Tag: James Maddison

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Spurs match reports

Sheff Utd 0-3 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Dragusin and That Tweaked Back-Four

Reasonably enough, Our Glorious Leader persisted with the VDV-at-left-back-and-Dragusin-in-the-centre gambit, all concerned having performed passably well in midweek, and our opponents yesterday having already been relegated. Indeed, as with Burnley a couple of weeks back, the fact that Sheffield United were literally a Championship-standard team does skew the takings on this one, making it difficult to draw too many meaningful conclusions.

Nevertheless, should I happen to cross paths with any of Van de Ven, Dragusin or Romero in the next day or two, I’d offer them one of those silent but meaningful nods I keep in the armoury, the sort that wordlessly communicates respectful acknowledgement of a job well done without going overboard.

Dragusin comes across as a fellow who is happy simply to crack on with his job in unfussy fashion, leaving the histrionics and drama to others. I did note the chap make a mess of an early clearing header, resulting in a straightforward chance for Diaz that might have been decidedly stickier, but aside from that he generally conducted himself with a goodish amount of common sense, and intervened as circumstance required.  

With that in mind, the slightly terrifying visuals he deploys are actually a little misleading. His general bulk, not to mention that haircut and unsmiling stare, give him the air of one of those nameless henchmen who will face off with Jason Statham in the final act. By appearance alone one gets the impression that here strides a specimen who is comfortably master of all he surveys, and whom one will have the dickens of a job bypassing.

Yet in terms of his actual performance, it is all a little more low-key. Admittedly, he put that significant physical frame to pretty good use when we had corners to defend, politely introducing himself as “Vicario’s mate” to misbehaving Sheff Utd forwards, and treating them to a couple of meaningful shoves to hammer home the point, which served a welcome practical purpose, as well as making for good wholesome family entertainment.

But if, based on looks and gum-chewing alone, one expected Dragusin to spend his 90 minutes uprooting passing forwards and leaving them in crumpled heaps about the place, one was to be a little disappointed. Dragusin seemed to content himself simply with clearing whatever danger lurked, without too much fanfare or overthinking. This is not to denigrate him as agricultural or lacking in delicacy, for he showed himself capable enough with ball at feet and happy enough to muck in with the rest of them when they all started playing out from the back; but broadly he came across as not caring too much for headlines or limelight. “Keep it simple”, would appear to be the motto of the Dragusin clan.

2. Van de Ven

As mentioned, one does not really learn too much about the moral fibre and performance under pressure of one’s troops when up against the weakest mob in the division, and so as with Dragusin, one takes with a generous measure of salt the performance of Mickey Van de Ven at left-back.

Allowing for that, however, this was once again promising stuff at left-back from the earnest young bean. I would suggest that he perhaps lacks the general puff, to use the technical term, of Signor Udogie, in terms of galloping up, back and up again in the full-back role, VDV instead perhaps rationing his forward charges. But when he did venture north he did so with a few health dollops of gusto, and made sure to plant a flag or two commemorating his presence there, notably with a role in both of our first two goals.

The first was with what one might describe as a small but significant input, in winning possession for us high up the pitch – or, as AANP likes to call such things, a good old-fashioned tackle. The Sheff Utd chap had the ball at his feet in a right-back sort of spot, and was drinking it all in, and VDV simply sped over to him and effected a firm block tackle. I suppose if I were a SUFC fan I’d have waved around a pretty irate hand at my right-back at that point, for offering such meek input that he was promptly deposited on the floor, but from a lilywhite perspective it was most pleasing.

One does not see actual tackles much these days, with every contact causing someone or over to screech in agony and roll over a few times, and as often as not a standard spot of limb-to-limb contact now bringing a yellow card too. Therefore just seeing Van de Ven square up to the fellow; fly into combat with a bit of a sense that consequences could be damned; and come out on top, was a bit of an event in itself.

Thereafter, he sensibly decided that his contribution had already been memorable enough, and that it was the job of his more forward-thinking chums to chivvy things along further, so he posted the thing off to Maddison outside the area and within two passes we had the ball in the net. One can enter into rich debate, I suppose, to decide whose input had been most pertinent, but in simply winning possession in the first place, through the oft-neglected art of the block tackle, young VDV earned himself his latest free offering at the AANP Towers drinks cabinet.

Moreover, in case anyone missed it first time around, he got stuck in with another of those ‘Firm But Fair’ numbers early in the second half, in the build-up to what could be considered our decisive second goal. Again, there were various other contributory elements to be recorded before the ball eventually found its way into the net – the ricochet from VDV’s challenge forcing a full-length save from the goalkeeper, which I personally thought a little dramatic for what it was, and thereafter Brennan Johnson picking up the scraps before laying it off to Porro to finish – but VDV’s dedication to triumphing in what was, objectively, a 50-50 issue, was once again crucial.

3. Contributions to Our Goals

If AANP Towers is a regular haunt of yours you may recall that only a week or two ago I cleared the throat, surveyed the audience and then gave both barrels to that most irritating of concepts, The Assist. The case for the prosecution largely hinged on the notion that there are generally several contributory elements to any goal, and the notion that the penultimate chappie involved should merit some worthier praise than anyone else who chipped in with their tuppence worth is a tad presumptuous, what?

To illustrate what I’m wittering on about I invite you to look at our first goal yesterday, or Exhibit A, as you may wish to refer to it. As mentioned above, a pretty critical role in this was played by young Van de Ven, out on the left, by winning possession in the first place. He then fed Maddison, whose input, it seemed to me, looked suspiciously to amount to miscontrolling the thing. As luck would have it, however, the ball bounced obligingly into the path of Sonny – whose own input, one might argue, also owed a little to good fortune, he dabbing a slightly half-hearted toe at the ball, which was just about sufficient to poke it through to Kulusevski.

The point being that before the ball reached the eventual goalscorer, three others were involved, and fan clubs of each would no doubt argue passionately that their man’s was the critical contribution – and yet the only statistic that seems to merit general acclaim is that Sonny provided The Assist. Of the contributions to the goal of Maddison and, in particular, VDV, there is nary a datapoint.

Now one might argue, and with some justification, that AANP really ought to find more useful ways to spend his time, but dash it, when the awards are handed out for that first goal it just doesn’t seem cricket to overlook VDV and instead droop a garland around the neck of Sonny.

The second goal followed a fairly similar pattern, with Brennan Johnson officially receiving credit for The Assist, while the good work of Sonny, in really setting the thing in motion, with a cunning dip of the shoulder out on the left, as well as Maddison and VDV in trying to force the issue in the penalty area, will go forever ignored.

Credit where due, Maddison did an excellent job of things in setting up the third. It was an Assist worthy of the name. I doffed the cap. But what the record books will fail to show is that Sonny again started all the fun and games, with some pretty innovative use of the outside of his right foot, curling a pass off into the great swathes of greenery ahead of Maddison out on the left, from which position the latter did his thing.

I suppose the moral of the story is not so much to belittle whomever provides The Assist as to acknowledge what are often more valuable cogs in the machinery earlier in the piece.

