Category: Spurs match reports

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Spurs match reports

Leeds 1-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Vicario

AANP missed the real-time screening of this one, having popped out of town for a wedding, so found himself in that curious position that is occasionally thrust upon one, of being fully aware of the scoreline and general talking points by the time a chance arose to settle in and watch from start to finish.

As such, I was already aware of murmurs amongst various Tottenham folk that our resident backdoor-minder had not covered himself in glory. While it would be a stretch to say that my fingers therefore drummed away at the guillotine in anticipation of a few Vicario howlers, I did nevertheless brace myself.

It seemed that aside from the mundane to-ing and fro-ing, there were four eye-catching moments to his afternoon’s contributions. The first was that item early on when one Joe Rodon – formerly of the N17 parish – planted a back-post header against the post. It might get lost in ensuing debate that Destiny Udogie did just about enough whispering in the Rodon ear at that particular juncture to force the man a little off-balance, so congratulatory tap of the hat-rim is probably due, before we start dissecting the life and times of Vicario in the preliminary seconds.

Put bluntly, Vicario seemed completely to lose his bearings. As the cross was swung over, from the right, the curious young eel began wandering from his line without any clear purpose, looking rather like an abandoned puppy that had scented food in the mid-distance and was uncontrollably drawn towards it.

The ball sailed over him at the sort of height that Vicario-on-a-step-ladder might have had a job handling, but the problem was that once gripped by the urge to wade off into the masses, it was rather tricky for him to undo this. Indeed, even when struck by the error of his ways, he could do little more than shoot a vaguely horrified glance in the loose direction of where the ball was dropping, and perhaps give tongue to a muttered Ave Maria.

As mentioned, Rodon at the back post could do no more than steer the ball against the frame, the sort of outcome that presumably will spare Vicario too dedicated a media spotlight, but those of lilywhite persuasion have seemingly chalked it up as the latest blot in what is becoming an increasingly crowded copybook.

Vicario was less fortunate with the next eye-catching moment, the one that saw him repel a shot from inside the area, but somewhat gum up the following chapter, by spilling the thing into the path of a conveniently-placed Leeds sort. Here, I should point out that just as AANP giveth with one hand, AANP taketh with the other, for while Udogie was earlier to be praised for his alacrity in defence, for the Leeds goal he did switch off long enough to allow Okafor to poach away to his heart’s content.

It was, however, an untidy piece of work from Vicario that presented the opportunity so neatly. Having reacted to the initial, deflected shot pretty well, Vicario then – as is becoming something of a trademark – did not really pay sufficient care and attention to the geography of the occasion. This tendency of his to shovel the ball straight into the path of chappies lurking for scraps has proved his downfall before, and needs a spot of care and attention. The whole routine of saving close-range shots is negated if at the end of it all he is simply going to present a two-yard tap-in to the next fellow in the queue.

Hammering home the point, he made an excellent couple of stops deep in stoppage time – but the second of these resulted in the ball popping upwards and most fortunately into the path of that man Udogie once again, who was able to nod it behind for a corner, when a yard either side there would have been yet another tap-in for the waiting scavengers.

It does make one scratch the head somewhat in truth, as to precisely where Vicario should be depositing these incoming efforts. Conventional wisdom has it that they should not be padded straight out in front of goal, and by and large he avoids this. However, this is certainly not the first match in which, in attempting to shovel matters out wide he has succeeded in not only laying them into the path of an opponent, but seemingly shaving the power off them too, making them that much easier to reach. I wonder if he might divert them behind his goal instead, or push them wide but with a bit more force, so as to send them out of the area.

Either way, there seems something slightly rummy about the current approach, of teeing them up at a gentle dribble for a short-range tap-in from an angle.

2. Kudus

On a brighter note, one of the grumbles of recent weeks had been that the creative well seemed to have run pretty dry, and while it would be a stretch to say that shots now fly in from every angle, two of the attacking mob in particular seemed to bound about the place with heartening vim and zest.  

Kudus naturally grabs headlines on account of having struck oil, but even aside from his goal his general attacking play had much about it of the useful sort of pest. Not only does the fellow come across as the sort of chappie against whom one would rather not defend, but he does so across multiple formats.

By which I mean there is Kudus the Wide-Man – hugging the touchline and dipping multiple shoulders this way and that, with a view to whipping in a teasing cross, if not seeking out a chum better placed to do the same; then there is Kudus the Inside-Right, whose goal in life is not so much the whipping in of wicked crosses as the twinkle-toed foray infield, to cause mischief around the outside of the area – which may take the form of a shot, as demonstrated yesterday, or may take the form of link-up play with nearby comrades.

As has been remarked upon before, the earnest bean’s combination of strength, close control and low centre of gravity appears to make him a fiend of an opponent, and while he has clearly had the occasional quieter afternoon, when on song – as yesterday – he is quite the asset.

3. Simons

Further east, there were more glimpses of young Simons finding his range. Officially, I suppose, assigned the Number 10 role, Simons seemed pretty insistent about his coordinates, coming across as the sort of egg who, if not allowed to take up a specifically inside-left sort of spot, would simply fold his arms and refuse to engage. Luckily, those about him in black were all for it, and the young bean saw plenty of action.

Intriguingly, his was an afternoon less of mazy dribbles, and more of furtive darts that were followed by the picking of some eye-of-needle passes, of the ilk intended to really carve open an opposition defence.

I was all for it. These weren’t your standard roll-the-thing-square-five-yards variety; rather, Simons was in the market for a diagonal that scythed open Leeds and took out three of their defenders in one swoop, while Udogie (him again) burst in from the depths. At one point Simons scooped a pass up, above and behind the Leeds back-line, for Porro to gallop onto, which really did whiff of a man starting to take a liking to life in his new surroundings.

An underlying concern to all of this was that it meant our lot were relying a little too heavily upon moments of individual ingenuity, rather than any obviously well-constructed patterns and build-up play involving the entire entourage – but one takes the wins, what? It was only a couple of days ago that I was grumbling about the lack of anything approaching creative content at all, so to boast not one but two of the forward line prancing about the place with attacking juices brimming was a pretty welcome sign.

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Spurs match reports

Bodo-Glimt 2-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. General Guff About “Character”

Now you can call me a massively ungrateful wretch who should be thankful for what he’s got – and you wouldn’t be the first – but when I hear the Big Cheese, and various other luminaries clad in official Team Hotspur training gear, banging on about the “character” shown last night, I do rather get the urge to pickle my own head.

The nub of my grievance is that we should not have to keep needing late, late rallies in order to salvage a point against teams that are decent but hardly world-beating. And a delicate nuance attached to that same nub is that banging on about character seems a little too conveniently to sweep aside the glaring issue de jour, with an innocent whistle and the hope that everyone forgets it ever happened at all.

So while I grudgingly offer a brief round of applause – one of those perfunctory numbers, utterly devoid of sincerity – it’s only a precursor to a spot of prime finger-jabbing.

The real issue I took back to AANP Towers last night is that we should not be two bally goals down to Bodo-Glimt in the first place, in any circumstance. Nor for that matter should we be two down to Brighton or trailing to Wolves at home in added time. Never mind that we manage to slink our way out of these scrapes – why the devil are we in them in the first place?

However, if there is one thing said about AANP it is that he is an absolute model of fairness, calm and sunny optimism, and as such I can rein in the vitriol for 20 seconds or so, and give our lot their dues. And in this spirit of acceptance I acknowledge that a Champions League draw is better than a Champions League defeat, and that many a previous vintage has simply accepted their fate with a resigned shrug when faced with a 2-0 deficit away from home. So well done Spurs, for drawing with a team worth £50m.

2. A Spot of Porro-Bashing

The niceties concluded, we can get down to brass tacks, and interrogate why our heroes were second best to that mob, almost throughout.

Consistently failing, to a man, to string 10-yard passes together was a pretty core element here; and out of possession, while there seemed a pretty firm understanding that packing seven or eight across our own area would help prevent unwanted intrusion, the tendency of our midfield simply to melt away rather played into Bodo’s hands.

This is one of those occasions on which I could jab a finger at just about any of the eleven and launch into a bit of a rant, so one ought not to read too much into the choice of Senor Porro for the initial blast of both barrels. Nevertheless, the thought does spring to mind, time and again, that for a defender he’s really not so hot in the defending department.

The chap’s tendency to dangle the most ineffective leg whenever an opponent attempts a cross has been well documented on these very pages previously. Last night he took that same principle of waggling a limb without the slightest conviction, and applied it when the opposition nib was lining up a shot.

I struggle to remember a time when Porro actually did block a shot. I certainly remember countless moments when he has dropped to one knee to create that cricket-style long-barrier approach. He does that every game, pretty regularly, and it looks terrifically neat and tidy, quite the feat of construction and aesthetics. Unfortunately, it’s useless.

The Bodo fellow wandered into the area for yesterday’s second goal, so Porro instinctively dropped to his knee, in response to which the Bodo f. promptly danced around him – as one would when presented with an inanimate and entirely superfluous object in one’s path – and lashed the thing in.

And this, lest we forget, followed the opener, in which Porro when faced with one attacker in possession plus his overlapping chum, wandered the way of the overlapping sort, neglecting to communicate any of this to the assisting Johnson, with the result that the attacker in possession did not even have to dip into his bag of tricks in order to find room for the shot. He simply wandered straight into the space vacated by Porro and BJ and let fly. The AANP mood darkened.

Porro, of course, played a critical role in our comeback, his absolutely gorgeous delivery presenting on a plate the goal for Micky van de Ven. A particular word of approbation to PP for striking the ball so sweetly when it had been rolled backwards to him, and as such would have been a strong contender for scooping upwards and off into the gods.

So no real complaints about the fellow’s attacking onions. But to repeat the intro line – he appears to be a defender who cannot defend, and as such is at least one of the causes of our lot needing to resort to “character” to do that skin-of-the-teeth routine at the death.

