. Whether or not such quiet and soothing instruction would do the trick is debatable, but it strikes me as worth trying.

I’m also rather perturbed by the positional approach adopted by our lot. ‘Zonal’ I suppose one would call it. The priority appears to be adopt a spot of turf and dashed well stick to it, no matter where the opposition blighters scuttle off to. One admires their discipline of course. Come hell or high water, our heroes will not be moved. But if a West Ham body positions himself a yard in front of one of our lot, one would think that common sense might kick in, and they’d consider it the sort of exceptional circumstance in which a spot of deviation would be just the thing.

On top of which, young Vicario still fails to instil any confidence in these situations. Mightily accomplished in the art of shot-stopping, and supremely confident in passing out from the back, he withers and shrivels once the ball is placed on the corner quadrant, routinely finding himself bullied by great lumbering opposition oafs, and flapping at the incoming cross with all the timidity of a newborn foal. I was rather shocked when right at the death last night he actually emerged from the crowd to make decent contact on an incoming corner, and fist it beyond the area.

It was maddening stuff, because corners (and our mistakes) aside West Ham offered nothing going forward, yet each corner they were awarded felt like a moment of impending doom. Nor is it the first time we’ve had to sit through this rot, and one can bet every last penny that there will be more of it to come. One doubts that the personnel will change too drastically from one game to the next, or even from this season into next, which means that somehow or other the current lot will have to magic up some solutions, and pronto.


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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-1 Luton: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Kulusevski On The Right…

That AANP reacts to Kulusevski’s deployment on the left by burying his head in his hands and noiselessly weeping is a well-known truth, and just to hammer home its salient points the Swede kindly offered a live-action example of precisely its ills, within the first two minutes on Saturday.

He picked up the ball on the right and went a-galloping, at a steady lick if not exactly breakneck speed, and by the time he reached the right-hand corner of the area all observers of lilywhite persuasion were fairly united in the view that here was a position of some promise.

At this point, as sure as night follows day, Kulusevski could be relied upon to cut inside on his left foot and make a hash of the main course, and he duly obliged. The cut-back brought a sigh, accepted as just one of those crosses one has to bear, but it need not necessarily have liquidated the attack. What happened next, however, absolutely stamped as a certainty the misdeeds that are brought by Kulusevski on the right.

Not only did he aim a pass to precisely no-one in lilywhite, using his position of opportunity to place the ball behind rather than into the path of the advancing Son, but the resulting loss of possession – as Sonny scrambled unsuccessfully to redeem things and Luton hared away with it – led of all things to a goal for the other lot. Townsend scuttled up the right, and before one could mutter, “But a moment ago this was our goalscoring opportunity, dash it!” Luton had the ball in our net.

This is not to suggest that the goal conceded was down to Kulusevski (although if The Brains Trust were to recommend ‘Nipping Things In The Bud’ as his bedtime reading for this week they’d have my vote), but more to emphasise that a fellow of his undoubted substance is frittering away his talents out on the right.

And frankly the man himself seemed to be at pains to emphasise that he is rather wasted on the right, by doing all his best work when he cut infield. Cast the mind back to the presentable one-on-one that Havertz put wide midway through the first half, and the glorious pass that released him emanated from Kulusevski wandering infield towards more central regions.

2. …vs Johnson On The right

Of course one hesitates to suggest that Big Ange asked himself at half-time what might AANP be thinking, and acted accordingly – modesty forbidding and all that – but the evidence is pretty overwhelming. Come the second 45 the concept of Kulusevski on the right had disappeared into the North London atmosphere, and Brennan Johnson was added to the cast list. Had an interested observer looked carefully they would surely have noted A.P. desperately trying to catch the AANP eye for approval.

The switch was made to considerable effect. Being an old-fashioned sort, AANP considers that a little too much fuss is made about the concept of Assists, there being a heck of a lot more to any half-decent attacker than his Assist count; but nevertheless, Johnson topped off a pretty sprightly 45 minutes with assists for both goals. That he did so was as a result of his repeated ability to hare off down the right in a puff of smoke, leaving Luton’s left-sided pack scrambling in his wake (credit here to supporting cast members, notably Pedro Porro, for doing much of the spadework that sprung Johnson from his traps).

Having been thusly unshackled Johnson did not waste too much time dwelling upon his options, adopting the principle that straight lines have a lot going for them and accordingly sprinting the shortest distance between two points before smacking the ball towards the far post. And thereafter, the second principle adopted by Johnson seemed to be that if it worked once it was worth trying again, and Luton seemed pretty powerless to stop him.

Hardly rocket science, but it’s worth noting that a pretty integral element of Johnson’s success was the fact that having sprinted free he didn’t go in for any of that meandering fluff about cutting back onto his left, instead just blasting in a low right-footed cross while Luton players were still rushing back to their posts. Put another way, at the crucial juncture Johnson opted for an approach that was about as far removed from Kulusevski as one could be, and it was markedly more successful.

On top of which, I’m rather a fan of Johnson’s predilection for tiptoeing into the area when attacks emanate down the left, with a view to flying in for a far-post tap-in – another element oddly lacking from Kulusevski’s game.  

None of which is to suggest that Johnson is necessarily a better player than Kulusevski, or a nicer chap about the place or anything like that; but yesterday at least, the deployment of a pacy right-footer on the right wing was far more effective than the use of Kulusevski and his adored left foot. The question of where Our Glorious Leader goes from here, in selecting his next XI, and particularly his right-sided attacker, adds a gentle frisson of excitement to the coming days.

3. Classic Timo Werner

No doubt about it, Timo Werner is as curious a little eel as they come. He somehow managed to cram all his classic elements into one single performance yesterday, and I rather fancy that when he tucked into his post-match sauerkraut last night he himself would have been scratching the old loaf wondering whether his performance went down as a Yay or a Nay.

In the early stage I was impressed by his willingness to cut inside and worm his way into the heart of the Luton back-line, a spirit of adventure that I thought boded well, and had me looking forward to an afternoon of inroads on the left. I was a little disappointed therefore to note that thereafter he rather lost interest in that particular route, opting for the vastly more conventional approach of trying to outpace his man down the wing, and finding himself up against a pretty stubborn sort in that Kabore chap.

In Werner’s defence, our complete absence of any useful build-up play in the first half didn’t help his cause. Any good we produced in the first 45 seemed to come from pressing high and winning the ball in the final third, rather than any particular ingenuity from deep. An exception was the pass from deep from Kulusevski, alluded to earlier, which set Werner free to have a run at the Luton goal. I suspect that when he blew out the candles on his last birthday, Werner wished for someone to play the ball into his path from deep, allowing him to sprint onto it from the halfway line, because few situations better showcase his standout talent.

This, of course, is the talent for covering 20 yards in a blur of movement. Putting aside for the moment, the issue of what happens once the sprinting is done and life’s serious decisions creep up, when what is required is transiting from halfway to the penalty area with minimal fuss, Werner is up there with the best of them. I would hand over a decent portion of the weekly packet to see Werner, Van de Ven and Johnson duke it out over 60 metres or so.

And in fact, having ticked the ‘Sprint’ box in exemplary fashion, Werner then negotiated the second chapter with admirable skill, sending that Kabore chap this way and that, thereby creating room for his shot.

However, as has been well documented, this is where Werner really ought to have been directing those birthday wishes, because he somehow makes the job of manoeuvring the ball from his feet to the net look like the most complex operation in human history. Needless to say, after careful consideration, he deposited the ball a few inches wide of the target, and one just didn’t really see much point in chiding the fellow because he seems so pathologically incapable of depositing the ball anywhere else.

Which is not to say that he adds no value; far from it. As mentioned, this was a 90-minute package of every element of Werner’s game, and his role in our equaliser ought not to be understated. Johnson and Porro deserve tidy salutes for fashioning the chance, but when the ball was whizzed across the face of goal there arose a legal obligation for someone in lilywhite to come piling in at the far post, and Werner clearly knew his onions. Fortunately, however, he was spared the indignity of blasting the ball over from about two yards by that Kabore chap, upon whom Werner’s close attentions and whispered promises proved irresistible, forcing him to pop the ball home in a manner that Werner can presumably only dream of.

It’s not the first time our heroes have profited by one winger crossing for another, and even though the minutes of the occasion record it as an own goal, the value of Werner was there for all to see.