4. Porro

All that said, the greatest acclaim most typically belongs to the goalscorer, and by golly Pedro Porro has this week made up for some lost time in that respect. If there has been something of an injustice this season it is that young P.P. has finished with only the four goals to his name, for goodness knows he threatens each week to score an absolute belter, seemingly missing almost every shot by a matter of inches. Indeed, my spies tell me that he has 36 shots to his name this season, in 35 Premier League appearances, which makes me cock a suspicious eye at the Law of Averages for granting only three League goals. It somehow strikes me that he ought, by rights, to have scored a lot more, what?

Anyway, as mentioned, he started righting that wrong last week against Burnley, building up a head of steam before putting heart and soul into the finish; and, evidently having developed a liking for the act of almost tearing the net from its moorings, he was at it again yesterday.

Received wisdom generally dictates that one’s chances of scoring are generally increased by aiming for one corner or t’other, but such a theory evidently fails to take into account the absolute leathering applied to the thing by the right foot of Porro, which is seemingly sufficient to contravene the Laws of Physics and allow the ball to travel straight through the body of the goalkeeper.

Last week the Burnley ‘keeper was beaten at his near post, understandably taken by surprise at the speed at which Porro had the ball past him, and yesterday there was a pretty similar sequence of events, with the goalkeeper only raising his paws upwards in preparation for the intervention required when the ball was already bouncing out of the net behind him.

And when invited to make a speech toasting Porro’s two goals in the last week, as I inevitably will be sooner or later, I’ll be sure to commend in particular his talent for adjusting his balance sufficiently to ensure that in pummelling the ball with every ounce of force in his being, he did not lean back the one or two degrees that would have resulted in it flying off into orbit. It is to his credit that he kept his shots low enough hit the target.

5. Kulusevski

I don’t mind admitting that when the dramatis personae were revealed pre-kick-off, I took one glance, assumed with a weary sigh that Johnson and Kulusevski were on the wings and Sonny therefore upfront, and then focused my energies on the back-four.

Our Glorious Leader evidently had other ideas, and thus it transpired that Kulusevski spent his afternoon as the closest thing we had to a central striker. And a dashed useful fist he made of it too. I will leave others to argue over whether he was officially a centre-forward, or Number 10, or advanced midfielder, or some other variation, and instead simply attest to the fact that, whatever else one says about his contribution, he did the goalscoring part pretty well.

It seems unlikely that he was actually aiming for the inside of the post with that opening goal, but nevertheless, the gist of his thought process was presumably to plant the thing beyond the ‘keeper and inside the frame, and let the Laws of Physics – at that point still firing on all cylinders, pre-Porro – take care of the rest.

Easy, too, to bang on about the finish when it’s as aesthetically satisfying as that – inside of the post and all, always merits a cheeky splash of the good stuff over here – and overlook the preceding legwork, but the fellow collected the ball with back to goal and a defender loitering within his radius. He therefore deserves a decent lump of credit for that first touch, which simultaneously achieved the twin aims of shielding the ball from that defender and setting things up just so, for a left-footed swipe.

He then took time out to remind the watching millions that he is nothing if not left-footed, spurning an arguably easier opportunity fed to him (with some elan by Maddison) on his right, five minutes later, but ensured that we could all gloss over that with some impressive forward-play in nabbing his second and our third – checking his run to come inside the defender and then angling his body to finish with that same, much-maligned right foot, in what I can only assume was a pointed rebuke to AANP.

I can’t imagine that anyone seriously considers this set-up, with D.K. in the central striking position, as The Way Forward for our heroes in 2024/25 and beyond, and this is probably as good a time as any to hammer home once again that caveat that our opponents were Championship-standard, but it’s an interesting option to have, potentially allowing a neat segue into the 4-6-0 off-the-ball arrangement that caused Man City to scratch the old bean a few times midweek.

Thus ends a season in which, all things considered, we have pootled along to an acceptable enough resting-place (or at least it will be once the bonkers Australian friendly is done). All sorts of tweaks and improvements – and signings – and indeed sales – are needed, but AANP is pretty happy with the efforts of Postecoglou and the troops.

Enjoy AANP’s ramblings? Yearn to have them neatly contained in a book, with physical pages through which you can leaf? Then watch this space, as Seasons 2023-024 is soon to be published for your delectation.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 0-2 Man City: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Shiny New Formation

AANP is a creature of habit. Meals at the same time each day; lights out at the same time each night; a dram of the good stuff at the same time each morning – one knows where one stands. One knows what’s coming.

And it was in this spirit of continuity and consistency that I donned the monocle to give the teamsheet the once-over last night, and duly assumed that Sarr-Bentancur-Hojbjerg would spread out their picnic blankets in midfield, while Maddison, Son and Johnson would duke it out between them for spots across the forward line – my personal assumption being that Maddison would be on the left with Sonny through the centre, but being an open-minded sort I politely listened to various chums of a Spurs-supporting bent announcing their opinion that Johnson could be central, and so on.

The point being that we all just assumed it was Our Glorious Leader’s usual 4-3-3, because if there is one thing A. Postecoglou Esquire does not do, it’s change his approach, upon pain of death. Even if the apocalypse were upon us and flaming meteors rained down from the sky, Ange would stick to his guns, muttering something to the effect that this is how his teams play, and adding his trademark “Mate” as if to put an official seal on the notion.  

As such, I’m not sure the word has yet been invented to describe quite how quizzically I arched the old eyebrow once the curtain went up last night, and everyone started getting their hands dirty, because there before our eyes, our heroes were setting about their business in, for want of a better phrase, a 4-6-0 formation.

Son and Johnson stayed out wide hither and thither, that much I clocked myself pretty sharpish; but in the midfield it appeared that Hojbjerg sat, and Bentancur, Maddison and Sarr took turns – or at certain points just ganged up and went about things in unison – as False Nines, as the experts put it (sort of midfield bobbies with licence to spring forward into the area and yell ‘Boo!’ as and when the whim grabs them).

Anyway, having a reeled a fair bit with the shock of all this, it made sense to collect one’s thoughts and subject the thing to the critical eye – and I’ll be dashed if it didn’t actually seem to work out pretty smoothly.

Caveats abound, of course, as is always the case. We lost the game for a start, so anyone clearing the throat to produce a lavish speech about the unbeatable virtues of 4-6-0 could legitimately be interrupted with a pretty solid counter-argument. One might also point out that City weren’t really for sitting deep with all eleven camped behind the ball as other less forgiving opponents have been, so one couldn’t knowingly say how 4-6-0 would fare in such a scenario; and I think that what one might delicately describe as the forgiving atmosphere about the place meant that there was a lot less pressure on our heroes to perform than is sometimes the case. There was, one might say, a pretty high tolerance threshold for mistakes and missteps last night.

Nevertheless, I could not escape the sentiment that our lot were making a jolly good fist of things – and that, by extension, the curious new formation was delivering the goods. Critically, we seemed to benefit both in and out of possession.

