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Spurs 2-3 Villa: four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Still Not Really Panicking

Feel free to direct a mirthless laugh AANP’s way – you wouldn’t be the first – but I remain relatively unflustered by the current plight.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been clucking and tutting like the best of them. Results elsewhere being what they are, we appear to be bedding in for a three-week stint at the bottom of the pile, which ought really not to be The Tottenham Way, nor the trappings of a £400m-plus spending splurge. Stick the raw facts on a sheet of A4 and they do prompt a sharp and rather pained intake of breath. 

And yet. Not for the first time this season I thought our lot set about the thing perfectly reasonably. For the first half, and frankly even at one-nil down, our heroes brimmed with a decent array of attacking ideas. We shovelled the thing around briskly enough, and the high press was executed relatively well.

Cast your minds back to the not-so-distant past and we would be treated to a dirge-like marathon of sideways passes that made for pretty painful viewing as we went through the motions of trying to penetrate a low block. Yesterday was not at all of the same ilk. But for some pretty energetic gatekeeping by that Suzkuki chap, and a couple of inches here and there – and a refereeing decision or two that on a good day fall in one’s favour – we would have toddled off for the half-time sherbet slapping each other’s backs and doing the maths on our ascent up the table.

My point is essentially that I’ve seen enough to suggest that if we keep beavering away thusly our results will sooner or later take care of themselves. It doesn’t seem a particularly outrageous call to suggest that our current brand of football is punchy enough to bring us a goal or two against most of the sides we’ll play week by week.

The perfect setup it most certainly is not. One does not have to peer too deeply to spot all manner of plot-holes. But broadly, we’ve played some decent stuff, a brand that would ordinarily have brought us a couple of route in wins suitable for third spot on the Match of the Day running order.

2. A Goalscorer

All that said, even if we weren’t peddling a half-decent attacking repertoire, if we had a 20-goals-a-season sort of joe leading the line then I suspect all this sackcloth and ashes stuff would be unnecessary. A born and bred goalscorer would rustle up a goal in even those games in which the well of creativity ran bone dry.

I’m rather a fan of Solanke as it happens. When fully fit and in the groove, he’s an AANP sort of forward – something of a physical specimen, capable of leaving a few bruises on opposing defenders, but also blessed with a sufficiently deft touch to keep his chums interested. If he ever strung half a dozen consecutive games together, I fancy he’d be politely tapping on the Tuchel shoulder.

I’m not necessarily convinced, however, that he’s the sort of fellow who will squeeze in close-range goals from all angles, or pop up in the r. place and r. time to poach one when there’s a ricochet in the area, and all that wholesome stuff. Just not an out and out goalscorer.

This is hardly his fault, and I’d still have him around the place. A fit and firing Solanke is quite the asset. But having thrown cash around like confetti this summer, the sight of our lot doing everything but score goals whenever we attack is quite the frustration dash it all.

Nor is Marmoush the answer, by the by; nor was Richarlison ever the answer. (For what it’s worth, I wasn’t convinced that Gakpo was either; although that Kroupi chap at Bournemouth seems a likelier fit.)

I’m sure countless better-informed minds than mine are poring over spreadsheets and scouring the planet for precisely such a fellow, and should the opportunity arise it’s evident that outlay is no longer the problem it once was. Moreover, our mob are not exactly shot-shy either. Just about every outfield player has had a pop at some point or other, and as mentioned above, the law of averages if nothing else suggests that these will start dribbling in sooner or later. The absence of a bona fide goalscorer, however, does mildly frustrate.

3. Van Hecke’s Off-Day

At the other end, poor old J-P van H had one of his less memorable jollies.

Last weekend against Everton I was positively gushing at the fellow’s performance, specifically when it came to spotting and then delivering his passes. “Cristian Romero eat your heart out”, the more sharp-eared bystanders might have noted me murmuring, as he dipped into his repertoire to deliver a range of short and long passes that were loaded with meaning and through-the-lines impact.

Eye-catching stuff, and it had me thinking that married to the jet-heeled pace of the fellow beside him, we had the makings of a half-decent centre-back pairing.

Alas, all the incisive passing in the world will only take a centre-back so far, if their engine starts spluttering when it comes to the day-job. And the Van Hecke engine was given a right old battering by Nicolas Jackson of all people yesterday.

It wasn’t a complete disaster by any means, and van Hecke did certainly fight the good fight. He just lost too many of the rounds. The nadir came with Jackson’s goal in the second half, when our defence found itself unpicked by the least subtle gambit in the book, Villa taking the opportunity to launch a ball from back to front. Really, if a pair of international central defenders can’t book in a quick strategy meeting and check the manual for a solution to that one, then a rather stern talking-to is on the cards in the debrief.

Van Hecke also picked up a yellow card, for rather needlessly throwing away his wicket, as I’ve heard it called, lunging away at Jackson in an act that seemed to epitomise his afternoon’s work.

His goal late on was taken with some aplomb, so credit where due; but there was a refrain from these quarters last season that a defender’s primary job is to defend, so while the 2025-26 night is still pretty young, the beady AANP eye will be fixed on the fellow’s defensive wares three weeks hence.

4. On The Bright Side

Too little and too late it might have been yesterday, but I think Future Spurs will be quite relieved that we at least clocked a couple of goals yesterday. There is enough doom and gloom and general negativity, from within and without, already. 20th spot after a half billion-pound outlay will invite that.

However, we don’t have to worry about fingers being pointed on the grounds that our lot still can’t score. That particular issue has at least been put to bed. Actually winning over 90 minutes might be beyond us, but a three-week period of soul-searching, finger-pointing – and, let’s face it, memes – about a chronic inability to score, might have been a bit too much, even for the most equanimous amongst us.

Simply being bottom of the pile is plenty of angst for one international break. I for one am mightily relieved that we don’t also have to contend with the deeper existential issue of whether our lot understand how to do goals.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 0-2 Newcastle: Two Brief & Tardy Tottenham Talking Points

1. Porro on the Right Wing

A line or two before the bank holiday draws to a close.

The great and good at N17 may have lobbed around transfer money like confetti this summer, but somehow we started on Saturday evening with Pedro Porro out on the right wing. I know neither know the workings of RDZ’s mind, nor did I see interviews in which he explained the selection, but I’ll just go ahead and take the liberty of assuming his hand was somewhat forced by the presence of his army of right wingers on the treatment table rather than the training pitch, and so Porro it was out on the right side of attack.

And frankly, I thought it was actually no bad thing. If you’ve dabbled at the AANP drinks cabinet before you’ll be aware that my opinion of Porro as a defender is not sky-high. A World Cup-winning right-back he might be, but I’ll be damned if I remember him blocking more than one cross per season. If you want a chap who can lose track of whatever is happening behind him as a cross is floated in, then Porro, I would suggest is your man; but a watertight custodian at the back he is not.

Porro’s fortes appear very much to emerge once he’s made the pilgrimage over halfway, and more pertinently up towards the opposition area. At that point his eyes light up, the crosses fly in and, if he’s within about 25 yards he’ll line up a pop at goal too. And to generally pretty punchy effect too – he’s not the breed of defender who gets a nosebleed and loses all sense of geography once within shooting range. I rather like Porro in the final third.

Thus did it prove on Saturday. I would venture that in the first half he might have been our most threatening forward. His nifty footwork very nearly brought an opening goal of the ilk that would have attracted a few admiring peers, being prevented only by a full-length diving Newcastle block, and in general his radar was just about on and his crossing good.

Admittedly one surprisingly half-decent outing on the right wing is hardly a reason to propel past Kudus, Savio, Kulusevski et al when (chortle) that lot return to fitness, but as curios go this was one of the more impressive variety.