And to round things off he also played a critical role in the winner, providing assistance to Sonny on the counter-attack to great effect, first in carrying the ball from halfway to penalty area, as Luton backtracked furiously from their own corner, before getting his cross past good old Kabore and into the thick of things in the area, from which vicinity Johnson and Son tidied up.

So his usual mixed bag, but Werner certainly fits the system and contributes to the fun, in his own unique and loveable way. Another of Big Ange’s decisions in the coming weeks will presumably be whether to continue with him out on the left, or shove Sonny there instead, with Richarlison up top.

On a final note, I’m not sure I’ve ever witnessed two efforts in the same game roll across the goal-line without crossing it; but any inclination to bemoan our luck in those instances was neatly offset by the fact that both our goals featured generous dollops of luck the other way, comprising as they did an own goal and a hefty deflection. All such gifts gratefully accepted.

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Spurs match reports

Villa 0-4 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Kulusevski: The Bad

AANP pens a spot of fiction, don’t you know, and a key piece of advice that the experts like to hammer home in that area is to make sure the characters have a bit about them to make you think. Both positives and negatives, I mean. Elements of good, elements of bad. Stops the reader dozing off apparently – and if I ever need a spot of inspiration for this sort of thing, I would need to look no further than Dejan Kulusevski’s 98 or so this afternoon, he managing to mingle the positives with the negatives like an absolute pro.

If you’ve passed this way before you’ll know that the AANP opinion of Kulusevski, while not exactly having plummeted, has entered something of a troubling downward trajectory in recent weeks. Broadly, I remain a fan – all things being equal, one would rather a world in which the honest soul were part of the lilywhite fabric than not – but poke around beneath the headlines and really get into the meat of the thing, and, no doubt about it, the eyebrow starts to twitch in a northerly direction.

The issue, as I’ve blathered on about interminably in recent weeks, is his output in the final third. Receive the ball on or around the right-hand corner of the area, and up there with death and taxes is the fellow’s propensity to chop back onto his left. Which would be an absolute triumph, and the sort of manoeuvre I’d laud to the heavens, if it were a guaranteed winner. As it was in his first six months or so after joining, in fact. Back in those halcyon days the chap couldn’t set foot on the pitch without following up the chop-back-onto-left routine by curling a shot into the far corner or picking out an onrushing striker.

These days, however, Kulusevski chopping back onto his left foot is the cue, as sure as night follows day, either for a shot to waft off amongst the paying public in the lower tiers, or some specimen of output – cross or shot, they blend into one – to thud against an opposing limb and bounce away harmlessly. It happened a couple of times in the first half, and the air at AANP Towers was thick with the deepest exasperation.

However, to dismiss Kulusevski solely on the grounds of his activity when just outside the penalty area would be to do him something of a disservice. Granted, in that vicinity he’ll elicit in the onlooker the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until his insides jangle; but station him as the attacking outlet inside his own half and on the right, and his value suddenly soars.

2. Kulusevski: The Good

Essentially, when it comes to playing out from the back, if the first stage of the campaign has been delivered – viz., transferring the precious cargo from Vicario to one or other of the Back Four through some slick first-time passing – then when Porro or whomever plant the ball at Kulusevski’s feet, still inside his own half, the energetic young cad suddenly comes alive.

And evidence of this was provided in our pretty critical opening goal. Kulusevski was shoved the ball by Romero, and, after a spot of admin, played a neat one-two with Porro, receiving the ball back from PP with his head up and the old compass pointing north. At this point, for clarity, he was still inside his own half. What followed was what I like to think of as the principal value that Kulusevski adds to the entire operation: he ran forward five yards to the halfway line with ball at feet, and then biffed it past a couple of Villa sorts and into the path of Sarr, in a great swathe of open greenery.

Now I appreciate that it might not sound much in practical terms, but the effect of this sort of input is to transform what you might call A Spot Of Bother (i.e. trying to play out from the back while under pressure from the opposition, facing one’s own goal and whatnot) into A Sudden Attacking Burst. In particular, Kulusevski’s knack for knocking the ball past a defender both near halfway and facing the wrong way has a solid history of bringing home the bacon. Whether he himself runs onto his own forward thrust, or a teammate takes up the baton, it’s a pretty reliable means of our heroes suddenly springing into life and, essentially, counter-attacking.

This is, of course, a very specific skillset, and accordingly requires a pretty specific set of conditions, not least that the opposition happen to be defending high up the pitch, around halfway, attempting to press our lot. And I suppose this is partly why Kulusevski has appeared so toothless in recent weeks. Most recent opponents have defended near their own area, thereby negating his particular adeptness in the field of springing a counter-attack from inside his own half. The circumstance just doesn’t arise.

Anyway, Sarr ran onto Kulusevski’s pass and effected the rest with the same outstanding quality that was sprinkled on his every contribution throughout; and AANP rather grudgingly admitted the value of Kulusevski’s input.

And wouldn’t you know it, barely had the cheers died in our throats than Kulusevski was at it again. Whether it was specifically to make a mockery of my first half critique, or whether it was simply because he saw an opportunity to nab possession from a Villa man high up the pitch I guess we’ll never know; but nab he did, like the very best of them, leaping into action while the Villa chap miscontrolled and gawped.

Not only did Kulusevski nab, but in doing so he also rather neatly managed to pop the ball straight to the waiting Sonny. I suspect that when he lies on his deathbed several decades hence and spills the beans on his deepest secrets, Kulusevski might admit that the pass to Son was actually unintended, if serendipitous, and that all he had meant was a spot of high-class nabbing. It mattered not. The sum of the thing was that Sonny collected it, and rolled it along to young Johnson, who was pleasingly clinical.

Again, being the humble and gracious sort, AANP dished out some of that grudging applause; but, unbelievably, the Kulusevski masterclass wasn’t finished there, as in injury time he popped up to set up Sonny for his goal.

I think the records really ought to show that Kulusevski did, in the intervening period, also pickle a few pretty promising situations – in the final third, inevitably – but nevertheless, come added time he absolutely nailed his delivery. I noted with interest that he did not actually bother with the old chop-back-onto-his-left-clog routine, breaking the habit of a lifetime perhaps because we were two up against ten men in added time, and if one cannot let one’s hair down in that circumstance than when can one?

Controversially, he instead fired in his pass with his right foot, and in what I hope will be a moment that is analysed and pored over for hours by The Brains Trust, the decision to do so, before the defence had themselves organised, immediately struck oil. Son hit it like a tracer bullet, and off we romped.

3. Johnson

Ahead of kick-off, on casting the critical eye over the teamsheet I had actually wondered if Kulusevski might start on the left and young Johnson on the right. Call me old-fashioned, but I rather like the idea of wingers being stationed on the side that allows them to stay on their stronger foot, and plough ahead to the byline.

Such decades-old thinking was obviously laughed out of town by Our Glorious Leader, who instead stuck to the terribly new-fangled way of things and popped the right-footed Johnson on the left. On observing this, I chuntered away a bit, envisaging countless scenarios in which Johnson did the hard work, beat his man, created an opportunity – and then cut back onto his right.

As it happened, however, Johnson was rather lively, in the first half in particular, when the general way of things was so moribund that any hint of liveliness stood out for miles like a beacon. To his credit, he did not give the impression of being overly inhibited by his new station, admittedly having to check onto his right foot more often than not, but seeing these moments as opportunities rather than challenges, and doing a solid job of keeping momentum ticking over by finding chums infield, rather than giving it one-eighty degrees and rolling the ball backwards.

He did, on occasion, also try his luck on the outside and using his left foot, although perhaps more to keep Matty Cash Booo on his toes rather than for guarantee of success.

It was the sort of performance that would elicit a polite ripple of applause, and I was rather pleased for the young egg when he tucked away his goal, given that the knives have been out for him at various points this season. (A propos his goal, a word of commendation to Sonny, who had the presence of his mind to roll the pass slightly behind Johnson, so as to allow the latter to shoot with his favoured right, rather than rolling the pass into his path, as convention might have dictated, which would have forced Johnson to roll the dice somewhat and swing with his left.)

4. Angeball vs Ten Men

If the final half hour taught us anything it was that Angeball is quite a lark when pinged about against ten men. When I put this theory to my Spurs-supporting chum Mark, he made the fairly reasonable point that few teams are likely to oblige us by taking to the pitch with ten, but nevertheless, the whole system of running rings zippy little triangles around the opposition is evidently a tad easier when there is one fewer amongst the opposition number. Angeball against a team with a two-goal deficit leaves the odds stacked in our favour, as they leave gaps behind them; Angeball against all of the above and with an additional pair of legs is pretty much a fait accompli.