Out of possession, the squadron of no fewer than six pristine lilywhites strung out across the midfield caused City quite the head-scratcher when it came to their usual gambit of poking a nifty pass through the lines and setting their forwards away. In terms of basic physics, there simply was not room for them to do so. Every time they tried any such pass, a Tottenham limb extended to cut it out – and if the pass evaded one extended Tottenham limb, you could bet the life of your least cherished child that another such limb would be in close proximity to get the job done. The only real attacking outlet City had (beyond our own suicidal passing from defence, more on which below) was to play the ball ahead of Kyle Walker and watch him and VDV sprint it out.

In possession too, for what felt like the first time since that fateful night against Chelsea in November, our lot seemed inundated with passing options n, and quickly getting the hang of the thing they took to knocking the ball around rather smartly. One of the advantages of having six in midfield, I suppose, is that there is always a supporting nib hovering nearby, whom one can spot from the corner of one’s eye and sling the ball towards whenever any danger starts approaching.

And as mentioned, with Maddison, Bentancur and Sarr each seemingly having been heartily encouraged to trot forward and explore the City area, there tended always to be a few members of the cavalry ready to offer their services whenever we did break forward. Admittedly we lacked a central figure up top, the sort of bird who might hold up the ball with back to goal and do other useful things, but when it came to breaking from around halfway and racing towards goal, we were actually quite well stocked.

2. Sarr

Vicario made some good saves (the first half block from Foden at close-range in particular seemed to defy physics, our boy managing to stick out an arm faster than the naked eye could detect), and Kulusevski seemed particularly motivated when he was introduced, but if I were given the chance to pin a rosette to any of our lot I’d beeline straight for Sarr.

I’d probably take a few hours to catch him mind, because the young tyro appeared convinced yesterday that the key to a good time was never to stop running. Even though he had five teammates alongside him, and as such one could reasonably have made the case for sharing the workload, Sarr seemed to have had it drilled into him that if there were a job that needed doing there was no point in waiting for someone else to do it, not when he could break into another gallop.

Within a formation that relied so heavily upon runners from midfield to do a bit of the heavy lifting – masquerading occasionally as forwards, chasing back to clog up our own penalty area when City did sneak through – the medical anomaly that was the Sarr lungs and legs were of particular value.

The thought nags, and will presumably continue to do so for the next couple of months, that our midfield could do with a slightly clearer delegation of duties, as I still narrow the eyes and furrow the brow when trying to work out exactly what Bissouma and Bentancur are supposed to be doing, but alongside a couple of well-drilled and well-performing sorts one can safely assume that Sarr will be a pretty critical cog next season.

3. Hojbjerg

A quick note on Hojbjerg, of whom this might have been our last glimpse on the hallowed N17 turf. Those of a comic bent seemed keen to suggest last night that if anyone were going to sabotage our efforts, and ensure that Woolwich remained trophyless, it would be that man P-E.H., and true to form he spent the evening marrying the sublime and ridiculous with gay old abandon.

One five-minute spell early on in the piece neatly crystallised his entire lilywhite career. It featured in the first place an absolutely glorious cross-field spraying of the ball, from inside his own half and nearish the left flank, forward about twenty yards within the City half and out on the right flank, one of those perfectly-flighted numbers that drops with just the right parabola over the reach of the full-back and into the lap of the winger. It was a reminder of how good a player he can be, all the more so as he collected the ball in the first place when we were being harried a tad in a little midfield cul-de-sac, with Hojbjerg proving the unlikely saviour to safety.

But then moments later came his wild clearance that led to Foden’s point-blank volley and Vicario’s save. As I recall, Hojbjerg had to effect an airborne clearance, the ball having looped backwards towards him, facing his own goal and under pretty minimal pressure. Not the most straightforward job on the To-Do list by any means, the ball having a dash of spin on it, and dropping from the heavens over his shoulder, which adds a layer of complication.

Nevertheless, however, to have kept one’s eye on the thing and effected an almighty thwack ought to have been a fairly routine exercise for one paid professionally to apply lower appendage to ball on a daily basis. Clear the thing and re-organise, would have appeared to have been the order of the day.

Hojbjerg, though, was to give us one final reminder of just how maddening a soul he can be, by completely slicing his clearance, applying no distance to it whatsoever but instead sending it spinning sideways, and into the path of a chap who last week was crowned Player of the Year by his fellow professionals.

Of course, circumstances being what they were yesterday, many received this intervention with hearty applause, but whatever one’s inclinations yesterday, the whole episode just seemed to rubber-stamp, at the likely end of his Tottenham career, that Hojbjerg really has been a most peculiar sort of egg.

4. Playing Out From The Back

Now this is a weekly gripe, albeit not one I tend to record too often for posterity in this particular newsletter, but if there’s one thing guaranteed to put the bird about me it’s this business of playing out from the back.

For clarity, this is not even something that irritates specifically when espoused by our heroes. When I watch any blasted game and the team preparing a goal-kick opt for those daft short passes across their own area, it sets me muttering away and waving an occasional, grumpy hand.

Some data for your digestion first. I read on a pretty reputable source last week, that on average this season our lot concede possession from this approach seven times per game. Seven times! On average it leads to the opposition taking one shot per game, and in total we have conceded seven goals this season, from trying to play out from the back.

If you’re anything like me you’ll have missed the second half of the previous paragraph because your eyes will have glazed over and a cold chill spread down your spine, at the revelation that this madcap tomfoolery results in us losing possession seven times per game. I was reminded of this abomination last night, when City’s first two decent attempts resulted precisely from them winning the ball on the edge of our area when we tried unsuccessfully to pass our way out (the Foden shot saved, and de Bruyne, I think, having a shot at the start of the second half, also producing a flying Vicario intervention).

What grates is that the return on this investment is negligible. If every other time we did it we ended up bearing down on the opposition goal within a hop and a skip, I’d be much more inclined to support it. “Why not?” I would rather rhetorically remark, “The odds are reasonable enough.” But the point is precisely that the odds are not reasonable. I don’t see the value of the dashed thing at all, truth be told. At best we make it to halfway or so, at which point Sonny runs the ball out of play or Maddison gets crowded out or Kulusevski fouls his man, and it is all for naught anyway.

I presume the theory is that, if done well, a spot of zig-zagging from six-yard box onwards can bypass a good four or five opposition attackers. Even this seems a pretty measly reward if you ask me, and hardly worth the risk. If it bypassed nine or ten opponents my attention would be gripped; but it doesn’t. Frankly, if one wants to bypass four or five attackers, a gently lofted pass out wide along the halfway line, from the size nines of Vicario, will do just as well, and without the risk of conceding possession on the edge of our own area.

It’s here to stay, so, as with so much in the life of a Spurs supporter it’s all pretty futile anyway, but next time you see our heroes concede possession in this absurd fashion in or around our own area, cup a hand to your ear and see if you can make out the well-articulated curse in the distance, for that will be AANP having dashed well had enough.

5. Our Glorious Leader’s Post-Match Rant

If you had cupped a hand to your ear last night, however, an hour or so after the curtain came down, the cursing you’d have heard would have had much of the Antipodean twang about it, because Our Glorious Leader added a most peculiar coda to proceedings.

