Month: February 2026

Categories
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.

Categories
Spurs news, rants

Thomas Frank Sacked: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Stats

So it’s “Toodle-oo” to the latest poor sap, and a pretty unemotional one at that. AANP is of a breed popularised in early twentieth century fiction, when male protagonists kept a stiff upper lip no matter how cherished the fallen ally; so when a bean as deeply unpopular as T. Frank Esq. permanently exits the cast list, there are slim chances of me shedding a tear or casting a longing look in his direction. The sentiment at AANP Towers is more along the lines of bundling the fellow out the door as quickly as possible, in case any of the relevant parties change their mind.

Sometimes when assembling around the table to pore over the details there’s all manner of controversy through which to wade, as opinions differ and disagreements flare up like nobody’s business. This is not one of those times. While some might offer a consoling slap on the shoulder of T.F. as he wanders off down the High Road, I’ve yet to meet a lilywhite of sound mind who actually advocated for the chap to stick around.

As it happens, I rather admire Frank as a member of the species. A decent egg, he struck me as. Cut him open and I suspect you’d find solid moral fibre, and a nib just bursting to help his neighbour and adopt any passing stray kittens.  

All well and good, but alas, when it came to managing the good ship Hotspur, unfortunately he stank the place out.

Starting with the stats, I actually haven’t bothered to share any with you, because it’s all a bit of a slam-dunk really, what? Week after week we were treated to some new and appalling set of numbers, which ultimately translated into the same message, that under this chap’s watch we were a living, breathing disaster with eleven pairs of legs.

Whether it was losing to sides formally diagnosed as allergic to victory, or racking up so few shots per game that we were actually registering negative numbers, there was seemingly not a depth Frank was unable to plumb while pulling the strings.  

2. The Style

Had the football been coruscating, I’m not sure it would have saved the manager, given that the focus for the business end of the season had become avoidance of relegation.

And as we all noticed, the football was most decidedly not coruscating. Crumbs, it was arguably the polar opposite of coruscating. It was dank and dreary, and utterly devoid of the merest sliver of excitement. Frank-era Tottenham has been where entertainment has gone to die, slowly and wretchedly, against the backdrop of 60,000 irate hecklers.

As I’ve remarked before, I would probably have settled for a brief period of dull sobriety, if it had at least meant that the foundations were being secured. Being a trusting sort, I just rather assumed at the outset that Frank would prioritise the defence first, so I was willing to stifle a yawn or two in return for the gradual flow of clean sheets.

To his credit, Frank kept the first half of the bargain, and sucked the very soul out of our attack, absolutely destroying any semblance of creativity and cohesion going forward. The entirety of his attacking blueprint seemed to be go wide and cross – often forgetting to nudge anyone forward into the area to give the whole thing a bit of oomph. And to repeat, I just supposed that this was a temporary measure while countless leaks at the back were fixed.

Nine or so months down the line, and our lot remain as clueless as ever on how to stop opponents. Taking last night as a neat example, when in possession there was a genuine bewilderment amongst those in lilywhite as to how to transfer the thing simply over the halfway line, dash it; married to a complete inability to stop Newcastle waltzing to within shooting distance whenever the urge gripped them.

I paused at various points to focus on individuals as Newcastle knocked the ball this way and that, and was struck by how diligently our midfielders occupied certain spots on the pitch – space, if you will – but showed scant concern for actually tracking players or trying to win the ball. Bissouma and Sarr seemed obsessed with simply holding their positions, and if Newcastle sliced through them and into the area, they showed a marked reluctance to shimmy over and douse the flames. The mind boggled all over the place at that, but I suppose they had the orders of the manager ringing in their ears for that one.

So over the course of two thirds of a season, and goodness knows how many training sessions, Frank seemed not to make any obvious improvements to our defence; while, as mentioned, the attack seemed to have been deprioritised.  It has left me scratching the old loaf, and sometimes clutching at it in despair, as to what the dickens he has spent his time doing.

3. Combinations

Cast your minds back maybe fifteen or twenty years, and you might recall Messrs Lennon and Corluka forming an unlikely but oddly effective combo on the right. Week after week, Lennon would rev up and sprint, his little legs going like the clappers, while Corluka would thread a shrewd pass inside the opponent for his chum to run onto. Despite being wheeled out every game, the other lot would never really cotton onto the mechanics at play, and the routine repeatedly worked.

But drinking in the Frank vintage, I’m not sure we ever witnessed any sort of on-pitch combination or understanding of this ilk. Every matchday the players who trotted out for the set-to were familiar enough, but once the whistle tooted they resembled a bunch of complete strangers, who’d never previously met, let alone formed understandings and nifty on-pitch sequences.