Dave, another of the Spurs-supporting fraternity, made another valid point when he drew attention to the nasty jar received each time Villa attacked, for even when two up against ten men, once our lot lost possession one was inclined to descend into blind panic at the fact that our heroes still somehow left themselves 2 vs 2 at the back.

In general, however, it was a pretty serene half hour, once the opening goals had gone in and that thuggish Villa sort had gone off. Our lot kept possession well, slowing things down as appropriate, but also picking judiciously their moments to burst into life.

It was not really an outcome I’d have envisaged after the first half, in which Villa oddly descended into some pretty agricultural stuff – sitting deep and punting long – and our heroes laboured away with precious little reward. Moreover, I suspect was not the only lilyhwhite fearing the worst at the sight of poor old VDV hobbling off, having yet again demonstrated his value as a blur of legs covering for others’ mistakes. (A brief tip of the cap to young Dragusin, who dealt with everything thrown his way with minimal fuss.)

So it was to the credit of all involved that in a game upon which so much was riding, our lot absolutely cantered home. Fourth is of course far from a done deal, but the ominous prospect of an eight-point gap to Villa has been swatted aside, and for good measure a goal difference deficit of six has turned into an advantage of two, in the blink of an eye.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Palace: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Vicario’s Error

A chiding is due of young Signor Vicario. This is quite the rarity, as the loveable imp tends to do far more right than wrong in the cause, but I fancy he dropped a rather large one yesterday, for the Palace goal.

It was the way in which he set up the wall – or, more specifically, the location in which he set up the wall. Put squarely, he popped the damn thing in the wrong place. Or perhaps he put the wall in the right place but then positioned himself in the wrong place. Either way, neither he nor wall were covering the great big yawning gap to the left (as he looked) of his goal.

It was awfully rummy stuff. Akin, it seemed to me, to a builder constructing a roof but leaving a hole of considerable diameter in one corner of it, possibly on the grounds that he didn’t anticipate any rain falling in that spot.

Anyway, whatever the reason, that lad Eze’s eyes almost popped out of his head, and he simply drilled the ball into the vacant spot. I read variously on some of the media outlets that he scored a ‘terrific’ free-kick and other such rot. This, to be clear, is tosh. It was not a terrific free-kick, the fellow did not even not to curl the dashed thing, or bother with lifting it up over the wall and back down again, or any of the other intricacies and technicalities that tend to make well-taken free-kicks stand out as things of beauty. Eze simply needed to kick the ball in a straight line, which for a professional footballer is many things, but certainly not ‘terrific’.

For Vicario, however, it was a moment of ignominy, and might have cost us pretty dearly. Whatever the Italian is for ‘Tut tut’, this needs to be communicated to the fellow as a matter of absolute urgency.

2. Werner

That Werner fellow makes one scratch the head a bit, what? Difficult to know what to make of him at times, I mean. He has my full backing, of course, and never shirks his duties, and is no slouch over ten yards, and so on. Crucially, however, he also makes me tear my hair out, howling to the sky and cursing his entire lineage. So two sides to the coin, you might say.

The standout moments yesterday involved a goal not scored and a goal scored. There was all the other usual Werner guff of course, for those of us playing Werner Bingo – the straightforward ability to outpace his full-back even with ball at feet; the occasional cross that sailed into the stands; the tendency to suck momentum out of an attack by turning backwards to receive the ball and then passing it backwards instead of gathering it and galloping – but there were two particular highlights to his 1st March showreel.

Firstly, the miss, which, within the category of the things was rather a corker. Too much time, I suspect was his problem, given that he actually began the operation inside his own half. It all started pretty promisingly, the fact that he set off from inside his own half meaning that one could wave a derisory hand at the linesman and yell, ‘Fie to offside!’ while scuttling off towards goal. This Werner achieved with minimal fuss.

And on the matter of relocating from halfway line to shooting distance, the young cove seemed similarly inclined to dispense with pomp and ceremony, and more in the mood for getting down to brass tacks. “The penalty area, and schnell!” appeared to be his logic, and I was all in favour.

At this point most neutral onlookers would have observed that all was going pretty swimmingly. The decision to take a touch that sent him on a more central route, rather than maintaining his inside-left course, struck me as intrepid, and possibly a little unnecessary, but I was inclined to defer to his superior experience in such matters. “He knows what he’s doing,” muttered the AANP internal voice, in an attempt at self-reassurance. “Probably a right-footed gambit.”

At that point, however, Werner started to stray from the script, and without really knowing where he was going to end up. A spot of improv is all well and good, as long as one has a vague idea of what one wants to achieve by the time the curtain comes down. Unfortunately, one started to get the idea that Werner was instead banking on the notion that things would probably take care of themselves and he could just tag along for the ride. He took another touch to the right, and what had looked like a pretty straightforward shooting opportunity now adopted a rather unnecessary layer of complication. Where a moment earlier all options were on the table, the clueless nib had now backed himself into something of a corner, with only one real option: round the ‘keeper.

The problem with this was that the ‘keeper was by now also privy to the masterplan. In fact, all of us were. Werner knew he had to round the ‘keeper, but the ‘keeper also knew that Werner had to round the ‘keeper, and in those sorts of situations – well, everyone just sort of cancels out everyone else, and the whole thing becomes a bit of a damp squib.

Which was exactly what happened, leaving us all to recall those grim warnings upon his arrival that for all his many talents, Timo Werner cannot score.

The truth of this statement seemed pretty undeniable, but the second half brought to our attention the caveat, penned in the tiniest font imaginable, that actually Timo Werner can score – if given an open goal from about five yards and without the luxury of time to overthink the bally thing.

Johnson squared it, Werner banged it in and a solution duly presented itself: Werner can score by the hatful, as long as his chances are presented at point-blank range and requiring only one touch.

(By the by, I suspect I was not the only one who chortled gaily to themselves on witnessing how Sonny dealt with his Werner-esque chance, just banging the ball home as if it were the easiest thing in the world).

3. Van de Ven

Slightly odd to say in a match in which our goal was under pretty minimal pressure, but Van de Ven struck me as head and shoulders above the rest yesterday. Although perhaps the very fact that our goal was under minimal pressure could itself be deemed Exhibit A in the case for VDV’s outstanding contributions, for the magnificent young squirt managed to extinguish every Palace attack at source and single-handedly.

Any sort of dubious circumstance, whether caused by him, by a teammate or landed upon us by a spot of Palace counter-attacking, was instantly quelled by VDV putting his head down and absolutely storming out of the blocks. As such, Palace attacks barely merited the name, they being cut short by VDV typically before they had advanced to within 40 yards of our goal.

These heroics appear not to come without a price, as at least once a game – and two or three times yesterday – he seems to go to ground with an anguished yelp and the crestfallen look of a man realising that a valued limb is about to fall off. If such moments cause him pain he should spare a thought for his legions of onlookers, because each time he collapses in such fashion the AANP heart skips a good beat or two.

He got through proceedings relatively unscathed, however, and while his presence alone hardly guarantees our imperviousness to counter-attacking danger, he does a jolly good job of things on that front.

4. Another Slog

The three points were vital, and the 3-1 scoreline looks straightforward enough – and indeed, it was peculiarly comfortable to see out the final ten or so plus stoppage time with relative ease, rather than clinging on for dear life or – worse – desperately trying to magic a goal out of thin air.

Nevertheless, whichever bright spark came up with that “All’s well that ends well” gag was rather stealing a living in my book, because the first half was another illustration of a certain bluntness in our play. The only chances we created stemmed from pinching possession in our own half and counter-attacking. Of chances created against the defensive 11 there were none.

A slight improvement came about in the second half at least, although I confess to lacking the technical nous to understand whether this was due to an improvement on our part or a more advanced setup on Palace’s, which perhaps left more room behind them.

Either way, in the second half Werner seemed to have more joy against his full-back, and Maddison started to show the odd glimpse of a return to his pre-injury form, one or two shrewd diagonals missing their mark by a whisker. (Good also to see his quick thinking and impeccable technique in creating our second, for Romero.)

I confess to giving the forehead a few extra creases when Johnson was introduced. I have no problem with the chap himself, but he was deployed seemingly to act as a second right-winger, in addition to Kulusevski, a tactical innovation that threatened to make my head explode. As it happened, however, whatever the hell it was it worked a treat, as it was Johnson’s honest beavering on the right that created our long-awaited first goal, so I suppose Our Glorious Leader is due the approving nod for that one.