3. Danso. And Spence. And All The Rest If I Had Time.

AANP reserved a special eye or two for young Herr Danso for this one, this being his first start of the season and whatnot. While there has generally been a whiff of optimism accompanying the reports of my Spurs-supporting chums when opining on the fellow since his arrival last season, I’ve been a bit less convinced to date, still waiting for his big signature tune, if you know what I mean.

And given the platform yesterday to stride out and blow us all away, I thought he spent his 90 minutes resembling a balloon from which air was slowly escaping throughout. His actual defending was fairly unremarkable – not quite Porro-esque levels of negligence, but neither did he come across as some heaving colossus towards whom opponents took one look and instinctively back off a yard or two to ask their commander if there were any alternative routes to goal. On spying Danso, one got the impression that the Bodo lot turned to one another and murmured “Sure, I’ll have a crack at this one.”

But what really irked the AANP soul was the sight of Danso on the front-foot, seemingly convinced that his inner Beckenbauer was ripe and ready for channelling. We all flung up our hands and yelled a choice curse or two at Bentancur for his runaway-plough routine that conceded the penalty, but Bodo had possession in the first place because Danso had gone galloping up the pitch, only to dwell too long and be robbed inside halfway.

This was an act he repeated a few times, either getting caught in possession or launching a flurry of the most aimless forward passes conceivable, the sort that rather apologetically slow down near the opposition corner flag, leaving even the opposition a little irritated at having to fetch the thing from no man’s land.

It was a tough gig for Danso, I suppose, being dropped into the frontline without any meaningful football behind him and on a plastic pitch and whatnot – but the above errors were nevertheless avoidable fare. We may have two pretty high calibre centre-backs in situ, but the first reserve does seem to represent a dip in quality. Covetous glances continue to be glanced in the direction of Selhurst Park.

And as mentioned, there are plenty others who deserve a fair amount of opprobrium for last night’s bilge. Spence might be an excellent one-on-one defender, and doubtless boasts a few tricks when on the forward march, but yesterday he was regularly to be spotted miles out of position while all around him retreated at breakneck speed back into position (or rather he was not spotted – if you get my drift).

On top of which, that lackadaisical air of his, which seems to lurk never too far from the surface, was on show again for the Bodo second, for which he rather carelessly miscontrolled on the corner of his own area to gift possession their way.

It was that sort of night, errant behaviour on show from those in natty black shirts everywhere one looked. Late comebacks are all well and good, but midfield creativity and general sharpness have been sorely lacking from our mob in recent games, and it’s one Our Glorious Leader will need to un-muddle pronto.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-1 Wolves: Three Tottenham Talking Points

(With apologies for recent radio silence – a lot going on at AANP Towers)

1. Misdirected First Half Optimism, Featuring Bergvall and Kudus

Hindsight, as a rather wise old egg once put it, is 20-20, so I suppose I look a bit of a chump admitting it now, but back in the first half of this binge there were one or two moments when I nestled in my seat rather smugly, a look of satisfaction etched across the map, as if to say “I’m rather enjoying watching our lot go at it.”

Back in that halcyon age, while it would be a stretch to say we were running riot and biffing the other lot from all angles with gay abandon, once settled in (i.e. after about a quarter of an hour or so), I did get the impression that the key question de jour was “When?” rather than “If?” if you get my gist.

And this sunny rationale was based largely upon the plans and deeds of Messrs Bergvall and Kudus, both of whom, in their own unique ways, seemed to be having rather a time of things. Indeed, for the disallowed goal they even crossed the streams, so to speak, interacting and exchanging pro tips on how to go about carving up an opposition back-line to pretty impressive effect.

Bergvall was very much on brand in that first half. If there were any beavering to be done, in an attacking sense in particular, he was generally at the front of the queue, both in and out of possession. Busily scurrying about the place, he had the air of a young man who looked ahead of him and saw nothing but opportunity. The chap has fast become an essential cog in the machine.

Kudus, of course, is a pretty different beast, being the robust sort of chappie who puts a bit more emphasis on meaty brawn and upper-body strength than young Bergvall. In his own way though, he’s equally effective, and having racked up that early header that was pushed onto the bar, as well as the disallowed goal, I was inclined to murmur a prognostication that when we did eventually take the lead, the fingerprints of Kudus would be all over the critical item.

And had that first half never ended, I’m still inclined to think that Kudus and Bergvall between them would have rustled up a goal or two from somewhere, and we’d have all swanned off down the High Road pipped to the gills with the night’s work.

2. The Oddly Lacklustre Second Half

Alas, all such sunny optimism rather went up in smoke as soon as the second half started, our lot becoming oddly reticent about the evening’s activities.

With the stunning insight that marks out AANP as a fan rather than a coach, I struggle to put my finger on what exactly went wrong, but the symptoms were fairly clearly demarked. Every loose ball seemed to be won by Wolves, and when they took possession of the thing they seemed oddly to have an extra man on the field, everywhere one looked. Had this happened against PSG back in August, one might have waved the forgiving hand; but to find ourselves comprehensively bested in one duel after another against the mob that sit bottom of the pile, and boasting a record of five defeats from five, was bothersome to say the very least. Had

It was not so much that there was a lack of effort from our heroes. They seemed sufficiently motivated. They just ended up being second-best in almost every matter that required on-pitch thrashing out – as was particularly neatly encapsulated by the Wolves goal.

I suppose one or two of our number can probably be excused – Palhinha seems convinced that the point of a football match is to flatten as many opponents as possible; and Romero’s adoption of the captain’s armband continues to translate into him charging about the pitch like a man possessed.

But seeing the more featherweight sorts – Tel, Odobert et al – hare towards the ball only to reach it a moment too late, or find themselves bouncing off a lusty opponent, left me harumphing discontentedly in my seat, and occasionally flinging a frustrated arm into the air, like nobody’s business.

Coming as this did, not too long after the dreadful, toothless production against Bournemouth, this served as another sharp poke in the Thomas Frank ribs, to urge him to find ongoing ways to get the best out of his charges.

3. Vicario’s Role in the Goal (With A Wary Eye on Spence)

Now AANP can hardly claim to have canvassed opinion of all sixty-odd thousand in the shiny bowl last night, much less the watching millions drinking it all in from their sofas, but nevertheless a murmur of discontent did reach my ears regarding the conduct of our resident last-line-of-defence, in particular regarding his handling of the goal we conceded.

The charge, as I understand, is that in saving the initial header directed towards him he might have invested in a longer-term solution than simply shoving it straight into a bundle of waiting limbs to his right, the result of which action was a ricochet that fell kindly to the Wolves shyster S. Bueno.

Well. Here I really do I have to draw myself up to my full height and clear my throat with a bit of meaning. Now I’ve historically been as happy as the next man to lay it on a bit thick towards Vicario at the appropriate moment – a flap at a corner, or knuckle-headed distribution, or whatever – but in this instance I stand shoulder to shoulder with the chap. As far as I could make out, Vicario pretty much ticked the essential boxes with that save.

In the first place, he got there. Full stretch, and levering himself off the ground, it was one I suppose you’d expect an international goalkeeper to pull off, but nevertheless, it required a spot of the basic mechanics, and he did that well enough – particularly given that the principal protagonist, Bueno S, was swinging a boot at the ball from a yard away.

Having reached the ball, where Vicario seems to have attracted opprobrium was in then shovelling it to his right, and into the legs of Palhinha. Here again, however, I side with the case for the defence. Vicario’s second objective, having already stopped the ball from hitting the net, would have been to push it away from the centre of the goal – and this he did. That there was an onrushing Wolves sort arriving at a rate of knots stage right was slightly rotten luck, and an element that ought to have been the responsibility of one of the outfield mob, rather than Vicario. (Although I repeat, the ball actually bounced of Palhinha rather than the incoming Wolve).

Either way, I thought Vicario did all that could reasonably have been expected of him in that particular chapter. If I were to point an accusing finger and yell a spot of invective, it would be directed at young Djed Spence. This might seem a tad leftfield to the casual bystander, but look again, closely, at the details, and you’ll note that as the corner was initially delivered, Spence’s defensive responsibility consisted of chaperoning the Wolves number 4 – one Santiago Bueno.

Spence, however, seemed to shrug off this responsibility as soon as the corner was taken, immediately losing sight of his quarry and instead becoming distracted by the prospect of a header. He lost both the header and Bueno, allowing the latter to swing an initial boot at the ball as Vicario made his save, and then to poke in the rebound as it fell neatly into his path.

This level of defending drives me absolutely mad. It should not be so difficult to keep tabs on an opponent at a corner. One understands if a run is blocked off or a spot of wrestling ensues – but none of the above applied to Spence in this instance. He simply forgot his raison d’etre, and let Bueno have the freedom of the 6-yard box, forsooth.

Not that the two dropped points were the sole responsibility of Spence, of course, but those scowling and muttering about Vicario’s antics might adjust their aim.

A draw is, of course, vastly preferable to a defeat, but AANP is in no doubt that these are two dropped points that we’ll look back upon with regret come May. I’m not entirely sure that Palhinha read the mood in the camp either, whipping off his shirt and flying off in a frenzy after an equaliser against Wolves of all teams, when the drill was surely to return to stations and search for a winner, but I suppose for now we should simply be grateful for what we salvaged.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-0 Burnley: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Exuberance of Youth

Young people, eh? A pretty unfathomable species at the best of times, the evidence of Saturday also did much to confirm that they are blessed with absolutely boundless energy.

Being a pessimistic sort when it comes to all matters lilywhite, I’d have pursed a brooding lip or two if our newest Glorious Leader had run by me pre-match his plan to stock our line-up to the gills with youthful sorts. A midfield of Sarr, Gray and Bergvall struck me as a little too green behind the ears.

Not for the first time already in his nascent reign however, Herre Frank proved himself a dashed sight more knowledgeable about these things than AANP, for the Sarr-Gray-Bergvall arrangement proved most effective, and chief amongst its attributes was a pretty eye-watering indefatigability amongst the protagonists.

One could probably sum up their contributions by noting that if the final whistle had not sounded around 5pm on Saturday they’d probably still be scampering about the pitch now.