All of which had me beseeching, what on earth did Frank spend all his time doing? If not mastering the arts of defence, or attack, or combination play? Was it simply set-pieces and throw-ins, and nothing else? Frank seemed not to realise that what worked at Brentford did not cut the mustard up in N17.

So it’s with one heck of a sigh of relief that I slam the door behind the chap. Admittedly, injuries were an absolute curse upon the poor oaf; but until to the bitter end he still had gifted enough personnel on whom to call.

So fare thee well, Thomas Frank – or don’t, there aren’t too many damns given here at AANP Towers –  and bring on the next chump. Let’s just hope that as a minimum he can somehow fashion the requisite ten points or so needed to let us limp into next season.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Man Utd 2-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Romero

This Romero business, what? In fact, I’ll actually gloss over the headline stuff here. The great and good have been tripping over themselves in the last 24 hours to rant and rave about his red cards – and understandably enough. Six of them in his lilywhite career takes some doing, and while one can debate the details of yesterday’s, the loose point remains that here is a soul with a reckless streak that might benefit from an intravenous injection of common sense and restraint.


But as mentioned, that particular line of marketing is one I’ll park for now. Instead, as Romero sloped off for that now-familiar early-exit, the troubling thought that gripped me, vice-like, was to ask myself is this fellow worth it? That is to say, is Romero actually all that good a defender in the first place?

Prevailing wisdom seems to be that here is a fine specimen of a centre-back, whose high-level outputs in the role are sullied only by his regular insistence on kicking unsubtle lumps out of opponents. Oh that we might remove his violent temper, continues the narrative, we would have on our hands a giant amongst defenders – or at the very least 50% of a dashed impressive centre-back pairing.

Where I raise an enquiring finger, however, is on this business of Romero being such a rip-roaring defender in the first place. Because when one stops, and steps back a few paces from the issue, and really gives it thought, one does start to ask oneself – is he actually? Really?

To cover some of the basics, Romero is preferable to, say, poor old Dragusin, but I feel like this does not advance the argument particularly far in either direction. I’ll also gloss over the arguments about Romero’s passing prowess from the back, on the grounds that this strikes me as a pleasant bonus, rather than an essential constituent of defensive DNA. “Defend first, distribute later,” one might say if one were packaging that argument into a natty advertising slogan.

But it’s when we consider the basic art of defending that I start to fidget a little. I’m not suggesting that he’s particularly bad at it, but it seems that his reputation for mastery at the back has been built as much as anything else upon his capacity to abandon his post and thump the dickens out of opposing forwards.

Call me a killjoy, but I’m not such a fan of this approach myself. Even when he times his collisions to perfection it all seems unnecessarily dramatic. One would never have caught Ledley adopting this slant on life. Could the angry young bean not simply stick to his assigned spot, and do all the necessaries from there? Could he not effect his blocks and interceptions and whatnot in the restrained style made popular by countless defenders of the past 100 years, rather than deciding that a tackle is not a tackle unless the opponent is launched into the atmosphere with boot-shaped imprint about his frame?

Frankly, I’ve had my fill of Romero. All that accompanying baggage has wearied me. Should willing suitors come a-sniffing in the summer, and – crucially, and frankly doubtfully – our decision-makers line up a replacement of decent standard, then I’d happily wave him off down the High Road.

2. Vicario

All things considered I’ve also had enough of Vicario, but oddly enough, I thought he put in a handy little showing yesterday. Admittedly, even Vicario on a good day includes at least one badly bungled task, and in the second half one errant pass resulted in the ball finding our net, albeit the flag was raised.

That aside, however, Vicario looked a model of calm and decency. Words I never thought I’d utter, which just goes to show, what? When flying saves had to be made, he flew and he saved. When less spectacular saves had to be made, he kept his feet on the ground and made those ones too. I wittered on about Romero and the basics of defending; and it strikes me that simply saving goalbound efforts just about encapsulates the basics of Vicario’s JD.

On top of which, I was also most pleasantly surprised by his sudden predilection for distributing the ball in swift and unfussy manner. It was most unexpected. Time and again, Vicario gathered the ball in his mitts and then raced to the edge of the area before popping it off into the path of a chum to run onto, a good 10 yards outside our own area, in behaviour striking for being so breathtakingly sensible, and as such entirely at odds with what we’ve come to expect from the curious little prune.