All told, however, that joyless first half continues to eat away at me. The challenge of sides that sit deep en masse is not one we will have to face every week – Villa away next week, for example, will be a pretty different kettle of fish – but the moments of attacking inspiration for games such as these still seem a little thin on the ground.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-1 Brighton: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Maddison as Vicario’s Bodyguard

Easy to forget amidst all the joyous bedlam of full-time, but one of the burning questions going into this one was around the thorny issue of Vicario receiving more of the rough stuff at corners, and the ploy devised by Our Glorious Leader to negate such dastardly acts.

We didn’t have to wait too long to see the fruits of such planning, with Vicario being assigned his own personal bodyguard at corners, evidently tasked with inserting self in between goalkeeper and opposing, interfering forward. In a world in which meaty specimens such as Romero and Udogie and Richarlison lurk about the premises, I have to confess to raising a slightly alarmed eyebrow upon discovering that the identity of Vicario’s saviour was to be one J. Maddison Esq.

Now in a sense this added up. Heavyweights such as the aforementioned presumably already had their own important duties to carry out at corners; while Maddison comes across as the willing sort, always happy to take on an additional task that will help the collective, and even more so if it’s a high-profile little number.

On the other hand, however, there’s the delicate issue of what one might politely term ‘Suitability for the Role’. Putting it delicately, Maddison’s is not a physique of pure, unadulterated brawn and sinew. If I were to request, from an agency that handled such things, the services of a bit of muscle to protect me from harm of an evening, I’d be pretty cheesed off if they sent James Maddison my way, and would probably send him straight back and demand a refund. Of the entire squad, I imagine that only the wisp-like Bryan Gil would have any difficulty in shoving aside Maddison in any form of physical combat.

Nevertheless, it was better than the alternative, of simply allowing whichever forward (Welbeck yesterday, I think) an unhindered run at Vicario to flap in his face and barge him around as he pleased. And one might reasonably argue that the proof of the pudding was in the fact that Vicario being forced into errors at corners simply was not an issue yesterday, as it had been in previous games. (Although the caveat here is that Brighton’s delivery from corners was not so accurate as to put him under proper scrutiny.) Certainly, Maddison got into the spirit of the thing, all bravado and tugging and pulling each time the principals set themselves for a corner.

So a solution of sorts, but I do consider that a more rigorous test of this scheme, and Maddison’s abilities in the area of personal security, could be yet to come.

2. Not Quite At The Races

Is it just me or does every outing of the Good Ship Hotspur end in some dramatic stoppage-time goal, one way or the other? It certainly feels that way, to the extent that if one of our games finished 5-3 but with all scoring wrapped up by the 80th minute, I’d probably slope away in a bit of a mood, grumbling about not having received my money’s worth.

Anyway, whichever soul launched the gag about all being well that ends well certainly hit the bullseye yesterday, and I blush to admit that I rather lost my sense of propriety when Johnson popped up at the end, bounding about the place like one possessed, truth be told. All of which was well and good, and pretty much captures why we make the weekly pilgrimage in the first place; but it did also paper over the fact that this was a slightly squiffy sort of showing from our heroes.

The dubious tone was set within the first 30 second when young VDV, normally the sort of egg upon whom you’d bet your mortgage as well as the life of your least-favoured child, oddly floundered, losing his bearings, his sight of the ball and his understanding of gravity. Under minimal pressure he tripped over himself and into a little heap, allowing Welbeck to race off and send an early greeting Vicario’s way.

VDV was at it again for the penalty, dipping a foot into a spot he ought to have avoided; an episode that had its genesis in Bentancur miscalculating pretty significantly and being hustled off the ball on the edge of his own area. Bentancur was perhaps the poster-boy for the day’s travails, occasionally delivering his trademark wriggle from trouble, but too often caught dwelling in possession and failing to provide the steady hand to which we’ve become accustomed.

To be clear, however, this was not a case of VDV and Bentancur alone being at the heart of our troubles. Most in lilywhite seemed a little undercooked. Take Udogie, for example. Strangely muted, no? Vicario at one point ill-advisedly underarmed the ball to Bentancur in a most precarious spot; and so on.

Being a gracious sort, I can grudgingly admit that a lot of our under-performing was down to Brighton, whose high-press was pretty snappy, and whose short passing was at times terrific. In fact, the whole thing struck me as what would happen if our heroes played against themselves in one of those shiny computer games with fancy graphics.

Whatever the reason, for the first twenty or so, our lot were comfortably second best; and while we got back on top in the latter part of the first half, this owed as much to pressing high and turning over possession as to any particular guile in our build-up play. Following ingestion of the half-time victuals, our lot hit first gear for a good 25 minutes or so, which looked like it would bring a lot more that just the equaliser, and I confess that at that point I settled back into my seat with a rather smug sense of anticipation; only for our lot to lose their way again, and end up rather clinging on as the clock struck 90. A strange old knocking from our heroes, then.

3. Richarlison

Richarlison was another who didn’t quite hit the right notes, until he eventually did circa minute 96.

His first half miss when clean through (doff of the cap to Maddison for the pass, by the by) was pretty unforgiveable. One can bleat away all day about the goalkeeper spreading himself and whatever else, but that was about as straightforward as chances come, and a chap in his current form ought to have crossed t’s and dotted i’s with minimal fuss.

He delivered similar rot when given the opportunity to tee up Maddison for a straightforward finish, again before half-time. Admittedly that was a pass that required a tad more timing and weighting, but nevertheless it ought not to have been beyond a fellow  whose juices have been flowing like his in the last six weeks or so.

It was a curious performance from Richarlison, because it was not one of those in which he skulked about the place like a moody teen, or wobbled unconvincingly, beset by a critical absence of confidence. He seemed right as rain in matters of the head, full of confidence and positivity. He just failed to deliver at the critical moments – until the finale.

At that point, he did a cracking job, delivering his lines to perfection. His pass for Son looked simple enough, but had he played it with any greater or lesser force Sonny would probably have had to break his stride – or strayed offside – and we’d all be grumbling about another drawn game we should have won. Instead, Richarlison (having been involved in the earlier build-up too), picked his moment and weighted his pass, and AANP duly forgave his earlier transgressions.

4. The Winning Goal

While Richarlison’s minor but critical role receives a light ovation from these parts, I’m inclined to shove the Best Supporting Actor trophy towards Sonny. One can take it for granted, but there aren’t too many nibs around who can go flying off at that sort of pace. His timing had to be on the money too, to stay onside, but mercifully the chap was fully alert to the situation, and crammed the best of all worlds into one single package – staying onside whilst building up a sufficient head of steam to outpace his opposing defender pretty comfortably.

There then followed the most critical part of the operation, viz. delivery of the pass. We could all see it, of course – and being the helpful sort, AANP took the opportunity to scream at the blighter a pithy but accurate instruction as to what was needed at this juncture – but it’s one thing seeing, and a different kettle of fish actually doing.

Mercifully, Son delivered to the millimetre. There was no messing around with additional touches, or considerations of taking it on himself, or any such nonsense. Son pinged the pass first-time, with a spot of curl to evade the stretching Estupinan, leaving Johnson with a pretty straightforward mission from 5 yards.

Johnson, as is well known, has attracted a decent amount of opprobrium over the months, principally for his delivery of a final ball, but if he excels in one area it is in understanding the value of arriving at the back post when potential is bubbling away on the opposite flank. He does it better than most of the others in our ranks, and there is something particularly pleasing about seeing a goal created by one wide attacker to be executed the other. If Son deserves credit for his burst of pace on the left, Johnson ought also to be lauded for acting similarly on the right – for all his attributes I’m not sure Kulusevski would have eaten up those yards.

For one horrific moment I did actually think that Johnson had managed to blast the ball over the bar, but the lad had the good sense not to lash at the thing, and the happy ending was safely tucked away.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-2 Brentford: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Udogie

Not unusually for our lot this was a performance high on action and low on plot, the chaotic whole perhaps best represented by the various triumphs and misadventures of Destiny Udogie.

Taking things on a scale of Ripping to Ghastly, Udogie’s attacking inputs were productive and bountiful. There was more to it than just his goals: in the opening fifteen minutes or so, when we looked a good bet for the usual early salvo, Udogie was one of those at the forefront of the intricate pass-and-move stuff being furiously marketed.