Sarr had spent much of pre-season getting to know the sights and sounds of the upper end of the pitch, having been slightly curiously deployed as a Number 10; but on Saturday it was the more familiar environs of the middle third, and a general instruction to hover busily on the lookout for any loose balls carelessly deposited about the place.

He proved something of a master of the art. There was a long-ish period before half-time when our overall play stagnated somewhat, as we tried and failed repeatedly to pass from the back over halfway, but that aside, and when we were a little mor front-footed, Sarr was exactly the right man for the role of tidying up behind his more illustrious colleagues.

As an added bonus, he also delivered a doozy of a pass for our third.  AANP does love a perfectly-weighted pass inside a full-back, and Sarr’s offering on Saturday was one I’ll happily replay in the mind’s eye in the coming weeks.

As for Gray, it would be no dramatic stretch to suggest that this was his finest afternoon in central midfield in our colours. Now the caveat here is sizeable, for there is barely any competition in the field. Gray’s previous excursions in central midfield, at least in our colours, have been fairly calamitous, the sort of rot from which rabbits in headlights could learn a few things.

On Saturday, however, he seemed vastly more at ease. He offered positional discipline, if you don’t mind a spot of technical jargon, holding his positionally centrally and at the base of midfield and popping up to offer a spot of disagreement whenever Burnley looked to push forward, as well as providing an option for whichever of our lot were in possession. The second coming of Dave Mackay he might not quite have been, but he played his part.

And further forward, seemingly with a bit of licence to go haring off in whichever direction he happened to be facing, was Bergvall. The curious young egg seemed to have adopted that mindset that if the ball was in play he might as well tear off after it, followed by the sub-heading that if he then happened to get hold of the thing he would simply continue scuttling about, bringing the ball with him.

Within 20 seconds of kick-off he had popped up in the 6-yard box to force a save from the Burnley goalkeeper, and one imagines that the Burnley mob in general would have been sick of the sight of him by the time the credits rolled.

For my part, having soaked in an hour and a half of the midfield three racing around like small children on a diet of fizzy drinks and sweets, I rather fancied a quiet sit-down in a darkened room, with just a bourbon for company. Simply watching the young people was tiring enough for me. Marvellous work though.

An honourable mention too for young Spence. At 25 he is a few years the senior of the midfield three, but I’ll bung him into the same bracket, primarily on the grounds that he too was a bundle of energy throughout.

Technically, I suppose as this was a 4-2-3-1 sort of setup, one might have labelled Spence as an orthodox right-back, but he seemed to treat any such suggestion with a care-free shrug, and simply cracked right on with that business of scooting off into the opposition penalty area whenever the situation demanded, looking every inch a wing-back.

2. Richarlison

I’m not quite sure at what point isolated statistical occurrences become a trend, but it’s now two pretty dashing Richarlison performances in a row, and the regulars are starting to whisper excitedly.

After peddling some rousing fare in midweek against the other champions of Europe, Richarlison’s newest trick on Saturday was to dispense with any attempts to control the ball, and instead simply leather the thing first time. It was a stroke of genius. Seasoned Richarlison-watchers will be well aware that while hardly lacking willing, he can occasionally be stymied in his performances when it comes to some of the operational basics – such as being able to control the football.

However, at the weekend, he hit upon the idea of skipping from step 1 to step 3, as it were, and dispensing with the troublesome middle part. When Kudus crossed invitingly, any suggestions of trapping the precious cargo were dismissed from Richarlison’s mind. Instead, in a sequence that seemed to sit with him far more comfortably, he took to contorting his limbs at all manner of acrobatic angles, and thumping the ball into whichever corner of the net took his fancy.

It was a trick I remember him unveiling with similar aplomb at the last World Cup, since which occasion I have pretty regularly chuntered along the lines that he never produces such fare in lilywhite.

Well that particular wait is over. That second goal was a humdinger, attracting admiring noises from the gathered masses each time it was replayed on the stadium screens.

Frankly, after a pair of goals of that quality, Richarlison could have spent the rest of the afternoon quietly leaning against a nearby pillar watching everyone else work up a sweat, and he’d still have been feted from all corners. As it happened, he trotted out another pretty impressive all-round display, doing all the necessary running and shielding and buffeting one would hope for from a fine, upstanding centre-forward.

All of which does make one return to the original question with a pensive stroke of the chin – are these two isolated statistical occurrences, or have we stumbled upon a better, stronger, faster version of Richarlison?

3. Kudus

However, for all the merry chatter about the bright young things, and the reborn striker at the apex, it was Kudus once again who came across as the headline act.

The fellow’s sheer strength continues to make one goggle a bit, and will take some getting used to. Indeed, my Spurs-supporting chum Ian let pass from his lips the name Mousa Dembele when remarking upon Kudus’ brawn, and one takes the point, for the former was similarly possessed of a robust frame off which opponents simply bounced.

As well as which, young Master K. has all the party tricks to attract the wide-eyed admirers, coming replete with stepovers, feints, close control and whatnot. The moment in the second half when he controlled the ball with his left foot tucked behind his right standing leg certainly attracted the sorts of gasps and applause that would not have been out of place a magic show, but it was the neat shoulder-dip and burst from a standing start, to create Richarlison’s second, which earned him the decisive AANP stamp of approval. Trickery is all well and good for a social media post, but ultimately we’ll need Kudus to create and score goals. The chap seems fully to understand the remit.  

As an aside, the potential prospect of both Kudus and Eze in the same line-up would prompt a smacking of the lips, but AANP has learned to frame these transfer rumours with caution, ever since the days of Rivaldo. For now I’m simply grateful that Kudus is a fully paid-up member of the gang.

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Spurs match reports

PSG 2-2 Spurs: Six Tottenham Talking Points

1. Formation

Trophy-winners though we might these days be, AANP was still steeped to the gills in the old, familiar dread before kick-off, and I’m not sure the teamsheet did much to soothe the frayed nerves.

Our newest Glorious Leader had unveiled what appeared on first glance to be a goalkeeper and eight defensive sorts for this one, and while one tries of course to be reasonable about these things, I must confess to reacting with a widening of the eyes, a murmured “What the dickens..?” and a few wildly quizzical looks.

More fool AANP. Fast forward 90 or so minutes and the 3-5-2 turned out to be a tactical masterpiece. “Balance” was the word I heard bandied on the telly-box, and while those commentary sorts can spout all manner of gibberish when they’ve got a mic thrust in front of them, on this occasion the chappie in question had stumbled upon the mot juste.

With a back-three in situ, one never really felt that our lot were outnumbered and straining every sinew to put out fires at the back. Gone was that sense of desperate last-ditch life-saving, and the frantic haphazard retreats that had become a bit of a hallmark in recent years.  

With this 3-5-2, we were, defensively a different beast. Which is to say that we were a beast with a few more bodies at the back. If, say, a Danso were turned and outpaced, a Romero could be relied upon to appear stage left and uproot a tree or two in clearing the danger. Should Doue or whomever start unfurling stepovers on the right, the reassuring sight of at least two in lilywhite would materialise to suffocate him.

PSG had it in them to one-touch our lot to death – and in such circumstances one accepts with a gracious shrug that that’s the way of things – but our lot were not be found wanting for numbers at the back, and this in itself was rather reassuring.

And in fact, much the same could be said of the midfield, where a triumvirate was deployed to similarly successful effect. Now Paulinha, ironically enough for a laddie who appears to AANP to be precisely what the doctor ordered, appears pretty desperately undercooked at present. Not his fault, he having barely laced a boot over the last 12 months by all accounts, and to repeat, I see him in time metamorphosing into an absolute pitbull in front of our defence.

Last night, however, the chap did appear to wheeze and puff his way through things somewhat. But lo, once again the use of a three-man construction came to our rescue, for that midfield also featured Messrs Sarr and Bentancur, both of whom came across as specimens at their absolute physical peak. (As an aside, it warmed the heart to observe Bentancur strutting about with fitness levels off the charts, following the near constant stream of batterings and bruises he’s collected over the past two years).

The presence of Sarr and Bentancur, essentially doing all the running so that Paulinha didn’t have to, meant that in midfield as in defence, we rarely looked outnumbered, and frequently showed sufficient appetite to snaffle possession from PSG and dance off over halfway.

Of course, any 3-5-2 lives and dies on the quality of its wing-backs, and here we really are blessed. One can only imagine the disbelieving glee with which Porro would have rubbed his eyes in the changing room beforehand when informed of his role. After two years of inverting and drifting infield, he didn’t need asking twice to bomb up the flank, and within about 30 seconds of kick-off could be spotted patrolling the corner of the PSG area with a glint in his eye.

Both he and Spence out on the other side gave fair indication of having not only received the memo, but taken to heart its contents, adopting the principles of top-notch wing-backery as their mantra for 90 minutes. The pair managed to tick boxes in both directions – and it was little surprise that when they (along with everyone else) ran out of steam in the final 20 or so, and they stopped advancing up the pitch, segueing from wing-backs to deep full-backs, our strategy rather fell apart at the seams.

So the 3-5-2 received a big fat tick at AANP Towers. I’m not sure that the same level of caution will be required for the next meeting with Tamworth – or even Burnley at home – but for a first innings of the season, against probably the best team in the world, and with a side shorn of its key attacking pipkins, 3-5-2 turned out to be just the ticket.

2. Richarlison

In rattling through the roll of honour of those who made the 3-5-2 work it is only right that I add to the Hall of Fame young Richarlison. For someone long established in the AANP rankings as the least technically gifted Brazilian to have kicked a ball, he delivered one heck of a tap-dance.

Drinking in this performance with some astonishment, I was reminded of a chappie I knew at the old almer mater, who one term returned after the summer hols with a new blonde haircut, a complete change in attire and announcing himself to the fairer sex as “Surfy”. In short, the curious fish had for some reason reinvented himself, and so it seemed with Richarlison last night.