For those whom this whole episode innocently bypassed, the gist is that in his post-match ramblings, Ange made clear – with some pretty sharp and testy retorts, and a few choice glares – that he was unhappy with the fan-base. He may have been unhappy with others too, his words were a tad cryptic and difficult to interpret in truth, but at one point he clearly indicated irritation that bellowing from the four stands of our lovely arena, which has previously acted as the soundtrack to a last-minute escape or two, was conspicuous by its absence yesterday, and that this irked.

The whole business of fan sentiment before and during yesterday’s production has been well-documented, and AANP being an accepting sort was quite happy for each man, woman and child to make their own choice. Indeed, it should be noted that our Big Cheese has himself previously been at pains to insist that he is not one for prescribing to fans how they should think or feel.

This seemed to go out the window last night. As it happens, I’m fully in favour of anyone grabbing by the shoulders each of our mob and shaking a bit of winning mentality into them. If four decades of watching has taught me anything it’s that one Spurs team after another is all too willing to accept being second-best, or worst.

What jarred a little last night, however, was seeing quite how angry Ange became, seemingly at the fan-base, when in recent weeks he has looked a lot less hot under the collar after a series of frankly dreadful performances by the players. The players’ performances in defeats to Fulham, Newcastle, Chelsea and Woolwich themselves, each very reasonably earned a spot of Postecoglou gruffling and varying degrees of displeasure – but nothing like the volcanic stuff that simmered away last night.

One doesn’t really know the full story, I suppose, and he might have woken this morning feeling a lot bonnier about life, with his airways having been cleared and bright new dawns ahead. Last night’s whingeing however, and the direction in which it was aimed, seem to have chipped away a bit of the goodwill that he has generally amassed over the last nine months or so. For avoidance of doubt, AANP is still whole-heartedly supportive of Team Ange, and pretty confident that a few key signings (and sales), and a willingness occasionally to tweak tactics (as last night), will see us faring better next time out than this – but the head honcho might be advised to direct his evil eye and scything commentary elsewhere for a while.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-1 Burnley: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Left-Back: Skipp

A penny for Emerson Royal’s thoughts, what? Truth be told, the lad seems to harbour such delusions of his own ability, genuinely convinced that no finer player than he ever trod the earth, that he probably viewed the selection of Skipp as a means of protecting him for the City game on Tuesday.

Skipp it was then, following a steady cameo at unorthodox left-back vs Liverpool. I suppose there cannot be many footballers it’s easier to tell apart than Oliver Skipp and Destiny Udogie, and these differences evidently stretch beyond merely physical appearance. Where Udogie is partial to a gallop from within halfway to the edge of the opposition penalty area – with or without the ball – Skipp is evidently a bit more reserved about the whole business.

Skipp is no doubt the sort who, when crossing a road, will look right, left and then right again – because one can never be too sure – and he brought this attitude of good common sense, with a dash of the old ‘Safety First’, with him into the arena yesterday. That is to say he seemed happy enough to venture forward over halfway and well into enemy territory, but only once sure that the back-door was locked first. More Ben Davies than Destiny Udogie, I suppose one might say – and as fourth- or fifth-choice, and still finding his feet in the role, that was no bad thing.

The one shame about his performance was that for the goal we conceded he paid rather cruelly for the briefest lapse of concentration. If any of the sticklers amongst you has ever queried precisely how long a “split-second” lasts, I’d suggest rewinding footage of yesterday’s Burnley goal and casting an eye upon young Skipp when the move is at its genesis, as for the briefest duration – a split-second, if you will – he gazes at the ball and the ball only, subconsciously taking a step or two towards it and rather letting drift from his mind the existence of that Brun Larsen fellow behind him. And that, alas, was all it took.

The B.L. nib had a yard advantage, and unlike Skipp was facing towards our goal, when the foot-race started, factors that did much to seal the deal. Ultimately, to use a sentiment that I suspect will one day be the epitaph on Skipp’s Tottenham career, while his honest endeavour could not be faulted he just did not quite make it.

As an aside, I did note something similar last week, when Skipp chased the shadow of Mo Salah for 20 yards before the latter deposited the ball in the net – but on that occasion the flag was raised. To this day it is unclear to me whether Skipp was actually in the wrong position, or whether Salah escaped him precisely because he had the unfair offside advantage. Either way, it would be understandable if our boy is yet to master some of the finer positional intricacies of the role – and let’s face it, that Skipp is even in the frame when these desperate sprints from halfway begin is something of an improvement, given that Porro and Udogie have spent the whole season being caught a good ten yards further up the pitch.

2. Left-Back: Van de Ven

So apart from his involvement in the goal conceded – or lack thereof, I suppose – Skipp’s afternoon passed without too much drama, either in terms of Emerson-esque moments to infuriate or Udogie-esque moments to take the breath away. The plot thickened like the dickens on 75 minutes however, when Skipp was replaced by Dragusin, who duly gave a Skipp-esque performance low on items of note, and the consequent re-jig saw young Van de Ven shoved over to the left.

AANP being a laid-back sort of egg, I took in this sorcery with an accepting enough nod; but for some amongst the tribe the move of VDV to left-back was evidently pretty sensational stuff. To update those who just watch the football and don’t pay too much attention to the noise, there has been a pretty rowdy minority waving placards and thrusting petitions about the place which have called for precisely this rearrangement in the absence of Udogie. “Give Dragusin a chance at centre-back,” goes the catchy refrain, “and more to the point let’s see Van de Ven at left-back, given that the chap is lightning quick, pretty comfortable on the ball and left-footed.”

So when the relevant stars aligned at minute 75 yesterday there was some pretty gleeful hand-rubbing going on about the place, as VDV At Left-Back campaigners got their wish. And lo, our newly-minted Best Performing Old Bean (and Best Performing Young Bean, to give him his full list of accolades) rose to the occasion like an absolute pro. Having provided a couple of immediate hints that he was in the mood, by gamely exploring the higher echelons of the left touchline, the manner in which he took his goal was enough to clasp the hand to the forehead and mutter a pretty meaningful “Golly.”

The fact that VDV was where he was in the first place, in order to avail himself of Maddison’s pass, spoke volumes. Maddison received the ball 10 yards north of the centre circle, and VDV was another 10 yards north of him – occupying what hearty traditionalists of good sense and sound mind might call an inside-forward sort of spot, in between Son out on the left and Scarlett in the centre.

To give it a different translation, he was in precisely the sort of position one would expect of Udogie on his more adventurous days, and as Maddison rolled the ball towards him he scuttled off in between the lines, as the knowing sorts like to say, into that space between Burnley’s midfield and defence that is guaranteed to cause looks of consternation to be passed around between them like a hot potato.

Having the gumption even to pop up in these environs I thought spoke volumes about the chap’s grasp of the role requirements and eagerness to partake of the attacking aspects of the binge; but then to collect the ball in his stride, skip past three quarters of their defence and finish the thing off was an absolute triumph, and wildly out of keeping with our laboured efforts in front of goal for something like the last six months.