Naturally, however, his role in our goals attracts the eye, and for both our first and third he was front and centre, albeit slightly off to the left.

Having laboured for so much of the first half against a deep-set and heavily fortified Brentford defence, I’m not quite sure how it came to pass in the first ten minutes of the second half that we kept catching them out of position, undermanned and generally disorganised and tripping over one another, but there we were. Gift-horses and all that.

And given this situation Udogie set about them with the relish of one who had elbowed his way to the front of the queue and could barely wait to be let loose. Udogie on the charge really is one of the finer sights in nature, a terrific combination of pace, technique, awareness, muscle and other wholesome stuff. When the call goes out for volunteers to stop the man in his tracks I can assure you that AANP would keep his head down and surreptitiously shuffle off into the background, and the Brentford mob similarly seemed not really to relish the fight.

For both our first and third goals, the marvellous specimen collected the ball around halfway and motored off towards the penalty area. For the first, having got this far and popped the thing off to Werner, he did not ease off with the air of one content with his night’s work and ready for a spot of refreshment, but treated the job as very much half-done and carried on sprinting. No doubt he benefited from a spot of bright and breezy fortune at that point – Brentford legs converging and the ball rebounding pretty kindly for him – but when one exhibits so many of the critical traits of an unstoppable force of nature, I tend to think that one earns a spot of luck.

And then, being one of those eggs who lives by the principle that if a thing works once it might as well be milked for a few more helpings of the good stuff, seven minutes later he set off on the charge again, sticking to the same geographical route – halfway line, left off centre – and opting to release the ball at pretty much the same moment.

At this point he did deviate from the blueprint, but it proved a strong choice, opting not to pass left to Werner but instead threading a pretty precise little number into Maddison in the penalty area, where further riches were to follow.

So three cheers for Udogie when gripped by the urge to make merry in the Brentford half; but by golly he did leave a trail of catastrophe behind him. In the first place the Brentford opener had at its genesis his misdirected pass on halfway. Under no pressure and with pretty much the entire cast list to aim at, it was careless in the extreme, what the racket-wielding folk refer to as an unforced error.

There is a sense in which that mistake for the first was considerably worse than that for the second, as the first was the sort you’d file under ‘Poor Play’, while the second seemed more along the lines of ‘Failing to Spot A Camouflaged Opponent’, which let’s face it, is one of the more unique categories around and not the sort of eventuality for which one trains.

Anyway, fail to spot him he did, and what ought to have been a bit of a cakewalk turned into the classic Nervous Final 20 At The Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. All’s well that ends well of course, and young Signor Udogie remains a particular favourite around these parts, but the urge to load up, take careful aim and fire into our own feet remains bizarrely strong around the on-field practitioners of N17.

2. The Defence in General

Udogie may have stolen the limelight when it came to knuckle-headed decisions, but watching Brentford repeatedly stroll unaccompanied through our half of the pitch and right up into our penalty area, in the first half, did reiterate that nagging sensation at AANP Towers that something might not be quite right with our defence.

As individuals, each of VDV, Romero, Porro and Udogie are top-notch, bursting at the seams with all manner of qualities. However, shove them together and instruct them to Angeball for an hour and a half, and they pretty swiftly degenerate into a quartet of drunks unclear what sport they are playing.

I suppose part of the challenge is Our Glorious Leader’s instructions, which seem to be along the lines that when one of the quartet is in possession, at least two of the others ought to leave their designated posts and go find some space elsewhere. To call this laden with risk is to understate the thing. It only takes one casually misplaced pass, a la Udogie last night and the opposition is away, with half a pitch to gallop into unopposed.

Brentford had clearly not just received the memo but had put in a fair amount of time studying it and turning it into a complete thesis, and as a result pressed our back-four at every opportunity. In turn, our back-four, diligently sticking to the values of Angeball, kept dicing with death – trying to pirouette around the opponent and so forth – achieving a success rate of approximately 50%.

As well as this business of losing possession on halfway and sprinting back to try saving the day in the nick of time, I also noted the pretty dubious behaviour of Cristian Romero in Brentford’s first goal. Having done the hard work of keeping pace with – and indeed gaining some ground on – Toney, rather than finish the job by steaming across and executing some form of meaty block, Romero opted to hold his line and give Toney a free hit at goal, which seemed unnecessarily generous.

In Romero’s defence, I understood the rationale – he presumably wanting to prevent a square pass to the onrushing Maupay, and banking on VDV’s pace take care of Toney. Nevertheless, it did strike me that he slathered on the business of backing off a bit too heavily. The key to the manoeuvre ought to have been subtlety, in edging towards Toney whilst keeping a watchful eye on Maupay, thereby keeping Toney in two minds. Instead, he might as well have hired one of those planes to fly over the stadium with a banner proclaiming that he was going to back right off Toney and block the pass, so if Toney wanted to get his shot off then the floor was his. I did not approve.

And my mood darkened further after Vicario saved the shot, as Romero simply slackened the shoulders and downed tools, evidently of the opinion that he had played his part in the scene, and the leftovers could be taken care of by those around him. It was quite the dereliction of duty, and an odd one coming from a chappie who does not seem himself unless flying full-blooded into some challenge or other, but off he clocked and Maupay seized the moment.

The curious lapses from Romero and Udogie can, I suppose, be excused as human error; but this business of being caught on halfway and then duking it out in a sprint to goal is rather more structural. It appears that we are stuck with it, however, as just one of those consequences of Angeball, the only remedy for which is simply to keep scoring more than the other lot, which should be a wheeze.

3. Werner

Fair to say it’s been a slightly underwhelming start to life in lilywhite for Herr Werner. He seems enthusiastic enough, and is obviously blessed with the ability to motor from A to B at a fair old lick, but once he’s got himself into a dangerous position he seems not quite to know what do next (or, in the case of shooting, how to do it). The general impression is of one whose northernmost tip simply cannot keep up with his southernmost base, those whirring little legs outpacing his brain each time.  

The vexing trend continued in the first half yesterday. Presumably under instruction, both he and Kulusevski tucked inside, to relatively narrow positions, which seemed right up Brentford’s street, and in general he seemed to pick wrong options.

However, life improved considerably in the second half. In the build-up to our first goal he pulled his usual trick of racing off into the distance in a puff of smoke, but where previously he has stuttered, and paused, and had a bit of a think, and then a bit of an overthink, this time he was a bit more committed in his conclusion, cutting back, sidestepping a couple of defenders and feeding young Udogie.

This seemed to do the chap a world of good. When released again a minute or so later he took it as his cue to deliver his finest moment yet in our colours, racing off again as is his preference, but then eschewing the usual option of slowing things down to pick through his options, and instead firing the ball across goal with a note pinned to it on which was scrawled the invitation ‘Tap me into the empty net, bitte’. Young Master Johnson duly licked his lips in the centre.

That particular sequence earned Werner a spontaneous ovation from AANP Towers. The obsession with inverted wingers, forever cutting inside to deliver their produce, has its value no doubt, but given that Werner’s pace will generally position him a yard ahead of his man, it does madden me somewhat that he repeatedly sacrifices that yard in order to cut back onto his right foot. There was no such rot last night for the second goal – once Werner was away, he evidenced a show of faith in his lesser-spotted left foot and it worked out splendidly for all concerned.

As with Kulusevski when stationed on the right, I yearn for him to display a bit more confidence in his weaker foot – and I do scratch the head and wonder how an elite-level player can get by in life with such reluctance to use it – but last night’s rich harvest ought to give him a spot of the old oil on this front.

And as a valedictory note, marvellous to observe that the resurgence of Richarlison continues apace, his goal arguably the least emphatic contribution of a night that included a decent repertoire of hold-up and link-up play.

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Spurs match reports

Man Utd 2-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Defence

Of course the return of Romero and VDV meant that the beady eye was on the Back Four from the off, eagerly watching the pair of them to check that all parts were in working order and good as new. However, events of the first half in particular rather shifted the gaze away from the central two, specifically about ten yards to their right, where time and again – and not for the first time this season – Pedro Porro achieved the remarkable feat of somehow appearing outnumbered in one-on-one situations.

This business of our back four defending narrowly, and allowing the opposition left wingers as much space as they fancy, keeps AANP up into the wee small hours with a mightily concerned frown. One understands that Ange-ball generally requires Porro to be loitering well in advance of the centre-backs when we’re in possession – meaning that when we lose the thing and our counter-attacked, he is generally a few yards out of position. One understands that opponents have cottoned on, and will generally look to shove a forward into this vacant space with the instruction ‘Make hay’ scrawled across their notepad.