Gone was the moody wretch possessed of two left feet and half-hearted chasing of lost causes, to be replaced sharpness of touch and a stirring line in winning possession on or around halfway.

One of the fellow’s first touches of the ball was a first-time effort from a good 20 yards out, by which this absolute interloper seemed to be saying “Forget what you thought you knew, for I am now Richarlison, doer of the impossible (or at least attempter of the improbable”).

With Kudus happy to buzz around alongside him, it all made for a most useful apex to the 3-5-2.

I suppose the question now is whether the transformation can last. That self-styled ‘Surfy’ chap from university binned the new image after a few weeks, so one treats these episodes with some caution; and moreover, if Solanke is fully fit – and the indications are he’s on course for it – then a pretty clear hierarchy emerges.

So call me a cynic, but given that last night’s shindig will have been watched by a near global audience with little better to do, I’m inclined to suggest that this is the optimum time to slap a hefty price-tag on R9 and shove him into the arms of the highest bidder.

3. Kudus

AANP is not one of that breed who spends his leisure hours studying footage of West Ham United, and as such I couldn’t have told you too much about Mohammed Kudus beyond his Fantasy League stats before he pitched up at N17. But by golly, if last night taught me anything it was that here was a fellow who knew how to make a first impression.

Specifically, that first impression seemed to consist of displaying the strength of about a dozen oxen. Of course, it is a prerequisite for the modern-day footballer to display a physique like one of those sculpted marble statues of the Greek gods, but even allowing for that I would not have cast the eye upon Kudus and immediately placed him as a 12-round heavyweight.

And yet, in glorious technicolour last night we were treated to the sight of a PSG sort clambering all over Kudus and pretty much bouncing off him, then to be joined by a second PSG sort, and sometimes even a third – but with their combined mights having minimal impact upon the chap.

Given his nomination for Strongest Man Alive one would have understood if, upon then emerging from the ruck with the ball at his feet, Kudus then displayed the touch of a malcoordinated donkey – but it turns out that on top of everything else he also skips about the place like a lissom cage footballer, turning his opposing full-backs inside out and painting pretty patterns with his feet.

I suppose if one were to be hyper-critical one might suggest that he could put in a few more hours in the back garden working on his weaker foot, but that’s one for another day. It’s unsurprising that in just about every pre-season game so far the primary tactic has been “Give It To Kudus” because in just about any circumstance he can not only shield the ball to afford everyone else a puff of the cheeks, but he’ll also then embark on one of those mazy ones and create a spot of mischief.

4. Sarr

With Kudus deployed yesterday in a role that was nominally supporting striker, but often morphed into right winger, young Sarr was accordingly re-jigged into a slightly more traditional midfield role. In case you missed the last few weeks, he has spent much of pre-season operating behind the front man, in the ‘Number 10’ role. Not one I’d have pencilled him in for, I must admit, but our new Head Honcho seems to think that his run-and-chase routine has value up the top of the pitch, so one sees the logic.

Anyway, back to last night, and Sarr’s remit had decidedly less glitz and glamour. “Mop up the loose ends”, was about the gist of it. And frankly, if he had reacted to this instruction with a darkening of the brow and a moody stare, one would have had a degree of sympathy. Chasing shadows against a team that has dished out a 5-0 tonking in the Champions League final of all games, is hardly the stuff of dreams.

Sarr, however, responded to the call like an absolute champion. If there were a loose ball to be seen just about anywhere inside our own half, he was onto it with the alacrity of one of those sizeable wild cats in the nature programmes leaping onto its prey.

It made sense, as he’s always been one of those beans so energetic that one feels rather exhausted just watching him, but his presence added a most welcome layer of security at the back as well as in midfield. Sarr regularly hurtled across the penalty area to stick out a well-timed limb if PSG threatened to find a yard of space, and by the time he was withdrawn I was pretty clear in my mind that there stood the game’s outstanding performer.

5. Spence

On the topic of outstanding performers, however, an honourable mention to young Spence. It remains most perplexing to me that this chap, ordained by nature as right-footed, should so regularly appear vastly more accomplished as a left-back than as right-back, but nature does occasionally throw up these quirks I suppose.

And last night, Spence rather hammered home the point that left wing-back is the life for him. Going forward he was a nuisance, providing an attacking outlet all the way into the PSG area, and as such doing a fair bit to nullify the threat of Hakimi.

Had this impressive front-foot display been to the detriment of his defending we might well have exchanged knowing looks and clicked the tongue a bit – but as it happened, he covered all of his defensive duties in watchful manner throughout.

It was rather a shame that the PSG equaliser emanated from a cross from his side, because for most of the game Spence had his defensive area under lock and key. Udogie will presumably consider himself the first choice in the role, but Spence comes across as a chap who clearly knows his onions.

6. Defeat

Having feared a hammering (particularly in the wake of the Bayern debacle) I was most pleasantly surprised at the general to-ing and fro-ing on offer last night. PSG were seemingly not at the peak of their powers, but our lot did not seem inclined to pause and debate this, and instead just got on with matters. A dashed good fist they made of things too.

However, while no points were lost, all manner of positives were snaffled and the consensus was that we deserved a little better, I reserved the right to head for the exits with a spot of chuntering on my lips.

The bone of contention was that our lot need to find ways to win shiny pots. We did it in Bilbao, and I was pretty miffed that we failed to do it last night. The whole attitude of puffing out the chest and saying we were jolly good sports is not enough. It grates. Our lot should not be content with making it to finals, and from 2-0 up after 85 minutes we ought to have seen the thing through. There was a trophy of sorts on offer, and a cracking opportunity to turn that sort of thing into a habit.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-4 Brighton: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Bentancur’s Hangover Cure

I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn when I describe this one as “inconsequential”. The definition the nearest dictionary throws out me is “Adjective: Not important or significant”, and while I assume that professionalism forbad The Brains Trust from imparting such sage and accurate assessment to our heroes immediately prior to kick-off, the unspoken word was very evidently firing on all cylinders. Everyone knew. Never mind that a full house was in attendance, the outcome of this one was not really the key issue that had the masses gripped.

Nevertheless, before our heroes could provide cold, hard and shiny evidence of being trophy-winners and champions of Europe, there was a match to be played, so the appropriate pleasantries were undertaken.

And I suspect I was as surprised as anyone else in the auditorium when various members of the collective burst out of the traps. After events of the preceding 72 or so hours, sprightliness and energy were frankly the last things I was expecting to see. One did not have to be one of the great literary sleuths to work out that our heroes had flung heart and soul into enjoying the moment – and to a man, woman and child we applauded them and egged them on.

If AANP were asked to put a hand on the Bible and commit to telling the truth and nothing but, he would admit to having sucked of the sauce when circumstances demanded, and even of having over-indulged in this area on the rare, regrettable occasion. But it is with the benefit of this experience that I can assert with some confidence that while the imbibing of choice elixirs can be an absolute hoot in the moment – with the right company about, and the right concoction in hand – what comes to pass in the following days can prove seriously challenging to the constitution.

It was in this context that I expected a near-total absence of enthusiasm from our heroes. You can therefore picture my surprise on observing that Rodrigo Bentancur began the game as arguably the most animated of the entire gang.

Here was a man who seemingly had refused to stand upright unless clutching a vial of some description in the hand in the days following our win. By all accounts he also refused to sleep for a day or so after our triumph, evidently reasoning that Nature’s Sweet Restorer comes a distant second to immersing oneself in the joy of a European trophy win.

No blame attached there at all, but where he therefore found the vim to tear around the pitch from the opening whistle, flying into challenges as if his life depended on them, was beyond me. In my experience, a soft pillow and some closed curtains are the principal requirements after a few consecutive days on the bottle. The moral of that particular story seemed to be to find out the morning-after cure adopted by our Uruguayan cousins and cherish it as gold dust.

In fact, if anything, Bentancur was swanning about the place with a bit too much spice. An early challenge down by the byline seemed to have about it much of the two-feet-leaving-the-ground, and only a linesman’s flag for offside negated that at source as an argument, but shortly before half-time he did pick up a caution, as possibly his fifth full-length diving challenge of the afternoon delivered a harvest of Ball – None; Man – Plenty.

All this was particularly striking because although Bentancur is not exactly a stranger to a yellow card, his is a reputation that has been built more upon the cerebral and well-anticipated interception, rather than the crunching, not-too-many-damns-given flying boot.

However, a midfield incarnation of Romero on his more hot-headed days was evidently the persona he wished to adopt yesterday, and that decision having been made he embraced it with gusto. Allowing for those occasional errant and mistimed challenges, this was a midfield performance that was pretty impressive.

2. Gray

Another who caught the AANP eye in that punchy first half was Archie Gray. His has been quite the character arc this season. As we all recall, having been shoved into central defence, and presumably advised to enjoy himself but keep mistakes to a minimum, he proceeded to flabbergast by patrolling the region like a seasoned pro, and was feted accordingly. When he therefore finally received his chance in his preferred midfield habitat, lips were licked and gleeful hands rubbed.

Alas, and as was again well documented, what had been presented as a pretty surefire winner, went alarmingly wrong. His performance in midfield against Liverpool in particular was pretty ghastly stuff, and while one might reason with some justification that he hasn’t been quite as bad in midfield since, this truth does nevertheless overlook the fact that he has not been particularly good in midfield since, either.

Until yesterday, that is, when in the first half I thought he pottered about with a bit of meaning. It was what one might have termed a pretty decent Bentancur Tribute Act. He intercepted, he picked passes and he tackled – the latter talent notably deployed in winning possession high up the pitch in the episode that immediately resulted in Tel scurrying into the area and winning the penalty.

The inconsequential air that hung around the place throughout meant that useful conclusions drawn were at a premium, and any performances, rip-snorting or otherwise, were best advised to be taken with a generous pinch of salt. Nevertheless, I was encouraged to see real-life evidence that, when the stars align, Archie Gray actually can hit various of the right notes in a midfield role.

3. Danso

Kevin Danso was another who, on a day and in a match of greater consequence, might have earned himself a complimentary inclination of the head.