 2. Probably Not As Bad As We All Think

More broadly, there was a pretty understandable collective grump as well as slunk off to WHL station, but I thought at full-time and continue to think now, this was not of the calamitous standard of recent history.

An unequivocal home loss is undoubtedly shabby work; and coming on the back of the mother of all shopping sprees, the aesthetics, to use frightfully modern parlance, were not great.

Nevertheless, I actually thought that for the majority, and certainly while 0-0, we were probably the better team. Coruscating and irresistible it might not have been, but coming forward we seemed sprightly enough, and chances were made and missed.

The failing, to my weary and untrained eye, seemed primarily to be a distinct lack of awareness of one’s fellow man. Put another way, our lot came across as a bunch of strangers. Throughout the team there was a distinct whiff of chappies who’d not quite memorised the surnames of all those around them.

As I watched Marmoush skip past flailing Geordie legs and van Hecke confidently shepherd and wriggle away from prowling forwards, I was struck by the notion that the money almost has been wisely spent. Individually, these are a jolly talented mob. The evidence of past seasons at previous clubs has not lied.

Frustratingly, none of them seemed really to know the preferences and predilections of their teammates. There were no patterns or combinations. None of that borderline telepathic understanding that is a hallmark of a well-drilled unit. The Corluka-Lennon axis is a favoured example at times like these, of how a couple of teammates could develop an understanding of the other’s game and put it to good use; Kane and Son I suppose were another.

I suspect there is pretty good reason for this lack of intuitive link-up. Half the squad seem to have reported back after the summer break carrying injuries of varying degrees of severity; and another sizeable chunk seem only recently to have returned after the World Cup. They simply haven’t had much time on the training pitch with one another.

As such, depressing though the second half was on Saturday (not to mention the entirety of the game against Brentford) AANP is remarkably unflustered by it all. Allowing for the fact that our heroes’ ability to self-sabotage is unparalleled, I feel a comforting calm at the prospect of things clicking into gear in the coming weeks. Sporadic and a little disconnected it might all have been, but I saw enough individual quality on Saturday to put the old mind at ease. As players gain fitness, and a raft of introductions are carried out at Hotspur Way, I am shoving my chips in the direction of the situation improving markedly.  

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Spurs 5-1 Charlton: Two Tottenham Talking Points

1. Ballon D’OR

Only one place to start, what? In honour of Savio changing his name and promptly bagging himself the Ballon d’Or, AANP ought probably to change his name to AA, out of respect.

Of course, one must insert the usual dreary caveats about the quality of the opposition and all that guff, but nevertheless this was probably the best cameo I’ve seen since Tom Cruise in Tropic Thunder. Arriving circa minute 70 to decent fanfare, I’d have settled for Savio simply not getting injured. What we were treated to instead was a couple of goals of the mazy-slaloming-dribble variety.

I’m fully aware that the second goal is officially the property of Davies, B. but if you think I’m about to let a minor detail let factual evidence get in the way of a damn fine narrative you’ve got another think coming. Produce a moment like that every week or two and Savio will be the toast of the town.

The rather turgid first half itself formed part of the narrative, creating the useful context of precisely why we need a character like Savio in the ranks, capable of whistling some magic out of nowhere and turning three or four opponents inside out before landing them on the deck.

Mikey Moore helpfully gave us all a sense of precisely what we need on nights like this, when it’s all plot and no action, by taking matters into his own hands and slicing through the Charlton defence. Savio, however, raised the level by another notch or two.

As a result I’m actually rather looking forward to whatever Saturday brings, which was not a phrase I’ve muttered too often since the Brentford debacle.

2. The All Plot, No Action First Half

The human psyche is a peculiar old kettle of fish. Finish 5-1, and irrespective of the rather bland first half slop, the natives all skip out of the stadium relatively content.

But that first half was not quite the rip-roaring response to the weekend for which we all hoped. Plenty of the ball, which I suppose was the bare minimum, but those in attendance seemed content that possession and possession alone was sufficient. As a result, nary an attacking pass was played, and despite the welcome presence of a great, hulking Solanke prowling the penalty area, not one cross was sent his way.

Instead we were treated to the sight of Moore and Gray tying themselves in knots out on the right flank, obsessed with short passes between themselves rather than the lobbing of anything penetrative into the area; while Tel – presumably now on borrowed time with the arrivals of our Ballon d’Or winner and Marmoush to contend with – peddled his usual routine of scuttling busily in what might be termed ‘build-up’ without ever exploring the concept of ‘end-product’.

On the plus side, Bentancur absolutely purred away in the centre, and M. Fernandes appeared to be getting the hang of things, while Solanke took his goal with generous helpings of aplomb.

Less pleasingly, Bergvall still seems convinced that the game is too easy for him, even though evidence still suggests plenty to the contrary; and the disconnect between life outside the area and life inside the area remained a little too prominent.

Mercifully, however, we pootled around in the second half with a degree of control that is pretty unusual for our lot. Additional goals helped, there were welcome returns for various of the walking wounded and of course our new man did his thing. All of which meant that by the time the final whistle tootled I was able to quote a spot of Sarah Connor:

“The unknown future rolls toward us. I face it, for the first time, with a sense of hope.”

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Brentford 3-0 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Some First Half

As the fellow once put it, the only problems were an inability to bat, bowl or field. Put another way, it was not until the 30th minute that we constructed what anyone of sound mind would term a half-decent move that actually got us into the opposition area, by which point we were already 2-0 down.

As lifelong lilywhites we really should have known better, of course. A summer transfer window comfortably beyond wildest dreams it might have been, but we probably ought to have realised that once the whistle blew and the little white orb started pinging around, then the wheels would come off, and by golly they did so in spectacular fashion. 

Our lot only seemed to cotton onto the fact that the match had started after conceding the penalty, at which point we were lucky to be just the three goals down. Prior to that, pretty much to a man they managed to miss just about every tackle and misplace every pass, which even by the dubious standards of our recent history took some doing. 

One didn’t have to look too far for guilty parties. Young Bergvall has established himself as an AANP favourite during his short N17 career, and he will no doubt have vastly more thrilling afternoons in our colours (if he sticks around the place, that is) but by golly, if there was a bad decision to be made yesterday he made it alright. 
Back in that glorious era before we started conceding, Bergvall was putting in a spot of practice in the art of conceding possession in dangerous areas. He tried to slalom past an opponent or two about 5 yards outside our own area, in a manner vastly too casual for such an occasion, and looked suitably stunned when the ball was pinched from his possession and spirited away to trouble. Nothing became of that particular occasion, but he was less fortunate minutes later when possession was snaffled from him again and Brentford tootled off for their celebrations.
 
I’d have preferred to see Bergvall in a position more similar to that bafflingly occupied by Gallagher. High up the pitch, I presume the point of Gallagher in that Number 10 role was to apply the high press. It has a certain logic to it I suppose, but I like my Number 10s to be blessed with a spot of guile – some trickery and stepovers – not the capacity simply to run ad infinitum and sweat profusely. Bergvall’s love of carrying the ball, it struck me, might have worked out more successfully had he done so from north of the halfway line, rather than just outside his own area. 

Not that the first half mess was the fault of Bergvall and Gallagher alone, even if they were lambs sacrificed on the altar of half-time. Every cast member, major and minor, was stuffing up their lines; these things just looked rather worse when the blighter in question had just cost £100m. 

2. Kinsky

Having delighted in the departure of Vicario, and the promotion of young Kinsky, it was a somewhat red-faced AANP who observed as the latter made a solid pig’s ear of things for that second goal. 