So I suppose we’ll just have to bite the bullet to an extent, and accept that unless we surreptitiously stick a twelfth player out in the right-back area, we’ll be a tad vulnerable over there. But still. Once Porro is being sized up by an opposing attacker, I’d have thought it would make some sense to shove a reinforcement or two towards him. To the credit of whomever it concerns, this was duly done in the second half, Romero evidently regarding as a matter of urgency the need to toddle over and a bit of background muscle to Porro’s exchanges with Rashford or whomever.

But by then the damage had been done. Twice, in fact. Any opposing attacker with a trick or two in his box seems to stand a 50-50 chance of besting Porro and doing a spot of damage, and the Rashford eyes lit up in that first half. An isolated Porro, while not exactly a lamb to the slaughter, was certainly a lamb giving a nervous gulp or two.

Mightily annoying it was too, because but for those counter-attacks honed in on their left/our right, I didn’t think United had much about them. And for avoidance of misunderstanding, Porro’s delivery at times has the innocent onlooker absolutely purring, so this is by no means a call for punitive action against the solid young bean.

Back to VDV and Romero, and their mere presence did much to soothe what has been a pretty jittery AANP over the last couple of months. Romero missed few opportunities to put an end to a fledgling United attack with a well-timed and hefty size nine; VDV showed few signs of having forgotten how to ease from Trot to Sprint in the blink of an eye – it was good to have the pair back.

That said, neither were necessarily faultless. If one were to quibble they might ask whether Romero could have done more to prevent the first goal; and he also, as one would expect, took his opportunity to crunch the life out of a United sort near halfway. As for VDV, at one point in the first half he seemed consumed by the desire to dribble past a United forward right outside our own area, disappearing into quite the hole and requiring a spot of dustpan-and-brushing from a passing Bentancur.

But by and large the pair were watchful in defence and at times outstanding in possession – not least in the fabulous pass straight through the middle from Romero to Skipp, that set in motion our second. Nice to see live evidence too that the lad Dragusin is not one whose drink you would want to spill. All muscle and brawn, that lad.

2. The Midfield

It rather slipped under the AANP radar quite how light we were in midfield, but when the cast-list was announced the colour did rather drain from the face on seeing the names ‘Hojbjerg’ and ‘Skipp’ etched in alongside ‘Bentancur’.

The sagging of spirits was briefly paused in the opening exchanges, however, to be replaced by a pretty surprised raise of the eyebrow, as I tried to digest the sight of young Skipp seemingly being the furthest forward of the trio. Someone had to do it I suppose, and Skipp is nothing if not willing.

His was a fairly standard Skipp performance, which I thought was neatly encapsulated by his role in our second goal – oozing with the energy to receive Romero’s pass and set off over halfway, before almost gumming up the operation by sending his own pass the wrong side of Werner.

Now in Skipp’s defence he did ping one of the most scrumptious passes of the season towards the end of the first half, absolutely lashing a first-time volley from right of centre out towards the left wing, for an approving chum to race onto without breaking stride. AANP raised a glass to that one. But such a moment of quality was better filed under ‘Exception’ rather than ‘Norm’.

Bentancur, of course, purred his way through the entirety, as one would expect. At one point I heard the fellow on the telly-box describe him as “Knitting things together”, which I thought put it rather well.

And he took his goal mightily impressively too. Fool that I am, I had already flung the hands heavenward in agony at what I thought was a missed opportunity when he opted to take a second forward touch in the United six yard box rather than shooting there and then. I should have known better. Bentancur was in supreme control, and emphasised the fact by using his third touch to pointedly lash the thing into the roof of the net.

The third of the midfield triumvirate was Hojbjerg, who tends usually to hover between ‘Good’ and ‘Needs Improvement’ on the scale of these things. I thought he started pretty well, and AANP accordingly settled down for one of his better days. Aided, as anyone would be, by the presence of Bentancur alongside him, he seemed to use the ball sensibly enough; but towards the latter stages I though he slightly forgot the point of the exercise and began littering the place with misplaced passes and whatnot.

Aside from the individual offerings, there was a rather gaping hole when it came to a spot of creative spark from midfield, but I suppose if you take a perfectly strong squad and rip from it the three prime suspects in the field of Making Things Happen From The Centre, then one has to expect a decent helping of sideways passing and head-scratching.

3. Werner

In general one got the impression that our heroes were the better team, as evidenced by some lovely fluid passing from the rear-guard mob to the attacking mob, but there persisted throughout the nagging feeling that in matters of final third quality, the well was a little dry.

Young Johnson has spent the last few months doing all the hard work before making a solid mess of the final output, and lest anyone had needed reminding of this tendency he took every opportunity to demonstrate it again today. Now it should not be forgotten that he has chipped in with various critical passes creating goals in recent weeks, as well as taking a few licks of paint from the woodwork, but it’s reasonable to assert that the heart fills with hope rather than expectation when he revs up and hurtles down the right.

Senor Gil similarly is not the sort of huevo from whom one expects too much in the way of end-product. Not for want of trying, of course, but the more one watches Gil and Johnson’s attempted crosses miss their mark, the more one checks the Asian Cup fixture list.

Into this curious mix emerged Werner. And actually, he did just about everything one had anticipated of him, in both the credit and debit columns. From the off he showed himself to be the sort who will quite happily race to close down an opponent if it means that the reward manifests a stage or two later, in a turnover of possession further down the line.

Occasionally, we got a glimpse of the pace that apparently elevates him to cover 100 metres in 11 seconds, a stat that made me goggle a fair amount. And of course, his shots zoomed around in every direction but the net, which was entirely as advertised.

But he ran the good race, neatly setting up Bentancur for his goal and in general giving the impression that he knows the drill. As appropriate he ran at his man, or went on the outside, or cut inside, or just let wiser counsels prevail and allocated to a nearby chum. All perfectly acceptable stuff, and as his fitness goes up the requisite number of notches, and the mysteries of Ange-ball are further unravelled to him, one would anticipate that his usefulness will similarly shoot up the scale.

Historically, a point at Old Trafford would be a prompt for some meaningful handshakes all round, but make no mistake, this one leaves AANP grumping like the dickens for the rest of the evening. Our lot were marginally better in the first half and comfortably so in the second, which by maths means we should have won the thing by approximately 1.5 goals. Two points have slipped away, and I won’t hear any arguments to the contrary.

That said, with players missing, players returning and players debuting, on top of which we twice fell behind (away from home), the troops ought to be commended rather than censured for this one. Deep inside the corridors of power I can imagine that the sentiment of choice is, “Muddle through and stay in touch with the top spots until everyone returns.” This is no catastrophe, just a slight shame.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Bournemouth: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Lo Celso

When Senor GLC departed to hearty tidings from all four corners late on, I was struck by the notion of what a difference 37 minutes or so can make, for I don’t mind admitting that when the curtain came down for the half-time intermission I had already set about sharpening the knives for the chap.

Now it’s true that he contributed to our one outstanding moment of the first half. His lunge for a loose ball, while owing as much to wild enthusiasm as to impeccable timing, was enough to free young Sarr, who did a good job of things thereafter to give us our customary early lead. A tick was duly scrawled against the name of Lo Celso (as well as Bentancur, whose perky outlook had helped turn over possession in the first place).

But aside from that, AANP eyed Lo Celso with gradually increasing distaste, and unseemly mutterings that steadily grew in volume. The common thread of my gripes at the fellow in the first half was that he simply did not apply himself enough. Or put another way, if he devoted as much care and attention to chasing the ball, availing himself of the ball and wisely using the ball as he did to flinging himself to earth at every contact, he’d be quite the player.

As the second half demonstrated, there lurks within the Lo Celso frame, a pretty elegant and creative soul that could carve up the place when the mood suited; but in that first half he seemed too often to lope about the place with the air of one for whom this wasn’t the perfect platform and so he therefore wouldn’t bother. And confirmation bias being what it is, once convinced of this notion I decided that only a delicious pass with the outside of the left boot to create a goal would change my mind. Thus, at half-time, I chuntered a fair amount.

Well of course you can imagine my delight in the second half when Lo Celso roused himself, had a bit of a stretch and set about upping his game about seventy or so notches. The game was no more or less open than it had been in the first half, but now when he received the ball he decided to swan about the place like Maradona, nipping away from opponents and releasing onrushing chums with well-weighted passes into space.