The case of Kevin Danso specifically at AANP Towers has been a slightly rummy one so far this season, because practically everyone with whom I have conversed on the topic has rather brightly suggested that here’s a one with something about him, only to be met with one of my more dubious eyes. Which is not to say I thought he’d stunk out the place so far; more that I hadn’t really been bowled over by his defensive contributions. One of those non-committal shrugs accompanied by one of those non-committal platitudes summed up the AANP take on the chap to date.

That started to change on Wednesday night, when I thought he was note-perfect in his little defensive cameo, to help us see the thing home. It was not an occasion that called for vision and distribution, just clear-headed thinking and a willingness to fling all available limbs into the line of fire.

Having impressed thus, he was given a slightly different remit yesterday, tasked with overseeing defensive matters instead of rather than alongside Romero. With VDV given an hour on the left of the centre-backs, Danso was presumably required to do Romero-type things, such as winning headers and cutting out crosses, and in the first half in particular he impressed in these respects.

If this could be considered an audition of sorts, for the role of Romero understudy, one might suggest that he did enough to earn a couple more stabs. Faultless it wasn’t, but whereas for example Dragusin has sometimes given the impression of a chap who lied in his interview and is being found out now that the real stuff has kicked in, Danso at least gives the impression that he knows what is expected and has played the part before.

4. Tel

A quick word too on Tel, who put in one of those shifts that had me hesitantly hovering the finger over a few different categories.

On the one hand one could make a reasonable argument that, in the first half, the opposing right-back would not have been thrilled to discover that pretty much the entirety of the Tottenham game-plan involved switching the ball to Tel and letting him run. One did not get the impression that the nearest Brighton chappie punched the air and mouthed to his chums, “Leave this one to me” each time the aforementioned routine was put in motion. And if a player’s worth can be gauged by how little thrilled the opposition are by his inputs, then one might suggest Tel added value.

And to embellish the whole argument, one might also point to the fact that it was Tel’s fleetness of foot that won us our penalty. It was clumsy muck from the Brighton squirt, but all the more credit to Tel for enticing such clog-headedness.

On the other hand, however, the AANP map did produce a few frowns as the half wore on, because for all the service he was given, Tel’s ‘End Product’ sack looked pretty empty. The penalty earned is to his credit; but he seemed to have four or five other opportunities to run at his full-back and either tiptoe past him or set up an arriving chum, and I don’t recall him doing either.

Moreover, I do recall him wasting a glorious chance to put us two-nil up later in the first half. One suspects that our bleary-eyed heroes would still have found a way to fritter away such a lead, but nevertheless, it did not reflect too well on young Tel. The disclaimer, however, remains, that this was not really one upon which lasting judgements should be based.

5. The Second Half Hangover

One theory that has reached the AANP ears is that our heroes began the game with the adrenaline of the occasion still coursing through them. With the cheers of the adoring public still ringing in their ears, and the celebratory atmosphere still very much in evidence in the build-up to the game, it has been suggested that come kick-off a rush of euphoria inhabited our heroes, driving them in general, and Bentancur in particular, to impressive heights.

Mark the sequel, however, because the theory continues that by the time the second half scooted into view, that well of adrenaline had begun to run dry. And when that happened, the after-effects of the three-day party really did begin to hit our heroes.

Impressed though I was that none of them actually collapsed on their backs and declared that they had had enough, or crawled over to the nearest lavatory bowl into which they could stick their head, I nevertheless received the distinct impression in that second half that the race was run. The pungent aromas of the previous days’ festivities almost visibly began to creep up on them. While substitutions were made, the fact that those entering the fray had themselves left mountains of evidence of their revelry rather suggested that their impact would be minimal, and so it proved.

However, in the manner that some modern films now do when they try too hard to be clever, I return to the opening line of all this, and stress that this was all pretty inconsequential. Put another way, in years to come, I’m not too sure that many in lilywhite will introduce this as the day on which Spurs lost 4-1, or excitedly babble “I was there on the day we shipped four in the second half alone.”

But “I was there on the day Spurs paraded their European trophy around the pitch”? It’s one to remember.

AANP’s book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99) – while Spurs’ Cult Heroes, covering our previous European triumphs, is also still available

Categories
Spurs match reports

Europa League Final – Spurs 1-0 Man Utd: Four Tottenham Talking Points

It turns out that it’s not the easiest thing in the world to sit down and scribble a few hundred words when one has an ear-to-ear grin plastered across the face and is inclined to leap to one’s feet every thirty seconds and dance little jigs of joy about the place, but I’ll have a stab.

1. The Match Itself

The only thing better than winning a trophy with pure, glory glory, all-action-no-plot, unadulterated Angeball, is winning a trophy doing the exact opposite. Somehow, ending the 17 years of misery with one of the worst spectacles imaginable made it all the sweeter.

If anyone were in the market for a scrappy, nerve-riddled mess of a game, this was the place to be. Any hint of quality packed its bags and skipped out the door pretty much as soon as the opening toot sounded.

Ange set up the troops with the motto ringing in their ears “Just win the dashed thing, aesthetics be damned” – and AANP was all for it. After all, what good are second-placed finishes and semi-final exits, if we can’t ultimately enjoy moments such as Sonny lifting the glorious pot, as last night?  There is a time and a place to have the watching masses purr with satisfaction at whizzy, one-touch, irresistible football; but, crucially, there is also a time and a place not to. This was very much the latter.

From the off, our heroes made it clear that they would greet with a collective shrug of indifference any outraged squawks about the quality on show. Where previous iterations have reached a cup final and then frozen in the headlights, or gallantly attempted to outplay the opposition, or in some other way gloriously failed, last night’s vintage rolled up their sleeves, spat on their hands and set about winning the dashed thing by whatever means necessary – and with knowing nods and winks indicating that they were full cognizant of the fact that ‘whatever means necessary’ translated into the lowest-quality scrap imaginable.

If there were any hints of the thing being turned into a beauty contest, Bissouma or Romero or some other beast of a man would storm over and kick a lump out of someone before returning to their post. Players rolled on the ground, and called each other names, and racked up incalculable numbers of tackles and clearances without caring too much about their legality. Actual football was a long way down the agenda. It was the sort of stuff that would have protective parents shielding the eyes of their children.

And the whole thing worked out swimmingly. Our heroes scored a goal entirely in keeping with the quality of the evening, it involving miskicks and ricochets, various bodies stumbling in wrong directions, an inadvertent handball and ultimately the merest shaving of studs on ball. And thereafter, the drill was simply to use all means available to keep United at bay, although I rather fancy that bonus points were dished out on the basis that the uglier the intervention the better.

Oddly enough, on reflection United didn’t actually fashion anything too menacing, despite being allowed as much possession as their paws could manage. Fernandes missed the one clear chance they had, and Hojlund was rather gifted the headed opportunity that brought about the VDV clearance. That aside, however, this was an evening of countless crosses being swatted away, with all the necessary nerves one would expect, but actually without any real menace lurking.

2. The Goal

As mentioned, the goal that brought it home very evidently shared the DNA of the match that birthed it.

There is, however, a small asterisk to the above, because in the build-up to the goal, albeit slightly lost in the mists of the glory that comes with becoming European champions, our heroes did actually stumble upon possibly the only piece of top-quality football in the whole match. And just to slather an extra layer of absurdity upon it all, this moment of quality emanated from the clogs of Richarlison, an egg whose attracted his fair share of rotten fruit from this quarter.

Specifically, it was a neat diagonal pass from Mr R out on the left wing, infield and into the path of Bentancur, just outside the area. It would be rather stretching the truth to declare that this created the goal, for there followed a fair amount of admin, and ultimately it was Sarr who delivered the decisive cross, but if one were to assert that this little interplay occurred in the build-up to our goal, it would be as factually correct a statement as “I always win a trophy in my second season.”

Richarlison’s little input completed, as mentioned the ball was eventually relayed to Sarr, who wormed it into the area. This was the invitation for Brennan Johnson to join the pantheon of Cup-winning goalscorers, and rather splendidly, young Master J. was acutely aware that this invitation made no mention at all of the quality of strike required. Instead, clearly indicating himself to be a bit of a history buff, he took his cue from Grahm Roberts, Des Walker and Jonathan Woodgate, and reasoned that on these occasions one might as well write oneself into Tottenham Hotspur history with the scrappiest and least refined finish in the armoury.

Johnson initially mistimed his shot. The first outcome of this was that he looked like he  was attempting to flick the ball in the opposite direction to the goal, which was a novel way to approach the problem. However, when basking in the glory of being newly-crowned European champions, one learns to give the benefit of the doubt. Thus it seems that this initial manoeuvre was all just part of the Brennan Johnson masterplan.

Making sagacious use of the unwitting arm of Luke Shaw, and of course drawing upon a comically despairing flap from Andre Onana, who it seems is always wheeled out for these big European nights for Spurs, Johnson’s mere presence seemed to be the decisive factor. By the time everyone had rearranged their limbs and surveyed the scene, after the initial collision, events had moved on a bit, and the ball had started bobbling, a little uncertainly, towards goal.

At this point, events in the Johnson mind seemed to crystallize. His name appeared in lights ahead of him. All that was required, he seemed to reason, was to give the ball a little encouragement on its way. Accordingly, his basest instincts took over, and he took a swing at the thing.

He might have expected at this point to send the ball bursting the net from its moorings. But this being The Scrappiest (And Simultaneously Most Glorious) Game Ever, such a neat and emphatic finish was not part of the plan. Gravity at this point dragging Johnson to terra firma, his powerful swing of the leg resulted in only the most delicate brushing of the ball with the tip of his studs.

And marvellously enough, this was sufficient. Helpfully, the passage of time had not diminished Onana’s memory of how to play his part in these things, and six years on from being caught in a Lucas Moura whirlwind, he found himself staggering off in the wrong direction, and unable to do any more than swing a few despairing arms, to no avail.