In particular, I was rather taken by the dip of the shoulder that left the various Burnley sorts pirouetting on the spot like malfunctioning robots in need of instruction and direction, followed by the coup de grace, a remarkably thoughtful directioning of his shot one way when it looked for all the world as if nature was gently coaxing him to shoot the other way.

The usual caveats apply I suppose – only Burnley, only fifteen minutes – but it was a spot of quality the like of which we have sorely missed in the final third, and it poses quite the head-scratcher for Our Glorious Leader ahead of City on Tuesday. VDV at left-back is one thing, and as auditions go, this was one to file in the ‘Flying Colours’ category; but the whole issue also hinges on the delicate matter of whether that Dragusin chap would therefore be able to handle about eighteen foot of Haaland lumbering about the place.

3. Romero

Football is, of course pretty reactionary sort of guff these days. I mean to say you can’t lob a brick without hitting someone who insists that a current player is the best there’s ever been, and that there is nothing to a game beyond goals and assists, and generally peddling the slightly Orwellian line that there’s no point harking back a bit because football didn’t exist back then. And in keeping with this train of thought is the notion that the stand-out defenders are the ones who scored, because nothing else matters.

AANP does not go in for this mode of thinking, and as such will quite happily place neatly to one side the fine finishes of both Messrs VDV and Porro (who, to his credit, leathered his goal like an absolute missile – and then, fuelled by adrenaline, spent the remainder shooting at every opportunity). The standout chappie for my money was young Romero. The other pair may have each had their eye-catching moment, but Romero seemed to excel throughout.

Admittedly he did not have a great deal to do at the back, one early block being pretty much the sum of it, as Burnley pottered about fairly cluelessly throughout, but coming forward I thought he became an increasingly useful cog. He picked passes, ran with the ball and ran usefully without the ball, and generally contributed strongly to the improved second half performance of the collective.

A few inches this way or that and he might also have created a goal for Sarr and nodded one in himself, but all things considered I had him down as the pick of a pretty decent bunch. He will have sterner defensive tests to come – not least on Tuesday night – but that attacking string to his bow was put to mightily handy use yesterday.

4. A Welcome Upturn

Much-needed stuff in the end, both in terms of result and performance. No doubt it helped to play literally a Championship team, Burnley being pretty poor in every respect, but nevertheless, one can only do one’s best against the fodder placed in one’s way, and our heroes created plenty of chances in the second half in particular.

There were some much improved individual performances too. As ever one cannot escape too far from the clutches of the caveat that it was only Burnley, but it was good to see Maddison potter about the place with a dash more meaning than in recent weeks, and Bentancur similarly looked about more clued up when he trotted on, while Kulusevski improved after a dreary first half, and Johnson took up enough good positions to have scored a fairly straightforward hat-trick.

I was also impressed by young Scarlett, as much as anything else for simply giving us a bona fide focal point in attack as we pushed for the winner, even if he himself did not necessarily make too many seismic contributions.

The whole gang of them bucked up in the second half, albeit added aided throughout by Burnley’s pretty loose and liberal interpretations of playing out from the back, but as mentioned, and after a run of four defeats, one simply takes the win with a murmur of appreciation.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-3 Arsenal: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Corners Again, Blast It

Some have, understandably I suppose, raged that our first half was various shades of abysmal; and on the telly-box last night Ashley Williams, not a chap to whom I’d ever paid much attention previously, drifted into existence and promptly plummeted in my estimation by opining that the other lot were “magnificent” and “dominated the whole first half”; and I suppose rather than scratching the perplexed head I should celebrate the varied opinions and perspectives birthed by democracy.

But I don’t. Woolwich certainly defended stoutly, and goodness knows they took their chances in a way that had me casting covetous glances, but the suggestion that we were dominated in that first half seemed to overlook actual events and skip straight to the half-time headline. While the scoreboard was pretty emphatic, that was hardly a 0-3 sort of session.

Defending on your perspective you might suggest that our lot shaded the midfield joust in that first half, or you might suggest the other lot shaded it, but the crux of it is that whichever side did the better job of things did so by a whisker, for affairs in the middle third were pretty tightly-contested. On the one hand our press was pretty good, and their passing pretty poor; whilst on the other their defending prevented our heroes from flooding through and making merry.

As such, our first half harvest consisted of two near things from the bonce of Romero, a tight offside call and a clear opportunity for Sonny that he sent off into the gods; they, meanwhile, launched one attack of note but managed to score thrice; and life does not get much more vexing than that, what?

However, simply to lament that if were not for conceding from corners we’d have been slap bang in the middle of a contest at half-time is to miss the point, and by a considerable distance. The art of defending corners is every inch as critical a part of the game as shading the midfield. More so, you might in fact argue, as you’re a dashed sight more likely to score from a corner than from the halfway line. And the fact that simply earning a corner is near enough sufficient for any opponent to score against us frankly has the steam billowing from my ears.

But there we are. Just like last time out – and the previous time, and the time before that for goodness’ sake – simply swinging the ball into our six-yard box did the trick. Never mind that all eleven lilywhites were smartly assembled, and doing their best to lend a spot of credibility to the narrative by engaging in that push-shove routine with the nearest opponent; once the ball was airborne they all melted away pretty quickly, and the surge of Woolwich forwards from back-post to front progressed in relatively unencumbered fashion.

None of which would be a problem, by the by, if young Vicario took it upon himself to club everyone out of the way and batter the ball into the distance like a man possessed, or even – if you can wrap your heads around the absurdity – catch the blasted thing. But this, of course, is not really his style, he being a ‘keeper who prefers to stick to his goal-line and leave corner-related incidents to the Fates, seemingly reasoning that as a mere goalkeeper he is powerless to intervene in the journey of a ball approaching him at catchable height.

I actually allowed a smidgeon of sympathy to depart my soul and wing its way to Hojbjerg for his own-goal, on the grounds that he at least made an effort to get involved; but I was careful not to go overboard on that front, for the daft young melon did somehow contrive to station himself the wrong side of his man and facing his own net, with predictable results.

The Havertz goal contained no such noble efforts from our lot, facing the wrong way or otherwise. The fact that Havertz was sandwiched between our two central defenders and was still treated to a free header from about a yard out spoke volumes about the security levels that exist about the place. On top of which, lest we forget, at the death we had to rely on VDV to clear off the line yet another headed effort from a corner.

It is this utter impotence at corners, rather than any other element of our performance, or the various officiating calls, that has had the AANP blood boiling in the 24 hours since. That a bunch of handsomely paid professionals, with 15 days to work on the issue, could offer so little resistance every blasted time boggles the mind and then comes back up to boggle it further.

The post-match mumblings of Our Glorious Leader on the topic hardly put the mind at ease either, he disappearing into an odd, existential waffle rather than pledging to work on the issue day and night until the soles of their feet bleed and they head away footballs in their sleep. The problem seems blindingly obvious and yet, at the same time, blisteringly easy to resolve, which I suppose adds to the general sense of exasperation it engenders. As it stands however, we’re giving up at least a goal a game in this manner, and it’s become pretty farcical.