Admittedly I pontificate from a position of minimal goalkeeping experience, but even so. Simply batting the ball straight into the path of the nearest onrushing attacker did not strike me as one from the textbook.

Moreover, the young nib did the hard work of bouncing straight back up, as per all those countless drills one sees pre-match and in training and whatnot; but then simply stood and watched as the rebound was rolled past him. Forsooth. It summoned up the very worst of Hugo Lloris, and did little for the AANP mood. 

As with Bergvall, young Master Kinsky will no doubt have numerous fine occasions to relate to his grandchildren in years to come, but when the chap does bungle them he does so pretty spectacularly, what?

3. Gray as Captain

Now the main point about the choice of captain should of course be that it makes not the slightest jot of difference to things. One really ought not to need one specific chappie to have an armband on his bicep; the whole dashed gang ought to be vocal and responsible and whatever else. 

However, if one takes the view that a team is built in the image of its captain, then the good ship lilywhite was in trouble right from the centre circle preliminaries yesterday. Archie Gray strikes me as the sort one wouldn’t mind one’s daughter inviting over for Sunday lunch, he seeming a pleasant, clean-living sort. When it comes to wearing the armband for Spurs however, I want my captains to be the species of man who sweats blood and staggers on come hell or high water. Archie Gray, for all his merits, looks rather like he might burst into tears if he finds he’s forgotten bring his lunchbox along for the day. 

There is a wider context to this. Bafflingly, Our Glorious Leader selected no fewer than five captains, pre-match. While not exactly De Zerbi’s first mis-step, this did strike me as one of the more pointless gambits of the his tenure. Might as well tell all eleven that they’re captains, what? 

Anyway, select five captains he did, and this being Spurs the first four were all injured. Rudimentary maths therefore dictated that Archie Gray take the honour, but I spent a goodish amount of time chuntering that it ought to have been Andy Robertson. 

When he signed, a month or two back, I was absolutely delighted. Here was a chap, famed for chewing glass and taking all-comers with his bare hands, arrived to toughen up our notoriously feeble and brittle band of toothless kittens. I’d have thought the first job of those in the corridors of power would have been to slap a captain’s armband on him and tell him, “Ho for the hills.”

Make no mistake, while still vaguely capable, Robertson is past his pomp. He was signed as much for the attitude he instils as for any playing ability that can still be eked from his frame. So when the principals were absent, the decision to make Archie Gray the standard bearer, and elbow Robertson off into the shadows, struck me as a tad rummy. Put another way, I know who I’d have preferred screaming his Henry V in my ear pre-match. 

4. Silver Linings

On the bright side, once 3-0-and-a-post down, our lot bucked up somewhat. 

I was quite taken by the boy Senesi, in the second half at least. He struck me as what Romero might have been, had he been possessed of even half an ounce of sense in that vacant skull of his. Senesi seemed aggressive without been an absolute dolt. A tough sort of cookie, but not the T.S.O.C. who thought he had to clatter someone abaft the knees in order to prove the point. 

Pleasingly, I also noted that van Hecke did not shirk the opportunity to take a hearty boot flush in the face, in the midst of the first half collapse. As a pair they did, understandably, come across as strangers acquainted for the first time; but as individuals, each seems a chap well versed in the art of centre backery. 

Also in the debit column, Matheus Fernandes was pretty neat and tidy. Which is not saying much, but having witnessed Bergvall gift away possession like it was a competition, and Tonali doing his best to convince us all it’s an elaborate ruse involving a pub-team doppelganger, I took what small wins I could, and Fernandes’ performance was one of them. 

I’d like to say that Tel had his moments in the second half; but in truth the underwhelming probably outweighed the half-decent from him. There wasn’t much to brighten the soul, the sounding of the final whistle probably constituting the only real highlight. 
All that said, however, after one or two games last season we had beaten the champions, were near enough at the top of the table and that Reijnders fellow was being feted far and wide as the best midfielder ever. The point being that the opening weeks of the season are mysterious times that can make us do daft things. Let’s see how we fare in the coming weeks, before we commit ourselves to 17th again. 

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Spurs match reports

Villa 1-2 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Gift-Horses

Decency probably dictates that we rattle off an acknowledgement or two before getting down to the serious business of backslaps and charged glasses, for to suggest that Villa were a tad undercooked rather understates affairs.

AANP has never really gone if for animals, some pet gerbils (Gazza and Ledley, since you ask) being the extent of the menagerie at AANP Towers, but I understand that when it comes to gift-horses, the key rule for a healthy and comfortable life is not look these equine delights in the mouth. In layman’s terms, as I understand it, this essentially means that if Aston Villa toddle out onto the pitch looking to a man like they’d rather be elsewhere – specifically playing a European semi-final instead – then you don’t stand on ceremony but show them what for, and lickety-split.

If a neutral onlooker were to remark sniffily that this isn’t really cricket, and that had the fixture been arrange for a few months or even weeks earlier it would have been a vastly different-looking Villa fastening their helmets – well, in truth I’d have agreed. A quirk of the calendar I might have said, before doing a poor job of expressing sympathy for West Ham, who seem to have emerged from all this as the real losers.

So no doubt about it, we were handed a thick and meaty slice of luck regarding the timing of this particular joust. However, luck of one form or another (injuries, VAR calls) has been in short supply all season, so if there were a tally kept of such things we’d probably have been due some by now; and once the gift-horse is led your way you ought to do all in your power to capitalise. Pleasingly, our heroes did exactly that.

2. Gallagher

I must confess that the heart did not exactly leap a few months back when news broke of the arrival of C. Gallagher Esquire at N17.  He’ll rack up the steps, went the AANP line of thought, but he’s not exactly the creative spark to ignite our season.

And it was with a similarly underwhelmed roll of the eyes that I greeted the teamsheet yesterday, and its accompanying news that CG would be occupying the much-vaunted Number 10 role. Where such luminaries as Hoddle, Van der Vaart and Maddison had gone before, I could not quite envisage Gallagher twinkle-toeing through dangerous areas last night. Just the man if you want a bucket of sweat exuded, but perhaps not quite the chappie you’d call upon for defence-splitting passes and creative ingenuity, was the gist of it.

It turned out, however, that the whole point of the Gallagher As A Number 10 gambit was precisely the bucket-of-sweat element. It was a plot-twist up there with Keyser Soze reveal. Gallagher wasn’t deployed as a Number 10 in order to create a bally thing – his whole purpose was to be front and centre of the high press.

Lest there be any doubt about how well this quirky take on an old classic might work, within the opening 5 minutes our lot had already pilfered possession from our dozy opponents high up the pitch on three or four occasions, producing a decent threat and generally giving an indication of things to come. Gallagher, naturally, was at the heart of it, tearing around the joint like a puppy newly released into a park. Christmas had evidently come early for the chap, was not just allowed to go sliding into man-ball-the-lot tackles but was positively encouraged to do so.  With a supporting cast including such shrinking violets as Richarlison and Joao Palhinha, this tactic struck a ripe old harvest from the off.

And just to seal the deal, Gallagher then threw in one of the best first touches of 2026 to pluck the ball out of the atmosphere, sending the nearest Villa soul into a different postcode and setting himself neatly for a shot all in the same seamless motion. In truth, I thought the shot he then unfurled was a few rungs down from “Sweetest Contact Ever”, but the Villa ‘keeper seemed to have received the team memo and made but a token motion towards the ball, and Gallagher had his goal.