Appropriately enough, Johnson then made a bit of a mess of the knee-slide too, and the whole thing became a part of Tottenham folklore. Not that I drank it in with too much clarity at the time, lost as I was in a sea of lilywhite limbs, but that all added to the fun of the thing.

3. The Goal-Line Clearance

The record books will proclaim Johnson as the winning goalscorer, but I suspect I capture a fairly popular sentiment when I cross the fingers and hope that Micky Van de Ven’s goal-saving contribution is revered in years to come as Tony Parks’ 1984 endeavours are today.

Not to dampen celebrations with anything too pedantic, but if we get into the weeds of that particular episode then one can only raise an eyebrow at the little interjection from Vicario. Famously bonkers, Vicario had already given notice of his intention to approach this match in the manner of an irate frog locked inside a box, and accordingly did not miss an opportunity to sprinkle his night’s work with a little hyperactivity.

Having only just attached fingertips to a cross for which he had set out in the first half, shortly past the hour mark there seemed little threat in the offing when United lobbed a pass straight up the centre of the pitch and down his throat. In textbook style Vicario leapt into the air and adopted a welcoming pose with his arms. If he had already begun congratulating himself at this point for extinguishing yet another United attack without any harm accruing, one would have understood.

At this point, however, matters went pretty seriously off-kilter. Vicario picked this moment to completely lose sense of spatial awareness. What ought to have been a basic game of ‘Catch’, the stuff of thrills for a three year-old, turned into a situation of considerable alarm and urgency.

In short, Vicario missed the ball with his hands, and allowed it instead to bounce off his face.

Well, even one of those thrilled three year-olds could have advised that this was the wrong approach. And not just that, but when a football bounces off a face, it becomes mightily difficult to predict where the devil it will go next. If a football lands within gloved hands, a degree of certainty can reign regarding its whereabouts; but bounce off the human face, and all bets are off.

As it happened, the dashed thing looped kindly for Hojlund, and he did not mess around, looping it straight back whence it came, and looking for all the world like he had nabbed the equaliser.

At this point, however, Micky Van de Ven burst onto the scene, to deliver both a presence of mind for which I will be eternally grateful, but also, astonishingly, a litheness of frame of which I had simply not thought the young bean capable.

Dealing with these things in order, and that presence of mind did much to make us champions of Europe. I am ashamed to confess that when Hojlund’s header looped goalwards, I froze. No action or alacrity from AANP, I simply gawped in horror, and may have clutched at the arm of my Spurs-supporting chum Mark, but not much more.

Master VDV, however, is evidently possessed of tougher mental fibre. No sooner had the danger started to accrue than his cogs had begun whirring, and a decision was swiftly made. Get back to the goal-line, and use every available to means to rescue the situation, seemed to be the summary of his analysis.

And this was where that aforementioned litheness came into play, because it was one thing opting to clear the danger, but quite another putting the plan into effect. A critical challenge was the fact that VDV is famously made of biscuits. Prod him and he snaps. Stretch him, and he again snaps. In fact, do anything to him, or have him do anything, and there’s a fair chance that he will fall apart at the seams.

When it became clear, therefore, that the only saving action was for VDV to contort himself into some extraordinary amalgamation of splayed limbs, I’d have dismissed the chances of success as negligible. A circus acrobat would struggle to raise his foot above his head, one might conclude, let alone one of Nature’s most brittly constructed footballers.

And yet, there he leapt, and contorted, in glorious technicolour, one leg above his head, another behind his back, and all performed while a good three feet up in the atmosphere. It was a sensational moment, and one every bit as deserving of its place in Tottenham history as Johnson’s goal.

4. Tottenham Have Won A Trophy!

Not that this game was decided by VDV, Johnson and no others. By the time the credits rolled and everyone began jumping and hugging, one couldn’t lob a brick onto the pitch without hitting an absolute hero clad in lilywhite.

Romero managed the commendable feat of combining a defensive performance of supreme discipline with aggression channelled in precisely the appropriate fashion – viz. into the face of Harry Maguire at every opportunity.

Sarr, about whose deployment at the tip of the midfield three AANP had had considerable doubts, drew upon every last bubble of oxygen in tearing about the pitch for the cause.

Bissouma and Bentancur provided exactly the screen that the back-four required, while Richarlison not only provided an attacking outlet, particularly in the first half, but also emerged as one of the few amongst our number who effected a clean tackle on that pesky Amad – a lad whose nuisance value considerably diminished in the second half as Udogie gradually got the measure of him.

So it’s the shiniest gold stars all round for the players. For the manager, debate on his future can be had another day – last night he nailed his tactics, delivered on his promise and brought a European trophy back to N17.

AANP has spent every waking hour since full-time milking this occasion until it bleeds, and why not? Input from media types and those who support other teams is, of course, all part of life’s rich tapestry, but by golly it is nevertheless satisfying to ram a European trophy down those throats.

The whole business of just getting the job done and actually finding a way to win a trophy had become quite the issue. Legions of psychologists and whatnot would have scratched their heads and shrugged their shoulders, as one Tottenham team after another found ways to bungle the operation. The current vintage, however, ride off into the sunset with a shiny pot. As such they deserve all the plaudits that come their way – and one hopes that it serves as a prompt to further silverware, some time sooner than 17 years hence.   

Tottenham Hotspur, Europa League winners – absolutely marvellous stuff!

AANP’s book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99) – while Spurs’ Cult Heroes, covering our previous European triumphs, is also still available

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 0-2 Palace: Three Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s latest book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99) – while Spurs’ Cult Heroes is also still available

1. More Garbage, and a Binary Choice

The same old, same old, what? No surprises here. The performance was, I presume, precisely what we’d all expected, and the battle-lines were drawn long ago. Those whose motto is “For the love of God, go!” – a quorum one might term, ‘The Majority’ – stand on one side. Actually, come to think of it, they stand pretty much everywhere you care to look.

A quieter brigade, more inclined to wait and see how Ange would fare in a third season and with a squad a bit fuller on substance, lurk hither and thither.

And various others make up the remainder, they being the souls for whom articulation of their position requires a pad, a pen, and a few minutes to scribble out the implications – whether or not we win in Bilbao; how much weight should be placed upon European performances; how much one can stomach of the weekly, abject surrender in the League, and so on.

I’m not sure we really need a show of hands at present, but one comment on the airwaves that caused me to scratch behind the ear and ponder was that we Spurs fans have lamented – and other dastardly sorts have mocked – over the years, as we’ve finished anywhere from 2nd to 5th, and bemoaned the fact that Champions League qualification is all well and good, but there are no trophies. Those seasons in which we finished 2nd and 3rd in particular, with nothing to show, still keep AANP awake and grinding the teeth a bit at night, dash it.

Worth noting, at this point, that on last inspection there still aren’t any trophies – but if we are to win next week, I for one will pretty happily sacrifice a proud league position in the Top Five for it (the fact that it would also earn CL qualification is not really the point, so I’ll place to one side for now).

Now finishing 17th is certainly stretching the definition of ‘Sacrificing a proud league position in the Top Five’ to its absolute extreme. Not really what anyone had in mind, admittedly. But still, the point remains that I’d probably accept finishing outside the CL spots as a one-off, if it hooked us a shiny pot.

And once the old cogs started whirring, there was no stopping them. The next thought that had smoke billowing from the ears was that, given that the last time we reached a European final (Poch, Ajax and all that, in 2019) we again finished some way off the Top Four, I’d also venture that our squad simply isn’t – and never has been – equipped for the rigours of a campaign that is successful on two fronts. The 60 games required for a successful European mooch has left our lot gasping and wheezing.

Where the fault lies for that one is a debate for which I’ll quietly exit the room, allowing others to roll up their sleeves and crack their knuckles, but the when the dust settles it does seem to appear that a trophy – and particularly a European one – is only earned at the expense of Top Four league form. It’s a binary choice. Top Four/Five, or a European trophy, but not both.

The plot no doubt thickens when domestic trophies are introduced, as one could feasibly pick up one within half a dozen extra games. Palace certainly made our lot blush with shame with their demonstration of how to approach a Cup Final appearance.

The Europa run, however, evidently requires a bit more fuel than an FA Cup run – and our lot simply  haven’t eaten enough spinach to make it through 60 games. Either the first-choice mob collapse in a heap to the soundtrack of yelps of pain, or the second string come in to relive them and promptly engineer a monstrosity of the ilk seen yesterday.

And yesterday was, yet again, as wretched as these things get. Defeats happen, one can grudgingly admit, but performances that play out as the 90-minute equivalent of a stifled yawn ought to elicit some wild and draconian punishment.

As has been parroted on a weekly basis, no matter the quality in Europe, motivating the players for the other stuff is the responsibility of Our Glorious Leader. For every impressive Europa performance he oversees, he seems intent on undoing any goodwill and pronto the following Sunday.

2. Kinsky

On the bright side, that Kinsky bean can probably look back on his afternoon’s work without the same sense of disgrace as just about every one of his chums. It’s a bar so low that it simply lies on the ground, but he was probably the standout chappie.

Mind you, even he had his wobbles, as tends usually to happen to him at some point between 1 and 90. Still possessed by a level of confidence in his kicking ability that I’m not convinced is matched by the output of his size nines, he once again made the AANP heart skip a beat or two when surveying his options with ball at feet yesterday. Not one to rush into a pass if there remains an option to use up every available nanosecond, his dubious tendency to wait until an opposition striker was almost upon him, and then slightly stuff his pass anyway, was once again on display.

There was also one uncomfortable moment in which he made quite the production of what appeared at first sight to be a straightforward shot aimed low to his left, in the first half. I might do the man an almighty injustice here, I suppose. It might be that the ball spun and spat with the vicious unpredictability of one of those mystery spinners from the sub-continent that one hears about on TMS. However, it looked to my untrained eye as if Kinsky dropped himself down as per the textbook instruction, and then paddled around a bit once there, patting the ball back out to his right, for all nearby to engage in an almighty scramble to get there first and have their way.