He had already taken it upon himself to become something of a conduit between our playing-from-the-back and bearing-down-on-goal, and came within a whisker of creating a goal for the more centrally-positioned folk when he whipped in a cross that had the words ‘Convert Me!’ scrawled all over it in block capitals.

And finally his big moment arrived with that gorgeous pass for Son’s goal, which achieved the impressive feat of gaining full marks for both effectiveness and aesthetics, and which pretty much did enough to kill the game as a contest (albeit with the caveat that, our lot being our lot, one can never really state with any certainty at any scoreline that the game is truly killed off, and even after the full-time whistle sounds I do look around a little suspiciously in case another surprise lurks).

2. Udogie’s Defending

AANP has never been one for Greco-Roman wrestling, generally filling the leisure hours with more sedentary pursuits, but if circumstances did force me to go down that route I decided after watching today’s proceedings that the one chap I wouldn’t want to meet in the ring or on the mat or whatever it is, is Destiny Udogie.

Generally this season the column inches about the young specimen have been filled with praise for his attacking exploits, and quite rightly so, he having become one of the more essential cogs in the whole attacking appartus. But today he seemed pretty set on reminding all in attendance that he was indeed fashioned by Mother Nature as a defender first and foremost, which came as a bit of a shock, but turned out to be quite timely.

If he had planned beforehand to use today to showcase his defensive wares he certainly picked a good day for it. As happens with depressing regularity, our lot seemed to be absolutely wide open every time Bournemouth came forward. Of course, those lilywhites in the vicinity adopted earnest expressions, and did that peculiar dance of tucking their arms behind their backs while going down on one knee, and generally did their best to make it look like defending was a Big Deal to them. But in practice they seemed only to offer a spot of decoration about the place, while Bournemouth folk queued up to take a pot at goal as and when they pleased.

In this situation, and in particular with that VDV-shaped hole still strongly evident at the heart of the defence, Udogie took the opportunity to appear stage left for a series of dramatic, last-gasp interventions that arrested the attention and conveniently saved the day.

It was impressive stuff, as it had somehow slipped beneath the AANP radar all this time that he is actually a pretty darned quick blighter. One doesn’t quite notice this personality trait when we’re on the front-foot and several different attacking elements are on the go simultaneously.

But when we’ve lost possession and the other mob are lobbing the ball over the top of our high defensive line, creating a basic foot-race between our lot and their lot, one is suddenly struck by the blurry nature of the little Udogie legs, whizzing into view, catching up with the opponent and generally Van de Ven-ing the threat away.

Which brings me back to Udogie’s Greco-Roman attributes, for as well as demonstrating himself to be one of the quickest pair of heels in N17, he also showcased an upper body stacked full of brawn and muscle. His chest, barrel-like in both appearance and, evidently, substance, was put to full use in sending Solanke sprawling across the turf when the latter decided to dabble in a spot of surreptitious barging when in on goal, and simply bounced away. And to repeat, this was Solanke, himself a creature of considerable heft and sinew.

It said much of our defending, yet again, that in order to keep Bournemouth at bay we had to rely upon several last-ditch interventions from a left-back who’d much rather be Number Tenning it up the other end. Truth be told, we took quite the battering at various points in this game, but as silver linings go, the discovery of these rarely-sighted super-powers tucked away in the Udogie back pocket was a cheery one.

3. Brennan Johnson

It has not escaped the beady AANP eye in recent weeks that young Brennan Johnson has attracted a spot of the red ink and some glowering looks. One understands the sentiment of frustration, as he has occasionally shown a bit of a tendency to make a pickle of some promising situations – but in this he is hardly alone, and any self-respecting prosecutor would surely haul in Messrs Richarlison and Son for a spot of the old cross-examination here.

In general, however, the slap I direct at Johnson’s back is one of encouragement rather than censure, and indeed, I’m more inclined to raise a disapproving eyebrow at those who lay into the chap. Ignoring momentarily his eventual outputs, his general tendency to stretch his legs and go haring off down the right provides a useful outlet – one that has not gone unnoticed by the radar of Pedro Porro – as well as making him quite the nuisance for opposing left-backs.

And while it has been a frustration at various points in recent weeks that having worked himself into a threatening position, he has made a pickle of things when it comes to pulling the trigger – either in terms of shots or crosses – this strikes me as the sort of element to his game for which only minor adjustments are needed.

Today, things seemed to click a bit more smoothly. His very early pass for Son was perfectly serviceable, ticking all the boxes that any goal-producing cross ought to require – first-time, decent pass, no requirement for the oncoming striker to break stride – so full marks to young Johnson, and few unrepeatable sentiments towards Son.

He put in at least one more cross from the right that was so well-judged and executed it ought to have been accompanied by a musical ping; before his good work did eventually strike oil, through the inch-perfect cross for Richarlison’s goal, which it’s worth noting was pretty much a replica of both construction and finished article against Everton.

So while acknowledging that the earnest young thing will continue to make the odd mistake, I’d much rather celebrate his achievements – coming at the rate of around one goal contribution per game at the moment – than harp on too much about any opportunities missed. Given the context of him playing in his first season at the place, and adjusting to his different role and so on, he seems to be pootling along well enough.

4. Au Revoir Hugo Lloris

And a quick raise and clink of the glass for Monsieur Lloris, after 11 years of grind around these parts. One shares his frustration not to have won a trophy, but well over 400 appearances – a decent chunk of which have been as captain – are worthy of generous applause.

In his pomp he was one of the best shot-stoppers on the circuit, Dortmund away springing to the AANP mind as perhaps his finest hour, while the penalty save from Aguero in the Champions League is a strong contender for the first truly thrilling moment at the new stadium. One trusts that the Los Angeles climate will be to his liking.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 4-1 Newcastle: Six Tottenham Talking Points

1. Kulusevski Central

It would be over-stretching things to suggest that AANP is like a broken clock in stumbling upon a notion of some virtue twice a day, but, like a broken calendar, bang on the money once a year sounds about right – and having bleated away about the virtues of Kulusevski through the centre rather than on the wing, in the aftermath of the West Ham defeat, I was pretty pleased to see the pieces duly rearranged today.

Not that Kulusevski was necessarily the standout performer today. In fact, I’d shove him at least halfway done the list. Which is not to say he did much wrong, far from it, but various colleagues around him seemed to tick the ‘Above and Beyond’ box more obviously, and things ought to be done in right and proper way.

But having Kulusevski through the midfield seemed both to reduce the more vexing elements of his game (viz. the propensity, come hell or high water, to drag the ball back onto his left foot as if under contractual obligation) and also to lend a useful platform to some of his more amenable personality traits. These might be said to include but not be limited to: the thoughtful burst into the penalty area as delivery arrives from wider spots; the licence occasionally to bob up on the left; the application of what strikes me as pretty considerable body-weight forcefully into any of the opposing back-four dallying on the ball; and the generally wholesome practice of racing towards goal from a central berth whilst simultaneously weighing up options right and left.

In short, the shackles seem removed when he plays as a Number 10. Quite what reconfiguration occurs when Maddison returns is anyone’s guess, but if there’s a society for the Repositioning of Kulusevski From The Right To The Centre then they can count on my signature and enthusiastic attendance at fundraisers and whatnot. Keep him there, I say, or at least resist the urge to move him right again when Maddison returns.

2. Sonny on the Left

Of course, much like a butterfly flapping its wings out in the Amazon, one cannot yank Kulusevski from the right and re-position him centrally without all manner of implications rippling away across N17, so there would no doubt have been a few arrows scrawled across the pre-match whiteboard .

The fallout involved the remarkable sight of a right-footed player on the right wing, as Brennan Johnson won that particular raffle; which in turn necessitated a change in personnel on the left. One can well imagine Our Glorious Leader scanning the changing room, spying young Bryan Gil, and without even pausing to think just getting right on again with his scanning.

Sonny got the nod, and wasted precious little time in slotting back into the old uniform. Whether it was a first-time flick into the path of a chum while dropping deep, or a stepover-laced dribble into the penalty area topped off with some pretty inviting end-product, Son brought a healthy dose of A-game to just about everything he did out on the left.

And it was worth remembering, as he set about creating both first half goals in near-identical fashion, that the opposing right-back with whom he toyed was none other than the fondly-remembered Master Trippier, a chap who doesn’t surrender his territory too lightly.