Contrast this to the blighter’s usual modus operandi, which is to wriggle and scream a few times, before allowing the opposition to settle back into their defensive shape, and then rolling the ball to a defender near enough our own 6-yard box forsooth; or, worse, dropping the ball at his own feet and then fighting the urge to spin and belt it into his own net or along his own goal-line, or something equally insane.

Yesterday, time and again, Vicario took the obvious approach so commonly eschewed, for unfussily posting the ball into the path of a teammate already on the run. How refreshing.

3. Relegation!

Being a cynical sort, I did contemplate that the one chappie of lilywhite persuasion who might actually have greeted Romero’s red card with some relief was Our Glorious Leader himself, on the grounds that for once the rotten fruit was not to be pelted his way. It has simply become part of the AANP post-match routine to sigh one of those world-weary ones, take a deep breath and then start slamming Frank with gusto. Yesterday, with a ready-made villain at whom to aim pelters, Frank was granted a day of respite.

He ought not to become too comfortable though. Our league form remains dire, and I would suggest that in approximately three of every four halves we play, the performances are utterly wretched. Neither the high-flying sides nor the lowly mob strike me as particularly beatable at present by the current N17 vintage. Frankly, if the opponent comprise 11 men with a pulse, I make our heroes firm second-favourites. With 29 points on the board, I struggle to see from where we eke out the required positive performances (across two halves) to drag us up to 40 or so. At the moment, in fact, I’m not entirely convinced we’ll hit 30.

Frank is presumably here to stay, unless we get sucked into the bottom three within the next month or so, and nothing about the chap inspires. It says something about his aura that when our lot do randomly spark into life, I now automatically assume that this is despite rather than because of the influence of our Big Cheese. I attribute it to Simons going rogue, or the wide men drifting into strictly forbidden positions, rather than any words of inspiration from Frank.

It’s all rather ominous. Better, I feel, to start the mental preparation now, for any potential relegation scrap, than to be taken by surprise come late-March.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Man City: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Solanke

My Spurs-supporting chum Ian can be an emotional sort of egg when it comes to all matters lilywhite, but even so, I’ve always found it a tad odd that he harbours a deep dislike of Dominic Solanke. In fact, so intense is this aversion to the chap that he typically refers to him as the English Dirk Kuyt – and let’s face it, there is really no interpretation of that particular moniker that can be seen as a compliment.

Anyway, I’ve personally always been rather fond of Solanke myself, probably to a greater extent than he’s ever actually merited, primarily on the grounds that, in terms of build, he strikes me as resembling a sturdy tree trunk. Some may shoot the unconvinced glass at that one, but AANP’s mind is made up. This is the quality to which all self-respecting centre-forwards should aspire, and it was on display yesterday for the first of his double.

Now every spare column inch going has been stuffed to the gills with praise for his second, and while I’m as happy as the next man to offer a generous hand for anyone who can backheel a volley mid-air on a Sunday afternoon, in truth it has made little lastingimpression upon me. It was all a bit improvised, and owed far too much to closing one’s eyes and blindly wafting. A Van de Ven length-of-the-pitch effort it was not. In fact, I consider Palhinha’s overhead the other week to have had more juice to it, that having been very clearly intended, having been a recognised technique and having been illustrated by history to have been a dashed difficult routine to execute.  

Whereas Solanke’s was the footballing equivalent of closing the eyes and swinging the bat. All good wholesome fun of course, but I suppose I just prefer my football to be a bit more obviously football-related. Solanke’s finish, while perfectly legal, seemed more something born of interpretative dance.

Over in this quarter, I was far more taken by his man-handling of the Khusanov chap, during the construction phase of his first goal. To remind, young Simons popped over one of those little outside-of-the-boot numbers, and Solanke set about gathering it in, with Khusanov dutifully trotting over to poke his nose in and try to interfere.

And it was at this point that AANP swooned somewhat, because Solanke proceeded simply to swat Khusanov aside like he was an annoying younger brother in the back garden. It may have lacked the finesse and gymnastics of the second, and been considerably more brutish and unrefined, but the ability to manhandle an opponent out of the way is one of the qualities I most deeply cherish in a striker.

Frankly, Solanke is so often absent that one rather forgets what qualities he does and does not possess, but there was certainly a warm reassurance about this display of brawn. I’m of the opinion that any striker worth his salt ought really to be able to muscle opponents out of the way and generally be a bit of a physical nuisance in the penalty area.