2. Kulusevski (and the Immediate Future of Maddison)

In weeks gone by I have pretty forcefully lent my voice to the campaign to have Kulusevski demoted from full-time duty out on the right, on the grounds that the young buck insists on spoiling the great finale of any given attack by cutting back onto his left foot at the critical moment.

Prior to kick-off yesterday, however, I quietly applauded his selection, reasoning that his forte is in carrying the ball over halfway and setting things in motion, and that against the division’s more progressive mobs this skillset might bring home the beans.

And all things considered, in the first half I thought he made a pretty good fist of things, not least because he indulged that urge of his to cut inside and hare through the middle, rather than hugging the touchline. One never really knows with our lot whether these individual forays into other positions are based entirely upon the whim of the individual or ordained from on high by The Brains Trust, but either way, the net result was a Kulusevski who caused a few problems in central areas and added a bit of heft in support of Sonny.

However, if I were gently encouraged by Kulusevski’s efforts in the first hour or so, I was even more deeply enamoured of his performance in the final half hour, when Maddison was withdrawn, various pieces were rearranged and Kulusevski was ordered to spread the good news from the Number 10 position.

Where Maddison had willingly but rather ineffectively dropped deep and tried to thread short, forward passes through impossibly tight gaps, Kulusevski seemed more inclined to puff out the chest, hitch up the shoulders and barrel his way through the centre. Sometimes it worked, quite often it didn’t, but it seemed that he – along with Johnson on the right, and the newly-installed Richarlison up top – helped to put us on the front-foot.

A little unrefined as a 10 he may be, and perhaps not as possessed of the defence-splitting pass, or vision to spot it, as Maddison, but Kulusevski does force the issue and give opposing defences a thing or two think about, not least his tendency to barge uninvited into the penalty area like some uncouth party-crasher. On top of which, when barging about the place as a Number 10 he does not need to keep cutting back onto his left foot, as he can simply point the compass North-West and make full use of that left foot from the off.

This is not to say that Kulusevski is the answer to all our creative ills, but with Maddison having gone distinctly off the boil since limping off against Chelsea back in November, I’d be perfectly at ease with a world in which the latter was quietly deposited on the bench for the next few games, and the former given free rein to carry the ball from a more central coordinate.

3. Richarlison

As mentioned above, Richarlison’s introduction seemed to contribute to a general positivity about the place. What he lacks in finesse – and basic ball control – the peculiar young bean certainly makes up for in the noble arts of Making a Nuisance of Oneself and Starting Fights in Empty Rooms, and while I actually struggle to remember too many deft touches and moments of ingenuity, he bounded around the place starting arguments and chasing causes, both lost and up-for-grabs, from the moment he entered the arena.

A different sort of beast from Sonny, no doubt, but exactly what was needed in the circumstance (that of having just pulled back a goal for 3-1). Where Son’s forte is in getting behind defenfers and haring off like the wind, Richarlison’s is in ploughing straight into them with a scowl.

I also appreciated the fact that as and when our wide-ish sorts tossed in crosses, we finally had someone on the premises with an inkling of what to do with them, Richarlison being pretty willing to hoist himself up towards the heavens and thrust a neck muscle or two. Compare this with Son, a forward I can barely remember challenging for a header in his entire Spurs career, and it did feel like we had an extra couple of routes to goal in that final half hour.

I don’t doubt that if Richarlison features more in the coming weeks I’ll find plenty of reasons to berate the fine fellow, his technique with ball at feet still requiring a spot of polish for a start, but the added dimension or two that he provides as a focal point of attack is a pretty welcome addition to a team that in recent weeks has at times appeared to forget the point of the exercise.

4. Romero

One probably ought not to let the narrative conclude without at least acknowledging the curious, rampaging efforts of Romero.

Now being an old-fashioned sort, AANP still likes to peddle the outmoded notion that a defender’s primary role is to defend. Not to play out from the back; not to bomb forward to support the forward; but to defend. And seeing Romero join the massed ranks who watched and flapped his hands a bit as a yard in front of him Havertz nodded in unchallenged, I did spit a feather or two. Room for improvement in the day-job, no doubt.

That said, if ever a team needed hauling up by its shoulders it was our lot at half-time yesterday, and Romero seemed pretty happy to stick his hand up. Admittedly this involved him first tearing up whatever instructions he was given about where to position himself and what to keep secure behind him, but he did it to pretty good effect, so well done him. Quite why he was flying up the centre of the pitch to charge down Raya’s clearance is beyond me, but there he was, and he also had the good sense to round off that episode by giving the ‘keeper the eyes, in order to roll the ball in.

Romero was also in the thick of things for our penalty, dishing out a bit of opinion and muscle when the ball was crossed into the area, immediately before it fell to Ben Davies who has promptly hacked down; and I seem to remember at least one crunching tackle high up the pitch that won possession and kept us on the attack, contributing to the general sense that this was a game he was determined not to see peter out in silence.

He might have had more than just his one goal of course, those first half headers doing the agonising thing – but for all the frustration of his near misses, the marginal VDV offside and even the bonkers decision to wave away Kulusevski’s penalty claim, ultimately I still fume and fume some more at our defending from corners.

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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 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

Everton 2-2 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. That Late Equaliser

Nothing quite wrenches the gut like conceding an added-time equaliser, what? If you don’t mind a remarkably early tangent, one of the oddities of such things is the change in narrative it brings about, with the great and good effortlessly swivelling from a narrative of Spurs showing spirit to grind out a win to, one set-piece later, Spurs’ lack of game management in one of their worst showings of the season.

Back to the wrenched gut, and when all concerned adopted their positions for that final free-kick, AANP would gladly have directed all three wishes from the nearest genie towards a Tottenham head getting to the ball first. Picture my delight then, when, upon delivery of the f.k., the head that rose to prominence belonged to one of our own, Cristian Romero taking a spot of initiative. It was high-fives all round at AANP Towers, Everton having seemingly been denied and the danger averted.

Alas, to my considerable consternation it quickly became evident that this was but the first element in a quite horrific two-parter. Romero’s part having been played well enough, the immediate sequel somehow saw the Everton laddie Branthwaite and poor old Vicario drawn together in close-quarter combat, with nary another soul in sight.

The mood at AANP Towers swiftly darkened. Vicario is a man of many goalkeeping (and, indeed, outfield) talents, the strings to his bow being rich and plentiful; but standing up to some brutish lump in a duel to the death is not amongst them. Vicario, already back-pedalling was duly flattened, as that Branthwaite creature skirted over the finer points and simply bundled into the net the ball, goalkeeper, self and anything else that happened to catch his eye. In neatly appropriate fashion, Vicario sustained a blow to the gut in the process.

So no blame attached to Romero; and while Vicario might have offered a bit more resistance (as shall be explored below) the damage by that point seemed already done. As such, the initial reaction was simply to bemoan the rotten luck of the ball looping so invitingly to an Everton head.

But a little further investigation revealed that in fact there were culprits galore dotted about the place.

The dashed free-kick in the first place. Review the footage and one notes Richarlison losing possession in his own half in the first place, which was unimpressive but I suppose not, at that stage terminal. Next, and after a spot of this and that amongst the principals, the responsibility for matters fell upon Kulusevski.