3. Kolo Muani and Tel

The lilywhite career trajectories of Messrs K-M and T have differed slightly, at least in the eyes of AANP. I’ve long considered Kolo Muani one of the more naturally talented of the current crop, but sadly lacking in the Can Be Bothered department.

Yesterday, and not a moment too soon, he seemed to burst at the seams with vim and enthusiasm, delivering possibly his best performance in our colours so far. Admittedly the competition in this area is light, that two-goal salvo against PSG probably his only other half-decent showing, but still. One cycles back to animal care and that gag about gift-horses. If Kolo Muani suddenly decides he’ll spend his evening stringing along a Villa defender, we probably ought just to get behind him and say “Ho for the byline”.

Out on t’other flank young Master Tel beavered away with that customary youthful exuberance of his. There was a time, not 12 months ago, when I would bleat away to anyway who’d listen, that Tel’s loan-to-buy option ought not to be exercised, on the grounds that he was neither one thing nor another. A central striker he most certainly was not, being deficient in the stakes of heft, hold-up and finishing; whilst he hadn’t done a great deal to indicate that he was any better out wide than the countless wingers of recent years who delivered one match-winning performance in 10 or 20 – Moura, Lamela, Chadli et al.  

And with no goals in his last 17 matches, one might credibly argue that Tel still has not exactly made himself undroppable as a wide man. However, the next best thing to actually winning games through goals scored and created, is probably to give the opposition defenders a bit of a headache, and this Tel increasingly seems to do. He does not need too many invitations to get his head down, whirl his legs and try to beat his man out on the left. Sometimes he fails, but increasingly often he succeeds. Yesterday, each time he received the ball over halfway, I don’t mind admitting that the AANP pulse quickened.

By and large his end-product was a bit squiffy, his catalogue featuring a few wild efforts that went off into orbit, but the cross he delivered for Richarlison’s goal was dripping in quality, so the chap certainly earned his congratulatory nod.

4. De Zerbi

Just about all in lilywhite-tinted yellow emerged with credit yesterday, but perhaps precisely because of that I reserve the smartest salute for our latest Glorious Leader. Quite why it’s been so difficult for any of the previous GLs to get a tune out of our players is a dissertation for a different day, but no doubt about it, RDZ has performed a spot of alchemy in the last two or three weeks.

Mercifully the Villa consolation came too late for a true test of nerve to be unleashed upon our lot, so it remains to be seen quite how tough the underbelly will be when things go wrong; but the attitude and organisation yesterday was spot on. As well as the Gallagher-led high-press from the off, and bundles of energy on display throughout, I was also struck by the fact that there was a clear plan and that all involved seemed to know exactly what they were supposed to be doing.

Admittedly this ought not really to be front-page news, but having watched a whole season of our heroes treating one another like complete strangers and displaying precious little understanding of a game-plan, yesterday’s fare was manna from heaven.

Quite what De Zerbi has been saying to them behind closed doors is anyone’s guess, but he seems to have motivated them. With a bit of luck, that will suffice for natural talent to do its thing over the next three assignments.

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Liverpool 1-1 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Better

AANP opted to mute the commentary on this one. Charming, well-informed and objective though Jamie Carragher undoubtedly always is, I have long held a preference to gargle with broken glass than listen to his input for an uninterrupted 90. He’ll understand in time.

Thusly did it transpire that I watched this afternoon’s number with nothing more than the humming and whirring of the AANP Towers central heating for audio accompaniment, and frankly it’s the restorative sort of practice I’d recommend. Irrespective of whichever voice is behind the mic (and credit where due, in my fledgling commentary career The Drury has been most amiable towards me), watching without sound provides an intriguing new perspective on things.

Principally, I’ve no idea what the media narrative was for this one. With that in mind, as the game inched towards what seemed a 1-0 defeat, I found myself reflecting that I hadn’t expected a point, but had at least hoped for a spot of fight, don’t you know? And in that respect, this seemed a marked improvement on just about anything our heroes have peddled so far this year. Pausing to check that it is indeed March, and letting out a gentle sigh, the conclusion drawn is that whereas in previous weeks I simply saw zero evidence that we would win again this season – or, perhaps, ever – today at least suggested that there might be a win or two lurking in there somewhere.

Starting at the beginning, I’m not sure whether Our Glorious Leader noted – presumably with jaw on the floor in astonishment – that he had a bevvy of fit strikers at his disposal, and therefore opted for a 4-4-2, or whether he simply threw all his formation ideas into a sack, rummaged around and pulled one out, but that’s how we started.

Now my cheeks turn a damning shade of crimson as I admit that in recent weeks I’ve wondered if formations even matter, the gist being that no setup in the world could bring about improvement amongst our troops. And perhaps even today the formation had little to do with our gentle upturn. However, for whatever reason, it seemed to work a little better than in recent weeks (as not for the first time in 2026, the phrase “Low bar” politely clears its throat, acknowledges all present, and quietly slips back into the shadows).

To conceded just the single goal already represents progress, and beyond that there were not many clear-cut chances I can remember the other lot unpicking (at least not until the game became a little stretched in the latter stages, as we committed bodies forward and were caught on the counter).

And while I’m not sure that a 4-4-2 formation can take any credit for our heroes rolling up the sleeves and committing their souls to the gods every time a 50-50 hove into the view, as the game wore on our lot upped the tenacity notch by notch.

2. Danso and Dragusin

It made a rather pleasant change, frankly, to witness a pair of Tottenham centre-backs simply mooch about doing what ordinary, sound-minded centre-backs do these days.

There were no attempts to play extravagant through-balls; nor any 50-yard dribbles; nor were there any ill-advised charges into enemy territory to aim a thigh-high clobbering at an opponent. Dragusin and Danso simply perambulated the centre of defence, and blocked, tackled and headed as appropriate. As remarked above, Liverpool went home with precious few tales of clear-cut chances to relate. In fact, I fancy that we created more, and better, chances than they did.

Dragusin almost undid it all by indulging in an ill-timed daydream towards the end. Having just about taken charge of a situation inside his own area, rather than blasting the ball off into the atmosphere, or at least gambling on a pass back to Vicario, he seemed to forget he was playing football and drifted off to a different period of his life. Not the smartest option with Mo Salah lurking about 6 inches behind him, and there was a mighty sharp intake of AANP breath as Salah got his shot away; but that aside Messrs D. and D. seemed possessed of all the right sort of ideas.

3. Souza

That Souza nib deserves the subtlest tip of the hat. For a start, being only 17 years old, he’s probably never heard of a 4-4-2, so that would have boggled his mind. Progressive thinking, he no doubt muttered to himself, as the magnets were placed on the tactics board.

On top of which, by virtue of everyone else in N17 wandering around with arms in slings and feet in bandages, this young squirt, who presumably has been diligently left-backing his way through life since he was in nappies, was asked to make the best of life as a right midfielder.

Entertainingly, he reacted to the request by scurrying off to the left flank just about every time we advanced over halfway. Fans of symmetry would presumably have been fainting in the galleries as we ended up in a several-on-the-left-and-none-on-the-right format on multiple occasions. However, to his credit young Master S. displayed a sound understanding of the intricacies involved in flying up the left flank, and but for an inch or two in either direction he might have been involved in a goal before half-time.

He and Pedro Porro were up against a tricky little blighter in Liverpool red, and frankly neither emerged from those particular sit-downs with flying colours, but Souza did at least have the good grace to pump his defensive pistons as required. All told, his is a jib I shall hang in the gallery entitled “Cuts Of Which I Like”.

4. Tel

Tel, in common with the entire collective come to think of it (at one point Sarr turned into Maradona, dash it), was one who grew into the game considerably.