Whilst the risk of deploying Sonny on the left was that it left things uncertain in the central striking role, the decision seemed a pretty smart one if only for the nuisance he made of himself throughout. For all their willing, it is difficult to imagine that Gil or Johnson might have brought home quite such riches; while Richarlison is more of a striker itching to move infield than any sort of left winger. This was pretty electric stuff from Son, who fully merited his late goal.

3. Richarlison

That Amazonian butterfly clearly put in quite the shift, for the after-effects did not end with Sonny’s move to the left. That, of course, left an awkward conversation to be had behind closed doors, given that Richarlison has spent the last couple of years since his arrival diligently pinging his shots everywhere but the nearest net, pausing only to occasionally trip over his own shoelaces.

And when a couple of missed half-chances in the opening 5 minutes brought that all-too-familiar Brazilian scowl, I did scuttle over to the nearest wall against which I might bang the old head a few times. The early signs were that this was a production I’d seen once or twice before.

Mercifully, however, after a conflab of twenty minutes or so, the gods evidently gave it a shrug and granted Richarlison a spot of respite. His first goal might not have been the purest strike of the weekend, but I doubt there’s a lilywhite in the land who gave too many hoots about that. If Richarlison has any sense of decency he’ll spot Sonny a slap-up meal at an over-priced restaurant in the coming days, for his captain did a spiffing job in moulding the opportunity that, if not quite unmissable, was certainly in not-too-much-work-required territory.

And in this day of the tedious knee-slide celebration I always consider that I can spot a man who really enjoys his goal, if he leaps into the thinner part of the atmosphere and swipes a clasped fist. Richarlison certainly enjoyed the moment.

Evidently, it takes more than one poacher’s goal to shed the alter ego and adopt a new persona completely, and the Richarlison of old swiftly returned when a presentable airborne opportunity ricocheted his way shortly afterwards, the man flinging himself at the thing a moment too late, as has been his wont for about two years now.

I also fancy he enjoyed another splash of luck with his second (footing another bill at one of London’s premier eating spots by the by, in gratitude to Pedro Porro), as his first touch when in on goal was not necessarily ideal. But to his credit, having taken a presentable chance and complicated it, he then redeemed himself in the blink of an eye, taking what had therefore become a complicated chance and despatching it, with minimal further fuss. One scratched the head a bit, but a joyous outcome is not to be sniffed at; and importantly R9 is a fellow the quality of whose next deed seems to depend significantly upon the quality of his previous deed – so this all bodes pretty well.

And as a sidenote, even before he was gaily tucking away his goals, I noted with great satisfaction that Richarlison could frequently be observed to commit his full body and I suspect a decent part of his soul to the act of tracking back and winning possession from the Newcastle mob. A well-executed slide tackle is always appreciated, and Richarlison delivered at least three of them. The young bean’s commitment to the cause has never faltered; that his radar began working again today was all the more pleasing.

4. Udogie and Porro

I mentioned above that there were a good few names above Kulusevski when it came to the matter of Star Performer, and both of Udogie and Porro would feature in such a list.

Udogie, I consider, rather owed us a stand-out performance, given that his entirely unnecessary two-footed lunge against Chelsea seemed to spark off the calamitous sequence that we have only just arrested. Admittedly he cannot be blamed for the injuries, and he actually got away with the lunge, but not being one to let the truth get in the way of a decent narrative I continued to murmur, “And well he should,” during the early minutes, in which he seemed to have assumed the role of String-Puller-In-Chief.

And by golly he was in fine old fettle. Even though it happens every week that he simply ambles up the field and presents himself as some sort of free-spirited attacking egg, I did nevertheless gawk a bit at the positions he adopted and the array of neat, sly passes he dished out.

Good of him to chip in with a goal too, and it says much about his role in the team that the sight of him tapping in from six yards did not raise too many positional eyebrows. This, it appears, is just what he does.

I hesitate to scribble, “And opposite Udogie,” when describing young Porro, because it is similarly difficult to pin down the latter, but he was also in attendance, and also having quite the night. The diagonal into the path of Richarlison for our third probably takes the spot on the mantlepiece for his most eye-catching contribution (and with perfect timing too, Newcastle at that stage having given it 15 minutes of honest toil, and threatening to make a game of things).

But in general, and as against West Ham, Porro combined intelligent positions with effective contributions, whether popping up in midfield to chivvy things along, or getting his head down in the final third to try to help finish things off.

5. Sarr: Outstanding

But from the AANP vantage point young Sarr took the gong today. For much of the game our heroes gave the impression of having a numerical advantage over the other lot, swarming them and not giving them the time to collect their thoughts and admire the sights when they were in possession;, and triangling the dickens out of them when we were in possession, regularly appearing to have an extra man at whichever point on the pitch the action was unfolding. And as often as not that extra man appeared to be Sarr.

I don’t know what sort of diet he goes in for but I wouldn’t mind finding out and dabbling, because the chap seemed not to stop running throughout. Which, logically enough I suppose, had the consequence that he seemed always to be involved. He was strongly in the market for tackles, interceptions, passes and then, in common with most of our heroes in those rather fun-filled final 20 minutes or so, shoulder-dips and dribbles out of tight spots. It was one of the more complete central midfield performances amongst our lot in recent times.

It also had the pleasing side-effect of making Bissouma look a bit more like his former self, and making me reflect, in idler moments, at quite what a difference there was between a team built upon Sarr and one built upon Hojbjerg.

6. Davies, Romero and the Defence

The individual performances helped no end, but it also made a world of difference that the now standard Dominant First Half was augmented by not one but two goals. To the list of teams comprehensively outplayed we can add Newcastle, but whereas in 4 of the previous 5 games we have had but a one-goal lead to show for some lovely build-up play and almost playground-esque possession, this time the world felt a much happier place when the cast trooped off at half-time two goals to the good.

There was still ample time to stuff up various further opportunities, and one does drop to the knees and implore the forward mob to take a tad more care in the final third and make sure of things, but it was a definite improvement.

And yet it might well have been to no avail, because at nil-nil we continued to look pretty open and inviting at the rear. It might be a consequence of full-backs being allowed to go wandering off, or it might be something else entirely, but whereas when our defence is arranged in a low block I feel that matters are relatively well contained, when we are caught in possession on halfway and the opposition counter, the whole thing does tend to unfold with a pretty alarming inevitability. Put another way, teams do not really have to work too hard to fashion clear-cut chances against our lot. Nab the ball on halfway and they’re as good as in.

And with that in mind I might take a few suggestions from Richarlison and splash out myself on one of those expensive meals, this time for Ben Davies, in commemoration of what was actually a scarcely believable intervention in the first half to keep Newcastle at bay. Pretty easy to let the mists of time do their thing and forget it ever happened, but when a Newcastle type on their left scuttled unopposed from halfway to our area, his square pass seemed to have doom scrawled all over it.

Davies flung himself at it full length, in what appeared to be an admirable but futile gesture. At best, I mused while wincing in expectation of the inevitable, this will be an own-goal. The laws of physics seemed to allow for little else, given that Davies was extending himself at full stretch and in the wrong direction.

Quite how he therefore managed to avoid poking the ball into this own net having made contact with it, was a conundrum of the highest order. That he additionally managed to do just enough to divert the thing sufficiently that the waiting Newcastle forward behind him then missed the target, was quite remarkable.

Mercifully, having figured out, at least for one night, how to apply finishing touches to all the gorgeous build-up play, it didn’t matter too much that we remain pretty open at the back sans Van de Ven. It helps that for the most part, Davies and Romero know their eggs when it comes to the sort of defending that isn’t just a flat foot-race from halfway.

But had Romero been sent off for his bizarre late lunge, the AANP teeth would have been ground with a fury rarely previously witnessed. The game was won, our heroes were bedded in and well into their stroke-the-ball-about routine, when out of nowhere Romero took it upon himself to wait for the ball to depart the scene and then leave his studs upon the lower leg/above-the-foot region of some Newcastle sort. Irrespective of any sort of provocation – and frankly there didn’t appear to be much – it was about as knuckle-headed as they come, particularly as the young fool has only just reappeared after the previous three-month ban. Egads.

Still, we got away with that, and more broadly, delivered the sort of walloping that we’ve been threatening in at least 4 of the previous 5 games (or at least first halves). Continue to execute three or four of the numerous chances created each week, and we ought to be pretty well set when Maddison and VDV return; but irrespective of that, the mood is lightened for the week.