Having lost a 50-50, which was excusable enough, rather than try something constructive to redeem the situation, or indeed simply put his head down and chase back, Kulusevski took an unsubtle swipe at the legs of the Everton man from behind. It was comfortably the most knuckle-headed option on offer, being both utterly unnecessary whilst also presenting a free-kick in prime position to a side whose only threat had been from set-pieces.

Nor did the ignominy end there. The headlines of that second goal may by now be familiar to all – Romero, Branthwaite, et cetera – but there comes a time in a man’s life when he must pause and ask himself precisely why it was that Branthwaite was left unchallenged in the six-yard box at the depth.

The guilty party, rather regrettably, given his contributions in other areas, was Richarlison. Attached to Branthwaite at the moment of delivery, he retained an observer’s interest in events as they unfolded, his beady eye remaining on the ball throughout. The crux of the thing, however, was that Richarlison’s presence ought to have been in the capacity of a participant rather than an observer, and in this respect he erred pretty sensationally. Once the ball was airborne, the chap simply stopped moving. Branthwaite jostled his way into prime position, whether in hope, expectation or whatever else; but behind him, Richarlison was making it pretty clear that his race was won. ‘If anyone is going to stop that chap’, he seemed to intimate, ‘it dashed well won’t be me.’

2. Richarlison’s Happier Moments (Or What Ought To Have Been Happier Moments) – Part One

As mentioned, a shame that the trail of evidence can be traced back to Richarlison for that one, because in other respects he looked a man in the form of his life.

Now a cynic might suggest that his first goal didn’t amount to much, perhaps pointing out that he simply stood in one spot and had the ball fed to him on a plate, leaving him with a To-Do list that contained little more than to stand on one leg and swing with the other. Not necessarily untruths I suppose, but this in itself seemed to illustrate the fellow’s brimming confidence. The nous to stand in one spot, for a start, was indicative of a striker who knows he is on a bit of a roll, rather than trying too hard to be in all places at once.

And even the finish, whilst low on technical requirements such as first touch, the side-stepping of defenders or the deceiving of the goalkeeper, was nevertheless a bit of a triumph of slick technique. After all, who amongst us hasn’t witnessed this very same man at the vital moment tripping over real or imaginary obstacles, or thumping the ball everywhere except within the frame of the goal? To see him simply slap the ball first-time into the net, without pausing to dwell on any of the ways in which the operation might go wrong, was mightily pleasing.

An honorary mention to those involved in the build-up to that first goal, the neat, quick passing of that move summing up our approach in those glorious first ten minutes or so, before we spent the remainder of the half struggling to control proceedings. Hojbjerg (whose contributions typically swung wildly between Decent and Rotten), Udogie and Werner all made smart choices in possession out on the left before Richarlison applied the coup de grâce, and at that stage I must confess that I topped up the lunchtime bourbon in rather self-satisfied fashion. The early signs were pretty promising.

3. Richarlison’s Happier Moments (Or What Ought To Have Been Happier Moments) – Part Two

By the time Richarlison’s second goal rolled around, the atmosphere had shifted somewhat, from heady optimism to something considerable sterner, our heroes struggling to demonstrate any semblance of control when in possession in our own half. But out of the blue they chiselled another delightful goal, and while Richarlison again made a point of showing the world that he was a changed man in front of goal, the build-up once more merited acclaim.

Maddison in particular emerged with credit from that second goal. In truth, it was a bit tricky to follow in its entirety quite what sorcery he produced, the naked eye being rather unfairly limited to seeing these things in real-time, but the headlines seemed to be that having received the ball in a bit of a pickle, circumstances not really being at their optimum – ball stuck under his feet, defenders poking their noses into his business – by the time he had finished conducting his affairs the ball was neatly rolling into the path of Richarlison to spit on his hands and get down to business.

Not that the end result was a tap-in for R9. The pouty Brazilian still had a fair amount of legwork to get through before he could go reaping the harvest, but again it was indicative of the mood of the young fish that he didn’t pause to fret and over-think, nor rush into his shot and hit any one of the various blue-shirted bounders scattered between him and the goal.

To his credit, Richarlison had the presence of mind to open up his body a tad, in the split-second or so in which the opportunity presented itself, this allowing a route to the top corner to present itself where previously there had been only Everton limbs. Moreover, the chap then nailed the pretty testing combination of placement and power, managing to sidefoot his shoot such that it dripped with accuracy, whilst also shoving enough heft behind it that it flew in at a decent rate of knots.

It’s taken some time, but the young nib is now marauding about the place like a bona fide finisher, which, for all his earnest endeavour and essential contributions in other areas (holding up the ball, effecting the high press etc) is really the meat and drink of the role.

All that said, it did rather irritate to see him making such a song and dance of not making a song and dance about scoring. This trend for refusing to celebrate goals against one’s former employer is one of those maddening modern fads that AANP would punish with a good thrashing if I ever came to power, but I suppose we’re stuck with it for now, so I can do little more than point out that in trying so hard not to upset his former fan-base, he’s rather irked at least one member of his current fan-base. I trust he will toss and turn and lose a goodish amount of sleep puzzling over that one in the coming nights.

4. Van de Ven

The other notable contributor de jour was young Micky Van de Ven, whose importance to the setup seems to grow with each passing game.

AANP’s latest whizz for whiling away the idle hour is to try to decide who amongst our number is the most important cog in the machine. And while Maddison, Son, Sarr and Vicario all have their merits, and in more left-field moments one might propose Udogie or even, when in his pomp, Bissouma, yesterday was the sort of afternoon on which the merits of Van de Ven seemed almost irresistible.

That turn of pace is really quite astonishing. The memory of his hamstring snap a few months ago against Chelsea does linger uncomfortably in the memory, so every time I witness him rev up and move through the gears I do hold the breath and murmur a silent prayer or two, but to witness him in action is quite something.

I have heard it pointed out that not only does he eat up the ground like some prize racehorse, but he is also blessed with the good sense to know when to dive in and when to stay on his feet – which may sound straightforward enough, but in a world of Romeros and Bissoumas and so on, is probably something to be appreciated.

Having a chap of his ilk manning the rear provides an attacking thrust as well as the defensive security, allowing the entire mob to play high up the pitch, safe in the knowledge that VDV’s pace provides something of a safety net, and while the other personnel did not really fulfil their side of the bargain yesterday, Van de Ven did not miss a trick.

5. Vicario

One could probably make a decent case for the notion that Everton’s aggression caused us problems all over the pitch, but it was at corners and against Vicario that the issue really came to a head.

Various of those in lilywhite have invested a decent amount of energy and outrage in complaining that the general buffeting of Vicario at corners is just not cricket, and that such behaviour ought not to be allowed. Personally I’m inclined to give the shoulders a shrug at that one. If the officials allow it – and the evidence of recent weeks indicates that they have done and will continue to do so for the foreseeable – then complaints ought to be silenced and energies devoted to fixing the issue.