In the first half, The Tel Saga was one of a willing young bean whose repeated attempts to scamper past his man met with a constant stream of failure. However, the willing he showed did not go unnoticed, and looked a dashed sight better than the slumped shoulders and accusatory glares of his chums in recent weeks. Tel, to cut a long story short, brimmed full of willing in that first half.

In the second half, he was switched to the right, presumably to accommodate the left feet of Souza and then Xavi. While I assumed that being stationed in such an easterly post would negate the fellow’s prime weapons, it turned out that his juices were flowing to the extent that concepts such as ‘left’ and ‘right’ were mere detail. Instead, the thrust of the Tel approach by this point was to make himself a nuisance to whomever approached him clad in red.

Put another way, Tel seemed in that second half to have begun adding a spot of end-product to his first half willing. In fact, such was his liking for it all that when his number went up with about 15 to go, I rather drooped with disappointment. “Can’t see what Kolo Muani will do that will improve upon Tel’s performance”, was the gist of my complaint, neatly showing how much I know about it all.

5. Richarlison

As possibly the only member of the cast who actually has any experience of a relegation scrap, I suppose one should expect Richarlison to be prominent in games like this.

Now, as has been well documented, the chap’s love of a scrap is as great as his technical ability is small, and it was all on display today. Like Tel and most others, Richarlison grew and grew into the game, to the extent that he merited his own theme music and highlights show by the time he was hooked at the end.

Evidently tasked with filling the role of “Nuisance”, he set about things with his usual gusto, popping up multiple times in the Liverpool area to apply the finishing touch to our best moves. All errant finishing touches, but finishing touches nevertheless. And here, I suppose, lies the great conundrum of Richarlison, for he simply is not a great footballer, in the technical sense.

Take his goal, as a prime example. It was a pretty straightforward chance. Meat and drink to your standard, 6-out-of-10 striker. A square pass along the floor, unmarked from 6 yards out – there’s not too much additional detail needed in margins for that sort of opportunity. And yet Richarlison managed to mis-hit with his principal foot, thereby bashing it into his standing foot, in a technique one might describe as ‘Kinsky-esque’.

Anyway, it did the trick, mercifully. A mis-hit it might have been, but it had enough dingo on it to bobble its way past the ‘keeper, and it was a rich reward for the young bimbo for fighting the good fight throughout.

As an aside, there is probably an entire thesis to be written on Vicario; at least a sizeable chapter of which would focus on his performance today; several pages of which would zoom in on his flap-handed nonsense from the free-kick; but these good moods come around so rarely when watching our lot these days that I’ll give it a pass. By no means are we out of the woods yet, but for the first time in aeons I can at least see a green shoot of recovery. One simply hopes that our lot don’t take a flamethrower to it next time out, what?

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Spurs match reports

Athletic Madrid 5-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Kinsky Episode

‘All action, no plot’ barely covers it, which is saying something. After the succession of fresh disasters that were Newcastle, and then Woolwich, and then Fulham, and then Palace, each somehow a lower ebb than the previous one, even the finest creative minds in the land would have struggled to magic up some new depths for our lot to plumb.

However, if four decades of disbelieving shakes of the head and rubs of the eyes have taught me anything it’s that Tottenham Hotspur’s capacity for disaster should never be under-estimated. Accordingly, just when it seemed the barmiest, most bonkers plot-lines had been exhausted, we somehow dredged up this nonsense with Kinsky, resulting in the substitution of a goalkeeper after 16 minutes having already shipped three goals. Only at Spurs, what?

First up, a few brutal home truths. Of course, supporting Spurs is not for the faint-hearted anyway, but nevertheless, it’s probably best at the point to insert one of those parental warnings that one sometimes sees paraded before a particularly edgy announcement.

And with that in mind, 3-0 down after 15 minutes is pretty first-rate bilge in anyone’s books. No PR company in the world can shove a positive spin on that and expect it to land without a few raised eyebrows about the place. Moreover, it creates a rather awkward narrative for whichever poor lemon happened to be between the sticks at the time. Concession of three of the finest in the opening quarter of an hour is not the bullet point anyone wants on their CV.

However, once this latest debacle had been digested, and on observing poor old Kinsky being yanked into an early departure, AANP donned the monocle and gave the whole thing a spot of scrutiny.

The first goal, it seemed to me, came about because Kinsky lost his footing. Not a great look, of course; but equally, not an event brought about by a particular level of ineptitude. To add a bit of meat to this argument, I direct you towards the second goal, for which VDV similarly lost his footing. Again, one no doubt turns the air blue at witnessing it, but it hardly goes down as a mistake on the chap’s part. Nobody suggested removing the chap from the premises.

Of course, the third goal was entirely on Kinsky, as he became all left feet and somehow tackled himself, in what will go down as one of the great adverts for the fate that will befall a man who takes his eye off the ball at the crucial juncture.

Nevertheless, by my count, that amounts to one mistake. An absolute rip-snorter of a mistake it was, granted; and one that compounded already farcical matters, no doubt; but only the one mistake nevertheless. Kinsky slipped; and then VDV slipped; and then Kinsky made a bona fide clanger – but I don’t particularly see how that one mistake merited a substitution of the chap.

At best it seemed an odd managerial decision, and it worst it lay somewhere between rash and petulant. Having brought the young whelp into the XI – and without uttering a word of explanation why, dash it – the decision to hook him was tactically rather rummy. Whether Tudor was admitting not to know the quality of his players, or admitting that he made a gamble and decided after just 15 minutes that it had failed, or was simply over-reacting, he doesn’t seem to emerge particularly well from this latest lilywhite farce.

By the by, I heard one of the bods on the tellybox burble about the substitution being disrespectful. This AANP does not give too many hoots about. Substitutions should not be paused for fear of hurting the feelings of the squadron, dash it. Take the hit and get on with life is just about the sum of the AANP take on that, and if they still feel disrespected then they count every last pound coin in their enormous salary envelope for distraction.

But as tactical, managerial moves go, I thought Tudor worked himself into a jolly squiffy corner with that substitution.

2. Porro

A little leftfield perhaps, on a night when there were all manner of larger problems over which to stew, but far more than the glut of early goals pinging in from all angles, the issue that grated to the core over here was the ongoing nonsense from Pedro Porro.

Yes, yes, the chap scored one and created another – and credit where due, he executed both with a dash of quality.

But Porro is first and foremost a defender, and just once I would like to head back to base with praise for his defensive contributions falling from my lips. Instead, we were treated to the usual display of Porro’s defensives negligence. Wing-back or not, his repeated insistence on shrugging off his defensive duties, and leaving the Madrid forward to enjoy the freedom of the left wing was maddening.

The biscuit was then well and truly taken by that astonishing sputtering of the Porro motor en route to the Madrid fifth, when he entered into a solid foot-race with Alvarez from halfway, gradually ran out of steam and then completely gave up altogether, dash it all. He simply abandoned the chase! It was left to Spence to motor along from a completely different postcode to try to add some respectability to the scene, but by golly, to see an international footballer puff and wheeze his way across the turf as if treading quicksand, was enough to drive one to distraction.

I noted too, that as soon as Alvarez had deposited the thing in the net, Porro immediately started devoting his energies to spinning around and waving his arms at anyone who caught his eye, as if to suggest that the fault for all this lay elsewhere. Honestly, if I’d been anywhere near the blighter I’d have wrung his neck and happily taken a stretch in a Madrid cell for the privilege.

And all this followed similar nonsense against Palace, when he again gave up the ghost when supposedly chasing down a forward before berating Vicario after the concession of one of the goals. There are a few rotten eggs about the place, on and off the pitch, but Porro cheeses me off no end.