He had much to do thereafter, of course, and funnily enough I considered that his actual finish ought to have been flagged as a very 21st century transgression, and disallowed. Certainly, if roles had been reversed and Guehi had lunged through the back of his calf, I’d have howled for a penalty long into the night. But the goal stood, and a certain smugness descended onto the AANP features and camped in for the night, for as mentioned, I’ve a fondness for Solanke, and this brief combination of brawn and technique seemed to demonstrate what we’ve been missing atop the tree so far this season.

Of course, however, this being Spurs, Solanke’s evening ended with him traipsing off injured.

2. Simons

I mentioned above that he created our first goal with a little sprinkling of elan, and Simons generally bobbed about the place pretty usefully last night.

He deserves a tip of the cap in the first place for being the only one of our number who showed any particular lust for the occasion in the first half, but in the second, as everyone else bucked up their ideas, he put on another of those showings that does seem to emanate from his size sevens when the mood grips him and the stars align.

Being of slender build and not yet sufficiently ripened for the rough and tumble world of English top-flight jousting, Simons does still have a tendency to be knocked from his moorings and sent hurtling up into the air. As well as requiring a considerable amount more meat on his bones, I sometimes wonder if he might also adjust his mindset, perhaps to ready himself for incoming boots and elbows, and evade them as appropriate.

However, one can rarely fault his eagerness. Simons is certainly not one to seek out a quiet corner of the pitch and fade into the background. If the ball is in play, he will generally wave an arm or two requesting it be posted his way, and once it arrives he seems to brim with positive intent, being one of those nibs blessed with the bright idea that the best thing to do with a ball at one’s feet is start haring off towards the opposition goal.

There have been a few mixed reviews for the fellow so far, and I suppose one of those tough old beaks with inscrutable stares would judge that some days he’s been effective and other days entirely not so; but there seems to be enough about Simons to hope that in time he can bed in and become a useful sort of cog.

3. Dragusin

We probably ought really to give young Dragusin a hearty round of applause for having the gumption to pull on the shirt and trot out there to take on Erling Haaland of all people, in his first match in a year or so.

But we lilywhites are unforgiving folk, and at AANP Towers we’re the least forgiving of the lot, so the groans were sounding  bright and early in proceedings once Dragusin got involved, and frankly it all felt like he’d never been away.

With Cherki bearing down on goal for the opener, one might have hoped our man could have imposed himself upon the situation to some extent, or at least dangled a meaningful limb in the way of the incoming shot. Instead, the chap opted to try drifting out of existence altogether, and in a move that surprised precisely none of the gathered masses, Cherki belted the ball through him as if he weren’t there.

Shortly afterwards Haaland shoved him aside, in a neat precursor to Solanke’s Khusanov moment, before lobbing the ball onto the roof of the net; and our man then compounded things by spooning the ball straight to Silva, deep inside our half, for the City second.

To repeat, the whole sorry affair can probably be excused on the grounds that here was a vehicle clearly not yet ready for public performance; I suppose the worry is that even at peak fitness, he rarely seems suited for the rigours of the Premier League. Frustrating, because I recall Dragusin putting in a decent turn for Romania in the last Euros; and rather alarming, because the infirmary is spilling over with the walking wounded, at the latest count three of whom were centre-backs.

4. An Odd Second Half Turnaround

If you’ve reached this far down the page and are now licking your lips in anticipation of a forensic going-over of our second half transformation, I’m afraid I have bad news to impart. Fun though it was to watch our lot claw their way back into things, I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what specifically prompted it all.

It’s certainly not the first time this season that our heroes have waited until the opposition have run away with things, and the devoted followers have vented a decent amount of spleen, before sparking into life and belting out a few rousing numbers. I’m not sure I entirely endorse the approach, but I suppose a spot of second half vim is better than no vim at all.

The swapping of Romero for Sarr was the obvious tactical tweak, as we switched to a pleasingly old-fashioned 4-4-2, but frankly I’m not sure that this new-fangled formation was the driving force behind the comeback. This seemed more a case of our lot just racing about the pitch like their lives depended on it, and in a manner completely at odds with the first half.

There was much to admire about Connor Gallagher chasing down two City players and emerging with the ball, before doing some more haring – towards the area – until he could hare no more, and pinged his cross Solanke-wards, for our second. If you excuse me once again glossing over the Solanke acrobatics, the revving up of the Gallagher engine seemed to capture the essence of our second half performance. From nowhere, our lot just seemed to apply themselves rather more.

And while one wants therefore to applaud them all, and bottle that second half to uncork it afresh next weekend, the lingering poser does remain, of why they have to wait until half-time – and until trailing by two – before bothering to compete. I can’t help thinking that Thomas Frank is as clueless as I am about all this, but it’s another stay of execution.