Assigning Vicario some sort of burly minder might be an agreeable first step. One appreciates that all involved at corners have their dedicated roles and responsibilities (not that these necessarily carry too much weight in practice, if Richarlison’s marking of Branthwaite is anything to go by), but I would suggest that some physical protection for Vicario is now a priority.

And we’re not short of suitable candidates either. Even allowing for two or three man-markers, there are plenty amongst our number who are constructed from layer upon layer of thick muscle and ligament, so finding a volunteer to park himself next to our goalkeeper and prevent opponents from interfering in his business ought to be achievable.

The other option, of course, would be to train Vicario himself in a spot of self-defence, and perhaps investigate ways in which a bit of bulk could be added to his frame while at it. Vicario’s first reserve, Fraser Forster, I imagine, by virtue of being built like a sizeable oak, is not the sort of fellow who is too often barged off balance as he goes about his business, so he may have a tip or two to impart on these fronts.

Whatever the route they go down, something will have to be done. Clearly it is not sufficient for Vicario to be shoved to one side and bleat away at the ref after the ball is prodded in. Everton did not create too many chances from open play, but the mood amongst my little squadron of onlookers was one of ever-increasing panic each time they were awarded a corner, so it is conceivable that a certain anxiety may enter the minds of those on the pitch. Having achieved so much in open play, it would be vexing in the extreme to concede repeatedly from corners because of one single issue. Time for The Brains Trust to earn their keep.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 0-1 Man City: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Vicario and The Goal

The fires of righteous indignation were blazing away like nobody’s business amongst vast swathes of lilywhites after that City goal, with “Foul play!” the principal anthem howled. One understands the sentiment, given that the City chappie was dancing a pretty intimate number with Vicario, but the sentiment at AANP Towers was to give the shoulders a shrug. Seen them given of course, but tend to roll the eyes skywards when they are.

‘Football-playing folk will inevitably bump limbs’ was the official line around these parts, and as the chap’s arms and elbows maintained a relatively conservative existence during the episode, rather than being flailed abaft the head in overly reckless fashion, I was pretty sanguine about the challenge. Spitting feathers and blood boiling at the concession of a late winner of course, ranting and blaspheming into the night sky at that, but not particularly outraged about the decision of the judiciary.  

Rather than launch into a passionate diatribe about the indignity of having his path hindered, I would have much preferred Vicario to have taken the more rudimentary approach in the first place of Cleaning Out Everyone In Front Of Him and Punching The Ball To Kingdom Come. Less scope for perceived injustices that way.

To his credit Vicario did actually get a fist to the thing, despite that City rascal whispering sweet nothings in his ear. His contact was hardly of the Kingdom Come variety, but he might nevertheless feel that he had put in place the basics and could reasonably look to a nearby associate to firm the thing up. It was rather a shame, then, that this part of the procedure having been ticked off, the ball bounced off the back of young Van de Ven, who seemed rather astonished to find himself in the vicinity, and neatly into the airspace of that Ake fellow.

Thereafter there was not much to be done, but with the dust having settled I hope that young Vicario, in his quieter moments, decides to focus his thousand hours of practice on that aforementioned art of C.O.E.I.F.O.H.A.P.T.B.T.K.C. Because in most other areas the chap seems well in control of matters – playing the ball from feet when under pressure, shot-stopping, and so forth. Indeed, these very qualities were proudly advertised on Friday night – City’s press being of the intense variety, and their shots low and punchy. As such, one would not want opponents to sniff a weakness at set-pieces and accordingly crowd and jostle our gate-keeper to within an inch of his life each time. Remedy that chink in the armour, young man.

2. Van de Ven (and Udogie)

Alongside Vicario, young Van de Ven struck me as one of the more impressive of our number. A blessed relief to have him back, for his composure and comfort in possession in the first place, but also, as he rather pointedly emphasised on several occasions, for his red-face-sparing pace, that allows him to save the day time and again, with the well-judged skin-of-the-teeth timing that is the hallmark of so many of life’s finest action heroes.

We muddled through with varying degrees of success without him, but having him back at times feels like having a twelfth player in the ranks. (As it happens, I feel similarly when casting the beady eye upon former N17 parishoner Kyler Walker.) That is to say, the day-job entails performing all the duties of any self-respecting centre-back, but, blessed with jet-heeled pace, young VDV is also able to masquerade as something of a sweeper, racing in from wherever he may be when emergency arises, to act as last line of defence and give it that Kingdom Come treatment. This flexibility was displayed against both Foden in the first half and De Bruyne in the second, to name but two instances, and is a mightily useful bonus string to the bow.

And while on the subject of those who performed adequately enough I might as well direct an admiring whistle towards young Signor Udogie, whose offensive and defensive mechanics both appeared to be in fine working order. Admittedly City had a bit too much joy down their left/our right in the first half, but when Udogie was put to the test in one-on-one combat he tended to deploy either or both of his speed and upper-body strength, as appropriate and to good effect. All a bit futile in the final analysis, but one ought to record such things.

3. Absent Friends

Whichever bean it was who came up with the gag that absence makes the heart grow fonder was clearly quite the football aficionado. It’s a maxim that has heightened the standing of many a Spurs player, from Gil and Winks to Sammways and Nayim, and while some of the aforementioned may have underwhelmed a tad when eventually given their opportunity, on Friday night it was with some legitimacy that I bemoaned the ongoing absences of Sarr, Son and Maddison (and, to an extent, Bissouma).

That midfield in particular needed a bit of guile and mischief. Bentancur, as ever, was doing a fine job of availing himself for passes from the centre-backs, and, despite the rather impatient intrusions from City’s forwards, upon receipt calmly spraying the ball to safe zones; but further forward for approximately an hour we did rather scream out for Maddison.

As has been remarked fairly widely, on a few occasions, various of our heroes overlooked the opportunity to release Herr Werner into wide open spaces, and I suppose one never really knows quite how things would have played out in an alternate universe, but one does moodily mutter that Maddison might have picked him out a bit more cannily than those honoured with selection from the start.

Sarr similarly would have been an asset, with Hojbjerg demonstrating once again that being an adequate sub to see out the final fifteen against a side from the bottom half does not really equate to being the measure of the best team on the planet; and seeing our lot labour to create or finish a decent chance worthy of the name I did also lament the ongoing absence of Sonny.

I suppose it’s more important that we stay in touch with the popular kids in the Title race (or Top Four/Five race if you prefer), than that we turn over Man City of all teams in the Cup. Despite the fact that lamentations towards the absence of a trophy ring louder at AANP Towers than in most places, I’d still take a loss against City at home in an early round of the Cup if we can instead turn them over in a few weeks’ time in the League. And as Our Glorious Leader loosely put it, there’s no huge shame in losing to that lot when they’re a good few years ahead of us in their development (and bank balance – witness them flinging on De Bruyne and Doku, and not even bothering to fling on Grealish, while we had the luxury of Dane Scarlett as our In Case of Emergency call).

So the frustration at the continued absences of key players ought not to be over-egged much further, but as one by one they slip back into the fold, by golly I hope, and to an extent envisage, that we can recreate that early season run of wins.

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Spurs match reports

Wolves 2-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Opening Salvo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Davies and Dier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Hojbjerg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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