3. What Might Have Been

As an afterthought, another irritation about the whole bally spectacle was that once the initial three-goal lead had been gifted to the other lot, our heroes actually plugged away with an element of decency for the remainder.

The obvious caveat here is that having given us a thrashing inside 15 minutes, the Atletic players were clearly laughing their heads off. One can listen to all the post-match interviews in the world about doing a professional job and whatnot, but AANP knows a team taking its foot off the gas when it sees one, and last night’s tormentors were a doing exactly that.

Nevertheless, I was actually taken aback by quite how many half-decent opportunities our heroes carved out. In addition to a couple of goals, we hit a post and had a pretty straightforward point-blank header saved, in addition to one or two other vaguely presentable opportunities. As ever, the bar is low, but this was a damned sight better haul than we’ve been used to in recent months.

It makes the opening 15-minute car-crash all the more galling. No knowing how things might have turned out if our lot could just have been normal for the opening stretch, and we might well have been hammered even without the slips and slides at the back. But having made a fist of things over the remaining 75 minutes, it is a wistful AANP who wonders “What if?” on this occasion.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-3 Palace: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Actually Less Bad Than Most Other Weeks

AANP took a deepish breath and drained a snooterful before settling down to pen this one, because last night struck me as a bit of a muddle.

The headline, of course, is the ongoing circling of the drain that leads down to the Championship, with barely anyone involved with the club trying to prevent this. And if one were to skim over the grizzly facts of last night, they might swiftly conclude that it fits the ongoing narrative – a red card, three goals conceded before half-time, a home defeat. “Spineless they were on Sunday at Fulham,” might be the murmured conclusion, “spineless they will continue to be next time out.”

But I actually thought that until the grey matter between the Van de Ven ears suddenly melted, our lot were making a vaguely presentable fist of things. Now the key here is probably to establish context. Whereas a couple of years ago a “vaguely presentable fist of things” would have involved monopolising possession but only winning by one, for the current vintage it broadly means not getting hammered.

And following the usual beginning to proceedings in which each of our heroes treated the ball as if it might suddenly explode in their faces, and forlornly chased Palace around our own half, I’ll be dashed if we didn’t actually start to edge into their half of the pitch.

Young Tel, rather charmingly still surging on the adrenaline of his cameo on Sunday, actually instigated the change in mood, by deciding, reasonably enough, to get his head down and dribble straight through the massed Palace ranks. This being Spurs it came to naught, but it did at least cause a bit of a ripple amongst his scattered chums, who suddenly seemed struck by the realisation that they could wander into the Palace half without bursting into flames.

One disallowed Palace goal later and our lot even had a lead, which is not something I remember saying for a few months now. And at that point, while one could hardly say that a sunny optimism descended on AANP Towers, I did at least get the sense that our heroes were, in laboured fashion, stumbling their way around a corner.

Then came the VDV moment, and somehow within the blink of an eye we had shipped three, which even for our lot took some doing, but there we go and here we are.

Again, at the start of the second half, while it is easy to bat it away within the wider narrative of doom and gloom, there was an unusual degree of punch about the lilywhite corp. Even though down to ten, trailing by two goals and in the midst of a 12-game freefall, our heroes seemed oddly possessed of the notion that a goal or two might shake things up. Credit where due, and while Palace admittedly seemed to observe this with curiosity rather than concern, I was all for it, if only because it punctuated the torture.

Anyway, that fizzled out within twenty minutes or so, and the remainder was spent resuming the gentle sleepwalk towards relegation, but the point is that as these soul-destroying, incessant defeats go, this was actually amongst the less abject.

2. Alas, Van de Ven

Of course, it’s no good bleating that if such and such hadn’t happened then everything would have turned out tickety-boo. Instead of a cheeful jig up the High Road, it was the usual tortuous nonsense. This sinking into oblivion is, of course, very much a collective effort, but last night at least one could probably point an accusing finger at VDV.

I suppose one can imagine a title-chasing team having that same incident scrutinised and then waved away by the VAR intelligentsia, but nobody of sound mind is quibbling with the call.

One probably ought not to be too harsh on young Master Van de Ven, a chap who has managed to accumulate an enormous amount of credit here at N17, for deeds at both ends. Nevertheless, it was a stinker of a moment on his part, from its genesis in which he gummed up his clearance, to the dubious realisation that he was stationed at the wrong coordinates to go about his duties, to the entirely unsubtle wrenching of the Sarr upper limb.

He may, perhaps, have reasoned that if he began the arm-yanking outside the area then nothing more sinister than a direct free-kick would accrue; on the other hand, he may not have done. Either way, he forgot to let go, and by the time the protagonists had collapsed in their heap, the whole thing was reminiscent of a toddler being caught with their hand in the jar and chocolate smears around the face.

On top of conceding the penalty and really dropping last night’s operation into the woodchipper, the daft chestnut has also absented himself for presumably the next three outings, which will hardly assist Mission: For Goodness’ Sake.

3. Archie Gray

AANP has been pretty hesitant to sing the praises of young Master Gray so far this season. Last season I was most impressed by his ability to adapt to life as a centre-back, not least because he seemed to recognise that since his paper-like frame would not serve much purpose in physical combat he would be better off dining on interceptions and blocks.

This season, however, when asked to operate elsewhere, my overriding impression has been of a boy being trampled underfoot in a man’s world. Not his fault, of course. The young pipsqueak ought not to be near the first team at this stage. Five minutes here and fifteen minutes there, from the bench, would be a vastly more appropriate way to dripfeed him his Premier League education.

Instead we’ve been treated to the sight of him being shoved out of the way by Gyokeres a couple of weeks back, which struck me as summing up the current state of his career.

Last night, however, while his spindly appearance remained very much part of his makeup, young Gray bobbed and weaved about the place like a chappie willing to fight tooth and nail for the thing, and as such he earned himself a free shot or two at this particular bar.

His work to create the Solanke goal in particular was worth a pretty rousing ovation, not least because it seemed to involve defiance of the very laws of physics. Being hounded like nobody’s business by no fewer than two Palace rotters, and finding his only route was that towards the corner flag, I don’t mind admitting that I’d allowed the eyes to glaze over in expectation of matters gently extinguishing into a goal-kick.

I therefore cannot advise on what specific sorcery he used, but by some means or other young Gray somehow left both Palace bounders in his wake, just about kept the ball in play and even had the presence of mind to cherry-on-the-cake his work by laying it on a plate for Solanke. It was as startling a piece of nift as it was out of keeping with everything that has preceded it this calendar year.

Add that to his work on Sunday in creating Richarlison’s goal, and frankly AANP has found himself having to pen a letter of apology for all the criticism I’ve lobbed his way this season. Things might have been better yet, had one of his second half forays into the Palace area brought a richer harvest than a mere blocked shot. In general, young Gray seemed the most likely to prompt the unlikely comeback, so full marks to the young bean.  

4. Relegation, Dash It

So while the other mobs around us occasionally pick up a point hither or thither, one rather struggles to see quite how our lot will do likewise. Admittedly last night, until the red card, we were better than in recent weeks – a low bar and so on, but certainly not quite as bad – but even so, we’ve reached rather awkward territory. Relegation now seems inevitable.

Which would be bad enough, but given our season thus far has been characterized by a toothless, spineless and brainless slant, I don’t give our lot much hope of coming back up any time soon either. When thinking of relegation fodder, one generally closes the eyes and imagines a bunch who gamely battle away each week, but simply lack the quality. The concern amongst our lot is the complete absence of battling. I don’t give these poor lambs too much hope in the Championship.