He remedied it in the end, helpfully enough, so one need not dwell, and as mentioned, he did everything else one would have expected of him, and threw in a few bonus saves too. Back in that glorious era when the game was still alive, the scores level and the faintest whiff of competitive interest still hung faintly in the air, Kinsky seemed convinced that much depended on keeping Palace at bay, and extended all available limbs to their limits in order to achieve this.

One save in particular, from close range in the first half, prompted an impressed murmur of “Golly”, from the AANP lips, it involving the young cove extending himself in all directions at once, in a manner of which any passing spider would have been proud, and somehow repelling a shot from a distance of approximately three yards.

It says much, of course, about the output of the collective when the Outstanding Performer Gong is won by a comfortable mile by the goalkeeper, and even then when flaws can be easily spotted in his performance. But still, might as well celebrate the wins, what?

3. The Rollcall of Ignominy

Because everywhere else one looked one was tempted to shake the head in a manner intended to sting.

I’ll start with that midfield. Bentancur, Sarr and Gray ought to be a triumvirate that elicits expectant nods and maybe even a gleeful rubbing off the hands, when announced pre-kick-off. There isn’t a lilywhite amongst us who hasn’t been eagerly awaiting the emergence of Gray as some species of midfield prodigy, following the quietly impressive way in which he handled himself at centre-back.

And it’s not so long ago that Sarr was the bright young thing in midfield himself, an all-singing, all-dancing ball of energy who just needed the furniture around him to be arranged correctly in order to dash about the place running operations. With Bentancur showing in those Europa jollies a capacity to steady ships and give sensibly, there seemed much to look forward to.

But these three seemed to be of the opinion that if you’re going to let down your paying public, you might as well do so spectacularly, for as unit they simply melted away whenever Palace had the ball. Messrs B., S. and G. allowed the other lot to wander as close as they pleased to our goal, without any hint of stopping them to carry out some spot-checks and ask meaningful questions.

For the first disallowed goal, the midfield three were stranded miles up the pitch. Gray, in fairness, was loosely in the vicinity, but not really offering much in the way of assistance, while Sarr and Bentancur seemed to have more pressing engagements up around the halfway line.

Of the two-man protective shield that has been in evidence on Thursday nights, there was no sign. Bentancur at least had the dignity to use possession well when he had it, but defensive duties just weren’t on the menu.

Nor did things improve in the second half, when Bissouma replaced Bentancur. Bissouma wasted little time in picking up one of his utterly fat-headed bookings for dissent, and then seemed to consider that his afternoon’s work was done. For the second Palace goal, both he and Gray had ample opportunity to break into the trot necessary to prevent Eze having an unhindered pop at goal, but neither bothered.

Gray’s distribution was often wildly awry, and Sarr seemed, not for the first time, not really to know the specifics of his job or the more general question of what sport he was playing.

Those elsewhere did not cover themselves in glory either. Young Spence was similarly caught upfield seemingly every time Palace attacked. It was little surprise that the Palace right-back Munoz had an absolute whale of a time, because every time his colleagues attacked he was happy to stretch his limbs and yell for the ball, safe in the knowledge that Spence was a good dozen or so yards out of position.

Spence did actually look pretty useful coming forward in possession, particularly in the second half, but to have been so far out of defensive position on so many occasions did boggle the mind rather.

As for the attacking mob, once Kulusevski limped off to be replaced by the rarely-spotted Mikey Moore, a collective ripple went about the place that we looked awfully short of upper-body muscle, and Messrs Odobert, Tel and Moore dutifully spent the next hour or so demonstrating precisely that.

Moore gave the odd fleeting glimpse of that trickery for which we all pine, and I suppose all three of them might benefit individually if utilised within a strong XI that plays to their strengths. But none of these criteria seemed to apply yesterday, and after a while the whole thing looked like a Bryan Gil tribute show.

All rather a shame, because in the opening few minutes Kulusevski gave the impression that he planned to make a bit of mischief. Nice to see Sonny back I suppose, although he’ll have to deliver one heck of a performance to convince me that a return to his heights of yesteryear is simmering away beneath the surface.

I remain yet to be convinced by Danso, although one does understand why he has his backers. With a little spit and polish he could turn into a dependable sort; but anyone who has to spend their afternoon alongside Ben Davies and behind a midfield who check out and don’t return, will find the odds stacked against him.

Depressingly, we can presumably expect more of the same against Villa, when Our Glorious Leader faces the unwelcome conundrum of whether to field VDV and Romero (plus Solanke and various others), in order to keep their engines running ahead of Bilbao, but in so doing risk yet another key injury.

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Spurs match reports

West Ham 1-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s latest book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99) – while Spurs’ Cult Heroes is also still available

1. A 90-Minute Shrug of Indifference

A rummy one, what? Our hosts greeted their own Cup Final with a collective shrug of indifference, reflected with pleasing symmetry by both those in the stands and on the pitch.

As for our own heroes, all pretence from Our Glorious Leader that he is selecting the best players for each game, or any such gubbins deemed fit for public consumption, was finally dispensed with. This was unashamedly our reserve crew. The B-team, as it were. Ange essentially rasped as much himself. The purpose of this particular exercise was simply to avoid The Chosen XI picking up any more injuries.

A bit galling, I imagine, for some of the more experienced bods – Danso, Davies et al – to be looked squarely in the eye and told they’re the second string, but such is life, and I expect the astronomical wads of cash stuffed into the monthly envelope help to cushion the blow.

Anyway, with literally nobody on the premises giving the slightest damn about the occasion, I imagine that even the hardiest of lilywhites would have treated this one with a degree of indifference, all eggs now having been so unashamedly shoved into the Europa basket. Where previously every dreary League performance was greeted with bile-filled rage and a volley of rotten fruit from the stalls, yesterday’s was treated with all the dozy engagement of a post-lunch, cocktail-fuelled siesta on a sun-kissed beach.

2. Vicario

Unimportant stroll in the sun it might have been, but old habits die hard in Team Lilywhite, and there was therefore still time for our heroes to throw in the concession of a comfortably avoidable goal.

By my count at least three of our number will need to be dragged into the office, given the intimidating eye and asked in no uncertain terms to explain themselves. Young Master Spence, whose usual exterior cloak of languid unconcern actually fitted the occasion perfectly, was guilty of weighing up the need for positional discipline and then promptly deciding that this wasn’t the occasion for such professionalism.

Instead, he dreamily wandered out towards Wan-Bissaka, and, neither doing one thing nor another when it came to the age-old choice of Clobber-Your-Man or Sit-Back-To-Monitor-The-Overlapping-Forward, seemed a little taken aback to find that W-B had slipped the ball forward for the unopposed Bowen.

Spence having thus been removed from the equation, the onus fell upon Ben Davies to take some drastic disruptive steps. Davies had already given fair notice of the fact that, upstanding sort of chap though he undoubtedly is, the basics of association football are starting to creep a little beyond him. The early yellow card he collected, for uprooting an opponent as if he were a one hundred year-old oak, stank of a chap whose finest years are behind him.

And when W-B played the logical ball forward to Bowen, I was rather aghast to find that Davies was busily setting into motion an ill-advised offside trap. One did not really need 10 years as a Premier League defender to spot that this was a gambit laced with risk, and a tad inappropriate for the circumstances.

The Bowen was a good yard or two onside for a start, something Davies ought to have spotted given his involvement at the heart of the operation. Moreover, stopping in his tracks to try to play the offside game meant that he was rocking on his heels somewhat, while the Bowen was building up a head of steam towards our goal.

The net result was that when Davies eventually set off to take the drastic disruptive steps previously identified, he was a long way behind schedule. In fact, the thought of intervening seemed not even to strike him, until the Bowen was already sizing up his shot. Scuttling across with the air of a man who knows he’s late for an appointment, Ben Davies, like Spence before him, found himself in the awkward position of needing to tap on the shoulder his nearest colleague, for a spot of help with a brewing situation of concern.

That nearest colleague was Vicario. I confess to having greeted the news of his captaincy for the day with a sense of startled alarm. One’s cohort is, after all, made in the image of its leader. The thought of Vicario’s crazy rantings acting as the standard for all in the company fills me with a certain discomfort.

On this occasion, however, his demented ravings were not of concern. The only item on the agenda, really, was the stopping in his tracks of that Bowen. And with the angle tight, and Vicario manning the rear, the Bowen’s prospects seemed contained. He had the option, of course, of unlocking a whole new level of danger by squaring the ball; but of his own personal ambitions, one might have asserted with some confidence that the prospects were limited. All Vicario needed to do was not allow the ball to pass literally through his frame.

Here, however, he blundered severely. The only conceivable shooting option would have been through the legs of Vicario, and one could devote hours of study to the question of how Vicario himself failed to realise this; but fail to realise it was exactly what he did. Rather than arranging the lower limbs in some preventative structure, he hit upon the idea of spreading them widely enough to drive a bus through them.

Peter Schmeichel, I always felt, had the right idea in these situations, he being a fan of the cricket-style ‘long barrier’ technique, of bending one leg to the ground, in order to prevent entry. Vicario, alas, was evidently not an alumnus of this particular school, and it was the work of a moment for the Bowen to poke the ball through his legs.

This having struck me as a glaring faux pas, it was a deeply unimpressed AANP who drank in the remainder; but in his defence, Vicario then earned himself enormous credit in the second half with a pretty spectacular save to maintain parity.

It stemmed from the right clog of Ward-Prowse, from a free-kick, rather inevitably. I’ve often felt that if one were to remove free-kicks one would remove the very essence of Ward-Proswe, and he would gently shimmer out of existence.

Free-kicks are very much still knocking around, however, and when he bent one goalwards from the left, and some bright-eyed chum strained the neck muscles at it, the entire sequence – and particularly the geography of that neck muscle-flick, occurring as it did from inside the 6-yard box – meant that Vicario had precious little time to rearrange the moorings and take appropriate action.

That he did so was immensely to his credit. Even more to his credit was the fact that he was gently ambling to his right as the adventure began, and when neck muscle-f. took effect he found himself needing to transfer all body weight to his left and begin from scratch, as it were.

