1. European Joys vs Domestic Woes
As distracting sub-plots go, this business of Sauntering-Through-The-CL-While-Falling-Off-A-Cliff-In-The-PL is rapidly gaining in intrigue.
First things first, and it should be meaningful handshakes and measured eye contact all round – both for the players who went out and ticked all the required boxes, and, I suppose, for Our Glorious Leader, who politely presents himself for the hurling of rotten fruit when things go awry, so probably deserves a nod of acknowledgement when we somehow emerge as fourth best in the whole continent, if you can rub your eyes and believe that.
The next thing to do would be to deal with the resident grumps who wander the joint tutting and shaking their heads at AANP as he tries to enjoy a long-awaited celebratory drink. This mob, last seen complaining that winning a European trophy didn’t count because the Final was a dull watch, have now piped up to moan that all the sides we played in this season’s European jaunt were rubbish, so really we should shut down the whole operation and hang our heads in shame.
With that out the way, we can try tackling square on the issue of why we stink in domestic competition, but shine pretty brightly overseas. For while Frankfurt and Dortmund are hardly tearing up the Bundesliga, one would think that if we can swat them aside gently enough then we ought to be able to find a way past Burnley, Wolves et al.
And the consensus here seems to be some rambling about the physicality of the Premier League. Whereas in the Champions League the loose gist is to make pretty patterns and then pop the ball in the net when the mood takes, the Premier League these days seems to resemble more closely one of those dreadful military workout sessions one hears about, in which burly men slog away at all manner of perspiration-drenched physical activities, with fun at an absolute minimum and the winner being whichever dull sap makes it to the end without dying. And our lot, bless their cotton socks, seem rather less inclined towards the rigours of the latter than the former.
It probably also helps that the CL gangs tend not to be so preoccupied with setting up in defensive formation and bedding in for the evening, but generally seem a tad more expansive in their outlook on life. Provides a bit more operating space once we are in possession, so the sages say.
This is all just fanciful, whiskey-fuelled conjecture from an amateur of course, and greater minds than mine have no doubt pored over the performances domestically and abroad, but the point is that the last couple of European jollies could not have been in greater contradistinction to the domestic ploddings. Night and day about sums it up.
2. Palhinha (and Others)
No shortage of bright and breezy performances on Wednesday night, what?
Young Spence’s impression of Gareth Bale continues in earnest if imperfect fashion. To be quite honest, the fellow seems to me to need to put in a bit more time studying his Substance-to-Style ratio, but with Frankfurt defenders obligingly missing their tackles and careering off in the wrong directions, Spence was generally able to enjoy himself, and that’s not something we say too often about our heroes these days.
Messrs Odobert and Simons similarly seemed to clock pretty swiftly that this was a night to make merry, so it was the care-free versions of both who scampered hither and thither. I did shoot a pretty withering glance in Simons’ direction for that curious dance, after the early, disallowed goal, his rhythmic swayings suggesting that he was putting a dashed sight more time and effort into celebrating goals than creating them. However, he gets a pass from AANP for spending the rest of the night displaying his better traits.
You knew that it was all a bit of a stroll when a persona non grata like Pape Sarr could be hauled back into action and generally looked not too far out of place. A little rusty around the edges perhaps, but he didn’t lack any of that traditional boyish enthusiasm, and on a day on which all but one of the subs were younglings, it was pretty dashed handy to be able to summon him back from whichever storage unit has housed him for the last six months or so.
Oddly enough, the chappie who caught my eye was João Palhinha of all people. Not that he was particularly exceptional (and indeed, he blotted an otherwise clean copybook with his late chopping of Frankfurt legs to earn himself a yellow card), or in any way more eye-catching than the rest of the troupe.
Rather, it was the fact that he drew the short straw and had to square peg his way into the right of the centre-back three that earned the approving AANP nod. Crucially, one wouldn’t really have known that this was not his natural habitat. One rather hopes not to notice one’s centre-backs over the course of a game, this generally being a useful indicator of the dirty work being done with minimal fuss; and thus it transpired.
When the occasional wobble did occur, it seemed if anything to happen closer to the Danso-Romero corner of the defence (such as the random one-on-one before half-time that hit the bar). Palhinha simply put his head down and neat-and-tidied the night away.
3. Transfers (Or Lack Thereof)
So top marks to all concerned, particularly given that we were essentially down to the last 12 first teamers; but with the dust having settled – and indeed, even when the dust was still airborne and dancing about the place – the nagging question sprung to mind of how we had let it come to this.
And by ‘this’ I refer specifically to the situation of going into a match with only 12 first teamers to call upon. A charming throwback to the early ‘80s it might have been, but if another one or two of our lot had limped off stage early on in the piece we might have found ourselves in almighty pickle.
Injuries happen, of course, but I seem to recall that Vinai chap – our CEO, don’t you know – and perhaps one or two of cronies, suggesting at some point in the summer/autumn months, the general notion that wads of cash were going to be squirted at the squad as required. Indeed, I’m absolutely certain I heard talk, at one stage, of “competing on four fronts”.
This being the first January window of the new (or post-Levy) regime, I had peered with some curiosity towards the back pages, to see what this new approach would mean in practice. And while Connor Gallagher seems a decent sort of bobbie, who will constantly run if awake; and the 17 year-old left-back from Brazil presumably has a heartwarming personal tale to tell; I’m not sure that these two signings and an unsuccessful chat with Andy Robertson are really transforming the place as Vinai’s early-season witterings had hinted. Probably best for now just to bask in the Champions League glow for another day or two.