Cursed by having been assembled by around half a dozen managers each peddling distinct philosophies, ours is a squad with no particular character, and a little too heavy on fairly average sorts who presumably were lured to N17 by the number of zeros on the pay-slip rather than any affinity to Bruce Castle Park and the surrounding environs. On top of which, none of them have been their particularly long, so can hardly be expected to have any genuine affinity for the club. One has yet to see them fight for the badge this season, so I do not count on it in 26/7.  

All rather ominous, what?

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Spurs match reports

Fulham 1-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The New Manager Slump

Just to prove that it’s not all whiskey-odoured spillages and cantankerous grumblings from the armchair, AANP had the jolly dubious ‘pleasure’ – a term not so much being misused in this sentence as straightforwardly butchered – of commentating on the latest debacle of the Good Ship Hotspur this afternoon, live and from a near-enough front row seat at Craven Cottage. Couldn’t have buried my head in my hands if I’d wanted to.

Needless to say, this being 2026 and all, our lot stank the place out for nigh-on the majority. Whiffling a goal out of thin air on the hour mark at least lent an air of respectability in the record books I suppose, and as is their wont our heroes will probably pat themselves on the back for applying a spot of added-time pressure, creating the illusion of a close-run thing.

Don’t be fooled, however. At half-time, a bunch of stats were thrust in my face, providing a bit of the old ammo for listeners, including the frankly astonishing record that at that point we’d had more shots on goal than the other lot.

Be that as it may (and closer inspection revealed that this included those speculative jobs from 30 yards that were charged down immediately upon leaving the lilywhite boot, without ever getting anywhere near the oppo goal), our lot were a rotten old mess. A sprinkling of Too-Little-Too-Late back and forthing around their area at the death hardly changes that.

None of which is particularly surprising, as we’ve watched this nonsense for nigh on two seasons without interruption now, but the concern here is that this Episode 2 of the Tudor era, and, well… not to be indelicate, but isn’t something supposed to happen at this point? ‘New Manager Bounce’ and all that hokum? Ought it not to have kicked in about now? Or, as my Spurs-supporting chum Dave so pithily put it, are we the only club in history who bring in a new manager and immediately become worse?

I suppose an optimist might argue that we are no worse, simply at the same level; but when Vicario, supposedly one of the few leaders of this inept pack, took aim and blasted a free kick from halfway straight out for a goal kick at the other end of the pitch, the words did slightly stick in my throat rather than spilling freely into the microphone. If nothing else, I suppose, we have ourselves a red-hot favourite in the race to be the clip that sums up the current management reign.

Returning to the New Manager Bounce, I scratch the old loaf a bit because one simply expects a reaction to the new chappie. Admittedly this Tudor fellow has been dealt a pretty duff hand in terms of personnel, and injuries, and so on. And as for formations, there are only so many positions into which diehard 6 out of 10ers like Dragusin and Gallagher can be shunted.

But I had expected a dash more purpose and vim about our play, a general sense of bullishness and enthusiasm. We might not necessarily have dizzied Fulham with an array of scorching one-touch passes, but I had rather hoped that we might simply overwhelm them with a relentless energy bordering on the violent.

Instead, there seemed to be a lot of the usual mediocre fluff that has been shoved down our gullets for the last year or so. Kolo Muani flinging up his hands, and Porro dedicating energies to writhing on the ground. Dragusin blooting the ball into no man’s land and Gallagher scurrying this way and that like an ownerless wind-up toy. One almost wonders if Tudor’s arrival actually has inspired the troops after all.

Sitting in on the press conference afterwards for an earwig, I got the impression that Tudor is the sort of soul whose default setting is to stomp moodily about any room in which he finds himself. He barked a fair bit about the VAR shout for the first goal (in his defence, in answer to a question); glared around as if trying to decide at whom to throw a chair; and ultimately resorted to answers of the curt variety before rising to his feet and stomping off again. I suppose one might paint him as the sort of character to strike the fear of God into some of the more nervous squad members, but frankly an inspirational sort of chump he did not seem.  

2. Sliver Linings. Well, Not Really, But The Least Dreadful Performances

Young Monsieur Tel bounded around like a garçon with a point to prove after his arrival, so that was nice. On one or two occasions, for a glorious couple of seconds, he looked like he might be about to Ginola his way in and out of the entire Fulham defence. It didn’t quite work, but even on a good day it’s rather cheering to see a fellow put his head down and slalom through opposition defence, so with so little else to raise the spirits his was a welcome contribution.

Our goal was a bit of a curio, by virtue of being entirely out of keeping with what had gone on in the preceding hour or so. For our heroes actually to open up the Fulham defence was a bit of an event, so well done to Messrs Tel and Gray for having the bright idea.

I also send a shrug of acknowledgement the way of Richarlison, for having the good sense to direct his free header into the net, before, naturally, picking up another of those Richarlison yellow cards that we can file under ‘Ludicrous and Unnecessary’.

It’s hardly a national secret that AANP is no huge fan of the chap, he being more likely to trip over his own feet and then start a fight with his shadow than actually produce moments of Brazilian magic in the lilywhite of Spurs. However, this afternoon, once introduced, he prowled and bumped and buffeted his way through proceedings, seemingly adopting the view that if he could not best Fulham with flair he would instead start fights of both the subtle and unsubtle varieties. I was glad to see someone in lilywhite (or, rather, natty black) care quite so much.

And I think that’s about as far as the praise extends today. The rest of them can pretty much go and boil their heads.

3. The VAR Shout

I’m rather reluctant to give this airtime, because, as last week, doing so creates the utterly false impression that if the decision had gone our way then the outcome might have been different. I think nothing of the sort. Our lot stank the place out inf the first half, and VAR call or no VAR call, we were good value for a 2-0 half-time deficit. Immediately prior to our goal, Smith-Rowe ought really to have dinked the game to bed. This was a well-earned defeat.

Nevertheless, one does rather wave the arms in frustration in seeing a replica of last week’s Kolo Muani shove go unpunished when executed against us this week. No doubt someone or other with a flair for these things will adjust their spectacles, bury their head in the minutiae of the game and insist something about on-field decisions that means that actually, everything was carried out to a ‘t’. But from the AANP vantage point it was a pretty rummy turn of events, what with one week’s two-handed push to the back receiving the finger-wag, and another week’s two-handed p. being gaily waved away.

Barely worth arguing about, however; we lost this one by virtue of being second-best rather than because of a refereeing call.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-4 Arsenal: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Tudor Reign

It would be a stretch to say that AANP went into this one feeling positively optimistic, that term being officially defined by the dictionary as “Feeling bobbish, to the extent that when asked for a score prediction one tips the cap at a jaunty angle and smiles a particularly devilish smile”. This was most certainly not AANP pre-match. After all, new manager or not, it was still the same clueless rabble tasked with going out onto the pitch.

Nevertheless, if anything were going to put a little pep into the AANP step, the replacement of that last chap by literally anyone else was a sure-fire bet. It could have been you, it could have been me – as it happened, it was this Igor Tudor chap, and while I don’t know much about his history, the one thing I do know is that he is not, and never has been, Thomas Frank. This represented a definite and sizeable tick against his name.

As hinted at above, there was of course, a limit to what Gospodin Tudor could do ahead of this one. An available manager with a spot of experience in fighting short-term fires he might be, but he’s not a bally magician. Expecting him to plot a way of running rings around the other lot was probably a bit much. Realistically, if he had learnt everyone’s names he had probably hit the acceptable target for week one.