This he did, however, having the good sense to wave a sturdy arm at the ball as he did so, and the fruit of these labours was that he was able to give the ball a hearty slap in the direction of safety. As such, when the curtain came down and the numbers were counted, Vicario came away with one in the debit column, but a heck of a one in the credit column also.

3. Bissouma, and Various Other Appreciative Nods

This being a sleepy, meandering sort of affair, one does not really need to concern oneself with such niceties as the Outstanding Player of the Match Gong, but nevertheless, I thought I’d throw in my tuppence worth for Yves Bissouma. ‘Outstanding’ is admittedly stretching things somewhat, but after the bravura display on Thursday night, I was intrigued to see whether his high standard would be maintained.

And while he did not exactly hit those Thursday night heights, it struck me that he did well enough. Actually, more striking to me was that he seemed to have a defined role, and carried it out. This could be contrasted to young Sarr, who was definitely in attendance, but seemed to hover about hither and thither with the air of a fellow not entirely sure where he’s supposed to be.

Bissouma, by contrast, seemed fully cognizant of the fact that his role was that of Defensive Midfielder, and he seemed similarly clued up on what this entailed too. And as such his afternoon featured various tackles and interceptions and diligent runs back towards his own goal with a view to putting out fires and generally lending a helping hand. If you were to conclude ‘Solid enough’ with an accompanying shrug, I would suggest that you and I were of one mind.

A gently complimentary nod too towards Herr Danso, who, as far as I can tell, did not put too many feet wrong defensively. One or two of his passes perhaps lacked the requisite layer of polish, but he generally comes across as a Romero minus the hot-headedness, and that AANP can get on board with.

Young Spence generally kept to himself throughout, but in the second half was eventually persuaded to explorer the upper environs of the pitch, and did so to wholesome effect.

I was also rather taken by the extended Mikey Moore cameo. Every time he touched the ball he seemed to induce a spot of panic in the other lot, drawing a foul here and an ill-advised lunge there. Our Glorious Leader would no doubt insist that he is protecting the young imp’s development by rationing his minutes quite so frugally, but I personally was thrilled to see him unwrapped again.

If there were a concern at AANP Towers it was that Kulusevski continues to look decidedly undercooked. In the first half of the season some of those barrelling runs of his appeared unstoppable. Now, he seems more of a headless chicken, channelling his inner Lucas Moura to go wandering off down all sorts of odd cul-de-sacs, with no obvious end-goal in mind, and no particular advantages gained. With Maddison seemingly unlikely to be available for Thursday, there will be onus on Kulusevski to contribute rather more meaningfully to the operation.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Bodo Glimt: Three Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s latest book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99) – while Spurs’ Cult Heroes is also still available

1. Richarlison

Well I think the first order of business is to park myself at the desk and start penning a few heartfelt apologies. There are a several in our number I’ve not missed an opportunity to stick the knife into over the course of this and previous seasons, and they were all queueing up last night to ram various choice words straight back down my throat.

Richarlison is a good case in point. One might delicately say that AANP has not always been entirely enamoured of the honest fellow’s outputs. “Least technically gifted Brazilian ever” springs to mind as a phrase I once tossed in his direction, and although we can playfully punch each other’s shoulders and talk about jokes amongst the boys, there’s no getting away from the fact that that one was meant to sting.

Yesterday however, the honest fellow took to the pitch like a Brazilian intent on letting remarks about his technique wash over him like water. In fact it would not be a stretch to say that he set the tone for the whole humdinging display. 

I don’t mind admitting that when I saw the teamsheet I reacted to his name with a pretty stunned silence. Truth be told, I hadn’t even considered him as an option on the left. Tel or Odobert seemed the obvious choices, Mikey Moore at a stretch. And if The Brains Trust really wanted to embrace their experimental selves, it seemed likelier that Kulusevski, Johnson or Maddison would pop up on the west flank to fill the Sonny-shaped hole. Richarlison simply didn’t cross my mind. 

But selected he was, and if Ange wanted to fix me with one of those inscrutable stares and croak something about hindsight proving it a tactical masterstroke, I’d probably hold up my hands and grant him that.

Having digested the news of his selection, I did spend a goodish while mulling away as to what Richarlison’s remit would be. Would he try to emulate the Son of yesteryear, by breaking at pace from halfway; or channel his inner Odobert, Tel of Mikey Moore, by throwing in stepovers and trickery until the full-back had twisted blood?

As it turns out, Richarlison gave evidence that in his younger days he may have been a boy scout or something similar, because he went about his business with the motto “Just be yourself” clearly ringing in his ears. Rather than trying to throw in an impression of Sonny or Odobert, he set about the task by asking himself “What would Richarlison do?”, and being better placed than most to answer this, he rolled up his sleeves and immediately started providing real-time answers.

Within about ten seconds of kick-off, he flung in an aerial cross from the left, and a dashed effective one it was too. Rarely-sighted beasts these days, aerial crosses from the left. Porro on t’other side occasionally dabbles, but generally whomever is stationed on the left tends more often to be in the market for lower deliveries that fizz across the area for Brennan Johnson to tap in at the far post. I can barely remember us flinging in a left-footed, aerial cross from the left, and inviting those assembled to make of it what they will.

Richarlison, however, seemed of the opinion that there was no better way to start the day than to do precisely that, and a gratifying degree of bedlam it caused too. The forehead of Dominic Solanke has been criminally underused this season, but his eyes lit up at that cross, and with Johnson lurking at the far post as Johnson does, we were surprisingly well-stocked for takers. The cross may have been scrambled clear, but a vigorous nod of approval from AANP was in the mail.

Richarlison demonstrated a further commendable trait moments later, when the ball was recycled and Porro delivered one of his aforementioned aerial crosses from the right. This being aimed towards the back post, Richarlison was again in business – and again, it struck me that he was adding an element to our game that none of Son, Tel or Odobert can really provide, viz. the back-post header.

Son seems literally scared of the ball if it leaves the ground, and the either two are a bit too happy to excuse themselves from consideration on the grounds of height or build or some such. Richarlison though was pretty game. I think he fancies himself as a bit of a one when it comes the airborne muck. He might not have been able to direct it towards goal himself, but the option he chose was comfortably as effective, looping the thing over to the unmarked Johnson (who to his credit made his finish look very straightforward, when such things are easy to pickle).

This all occurred within the first 40 seconds or so, but for the remainder of the half Richarlison continued to run a pretty good race. He beavered in midfield, linked up play, delivered a good variety of short and slightly longer passes, and kept the opposing full-back on his toes. No huge surprise that he was hooked after 45, given his lack of match-practice and the general puffing and panting he put into that first half, but as remarked at the outset, something of an apology is due from this quarter. Quite the innings.

2. Bissouma

Another who wormed his way back into the AANP good books most unexpectedly was Bissouma. If one wanted to ignore all the positives and mope about the place professing gloom and disaster, one might moan that the fellow ought to play like that every bally game.

There would be a degree of validity to such a point, I suppose. He was brought into the fold precisely on the basis of performances like that in his former life at Brighton – all discipline and energy. But frankly one glosses over the fact that his two or three seasons in lilywhite have been more miss than hit, because last night, when it mattered more than usual, he delivered of his best.

Frankly, the goal aside, Bodo Glimt had nary a sniff, and while the collective takes credit, Bissouma’s repeated Seek-and-Destroy routines played a huge part. It was all the more impressive given the absence of Bergvall, news of which I must confess froze me in my tracks and prompted the skipping of a heartbeat or two that I’ll never get back.

But Bissouma filled the void like a trooper. One appreciates the farcical nature of praising a seasoned international for deputising for a newly-hatched teen who’s only been a few months in the Starting XI, but it was still a vital role to play, and Bissouma played it with a few plombs.

3. Solanke and the Concern Around His Absence

Words of commendation too for Destiny Udogie and James Maddison. In fact, one could take a deep breath and spew out words of commendation for the entire regiment, this being one of those performances in which all in lilywhite burst to the seams with their A-games. Even in this context, however, I thought that both Udogie and Maddison were particularly impressive.

Much of what was good about our play emanated from the size nines of Udogie, they being employed for the dual purposes of snuffling possession from the other lot, and then immediately redirecting operations to Attack Mode.

Maddison too was at the heart of a lot of our better moments. Having spent much of his evening in the role of string-puller-in-chief, it was rather impressive to see him pop up in goalscoring peep-holes too – and not for the first time on the big occasion.

The manner in which he took his goal was Dele-esque, boasting as it did exquisite control in the first place. I was particularly taken by the little hesitation he then inserted – pausing to travel another yard rather than shooting immediately, a manoeuvre that was pretty subtle to the naked eye but had the most satisfactory effect of dragging the goalkeeper from his moorings and depositing him on the floor, when really he wanted to be leaping full length. Marvellous stuff.

However, if absence makes the heart grow fonder, it struck me that Solanke’s might have been the really critical contribution. A slightly controversial take amongst the masses, I’m sure. If you were to goggle a bit, and re-read the sentence with a narrow eye, I can’t say I’d blame you.

In fact, while he was on the pitch, I thought Solanke was mucking in well, as they all were, but not necessarily any better than his nearby chums.

However, once he hobbled off stage left, I started to appreciate a bit more the wholesome content he brought to proceedings. Put simply, we rather lost our attacking edge once he went off. None of the reserve lieutenants seem able to lead the line – and, specifically, the press – quite like he does. Nor do they put in the off-the-ball graft in the less fashionable areas, or provide a beacon towards which to aim at the top end of the pitch; but it was the abandonment of the press after his removal that rather nagged over here.

As such, the medical bods ought to work every available hour to patch him up and glue him back together in time for next week. Listening back after the event, the chatter I heard after we’d conceded seemed rather over-the-top in truth. The telly sorts gave the impression that we’d taken a 5-0 drubbing and were so doomed in the second leg that it was barely worth our turning up; but while I fancy our European alter egos to do what’s necessary next week, the task will be infinitely harder minus Solanke.