So when our heroes came bounding onto the pitch, AANP’s expectations were suitably limited. To their credit, they certainly did not lack for enthusiasm. Word had evidently got around that North London expected, as a minimum, a demonstration that this occasion mattered; and accordingly, to a man, they tore about the place in the early knockings, racing after the ball like cheetahs spotting some lesser beasts in the Serengeti.

However, what added an odd, and slightly comical edge to proceedings, was that for all their gusto, our lot couldn’t actually get near the ball. For the opening half hour we barely made it into the Woolwich half. In fact, in that opening half hour I’m not sure we touched the ball at all more than half a dozen times.

Every now and then, Bissouma or VDV or whoever it happened to be would successfully get a toe onto the ball to ram it out of play, and the place would erupt. And swept up in the matter, I happily piped up with a throaty roar of approval too. But on catching my breath, the awkward realisation dawned that while we treating every stumbling half-tackle to a standing ovation and a general slapping of each other’s backs, for the other 99 per cent of the time the other lot were running rings around us.

Team Lilywhite, by contrast, could barely find time to gasp for breath before being dragged beneath the surface again. Of a neat, one-touch triangle there was no sign. Actual sustained pressure and creation of chances was the stuff of fantasy. In that first half, for all the good, honest beads of perspiration, the only real triumphs were the occasional tackles that sent the ball out of touch. As brave new eras go, it was fair to say that this one had yet to build up a head of steam.

Still, we snaffled a goal out of nothing, and made it to half-time battered and bloodied but with a faint pulse still registering. Given that the other lot know how to duff up a good thing better than most, there seemed to be a sliver of hope. Moreover, our eleven heroes out on the pitch seemed not to have registered how obviously second-best they were, and were still gamely charging after every loose ball, which was rather charming.

Alas, that was as good as it got, as Woolwich forgot how to choke, the tight margins went against us, the absence of so many from the bench loomed rather starkly into view and what challenge we had offered rather seeped away.

Despite the incessant crowing from my Woolwich-supporting chums over the last 24 hours, AANP won’t be losing too much sleep over this particular reverse, it having been against one of the more organised and efficient mobs around; but with a full week ahead to roll up the sleeves and bark out instruction in not-quite-perfect English, I would jolly well expect a Tudor-inspired uptick to commence from next weekend at Fulham.  

2. Irritating Mistakes

Expectations having been dutifully managed, even at half-time it seemed that a solid hammering was the likeliest outcome, but I was nevertheless rather miffed that in the second half we rather gifted the other lot their goals.

The third – which struck me as the mortal blow – may have ended up in our net via a circuitous route, replete with ricochets and stumbles at every turn, but the dashed thing came about because of a pretty gormless piece of play in the first place from young Dragusin.

A shame, because in the first half, the chap seemed to understand the assignment, and by and large did what was required. While I doubt I will ever back in him a foot-race, and his distribution always prompts a sharp intake of AANP breath, he is the sort of lumbering unit who seems to enjoy a spot of last-ditching in his own penalty area, and in the first half he took the opportunity to demonstrate this capacity with a handful of timely headers, blocks and general inserting of self into the sort of cramped positions that prevented Woolwich sorts from shooting freely.

He gummed up operations considerably for that third though. Pape Sarr, just inside his own half, had the bright idea to send the ball back to Dragusin, outside his own area and under no pressure, but – and as it turned out, critically – at head-height. This was admittedly a complicating factor. One would have hoped that, seasoned international that he is, Dragusin might have been able to bring the thing under a degree of control, perhaps pulling it down closer to earth before sending it off into the heavens.

Instead, he chose the rather dubious option of sending forward a header at an equally awkward height, towards Bissouma. While I suppose one might half-heartedly applaud the fact that he found his own teammate, any further praise rather sticks in the throat, because there are players a dashed sight better than Bissouma who would have treated such an unhelpful pass with a wobble and a murderous glare back at him.

Anyway, Bissouma, having expended all his useful energy in the first half, was not about to battle for a sub-standard pass in his direction, and before you could murmur “Dash it, one good pass and they’re in on goal”, that horrible lot were in on goal.

Similarly, already in a state of significant disgruntlement by the time the 94th minute rolled around, the pompous dallying of young Spence did little to gruntle me. That Spence is a pest. He undoubtedly has a trick or two in his locker, and one is gripped by the urge to yelp “Ole!” whenever his elastic limbs bamboozle an opponent and magic the ball the other side of them – but the ability to drag the ball around an opponent dost not a Pele make.

High up on the Tudor To-Do List should be the task of shaking Spence violently by the shoulders and drilling into him that he has not half as good as he thinks he is, and should just focus on the basics until we are at least three goals up in any given match.

Being far too convinced of his own abilities, Spence attempted to slalom his way around a couple of the opposition rotters when inside his own area, and not for the first time when attempting such ill-advised tomfoolery was left with a whole omlette’s worth on his face. Woolwich emerged with the ball, and before you could murmur “Dash it, one good pass and they’re in on goal again”, that horrible lot were in on goal again.

This is not to suggest that had every individual error been removed we would have gone toe-to-toe and emerged triumphant – but no need to roll out the red carpet for them, what?

I do sympathise to an extent – willing nibs like Palhinha and Archie Gray did their damnedest, but made the sort of positional mistake (for the second) that one might expect of a central midfield being asked to slot in at the back and hope no-one notices; while for the fourth poor old Archie Gray put in the sort of challenge that one might expect from a boy in a man’s world, and was more or less shoved out of the way without a second thought by that Gyokeres rotter.

So while these shortcomings are hardly the faults of Messrs P. and G., the more block-headed errors detailed previously were entirely avoidable.

3. A Forlorn Grumble

For the avoidance of doubt, even had we eked out a surreptitious draw, it would have been quite the act of larceny. Defeat by a three-goal margin sounded about right.

Nevertheless, had the disallowed Kolo-Muani goal been allowed to stand, many a neutral onlooker would have rubbed their hands and licked their lips in anticipation of Woolwich imploding once more. No knowing how events might have panned out of course, but in the absence of any hint of attacking patterns, one has to cling to whatever passing wreckage presents itself.

One understands why the goal was disallowed – two hands to the back does have a pretty incriminating look about it. And a standard AANP motto at this point is “Don’t give the referee the option”. Put another away, if R.K-M had kept his hands to himself, we might have jigged off down the High Road with a point in the bag.

However, even the two-handed contact, such as it was, was hardly enough to send Gabriel flailing off in the air like that. If you don’t mind a spot of top-level physiology, when one unexpectedly takes a bump or stumble, and finds themselves off-balance, the instinct is to shoot the hands downwards, to prevent the fall. Cushion the blow, as it were. It’s what might call Nature’s Way.

Closer inspection of that bounder Gabriel, however, reveals that on receiving his pat on the back he flung his arms upwards, a sure sign of a spot of the old Hollywood. And not just his arms in fact. The irritating drip flung out every available limb and fairly propelled himself through the air, just to make sure that he made the highlights reel. It was actually a pretty risky manoeuvre, for he would have looked quite the dimwit if the ref had rolled his eyes and waved matters on.

As it turns out, the Match of the Day hawks were also onto this, pointing out that earlier this season a similar push by Liverpool’s Ekitike on our very own Cristian Romero went unpunished, to the tune of a goal conceded, so there’s certainly a precedent for this sort of thing being allowed to fly. (Another moan about this might be to ask whether a penalty would have been awarded had a similar push been effected upon a striker – one assumes not).

To repeat, that moment is by no means the reason we lost yesterday. Our latest Glorious Leader did at least seem to spark some life and willing into the troops; next up he simply needs to instil at least the faintest hint of tactical strategy.