Tag: Ange Postecoglou

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Spurs match reports

Brighton 3-2 Spurs: Three(ish) Tottenham Talking Points

1. The First Half

One might say there was something for everyone yesterday. For lovers of Angeball there was a first half, and particularly a first half hour, in which all involved absolutely purred about the place; for those who can’t stand the chap there was a capitulation that even by our lofty standards was a bit of a corker.

The first half couldn’t have been much brighter and breezier, with slick, one-touch combinations all over the pitch. Moreover, each of the assembled cast members were beginning to give the impression of knowing precisely what, where and when the chap next to him would do. If Porro were passing infield to Kulusevski, for example, Johnson did not need any further prodding, and was already haring off down the wing, in full expectation of the ball being pinged first-time into his path before the nearest Brighton sort had worked out what direction he ought to be facing. Benefits, one assumes, of fielding a relatively settled eleven.

Nor were these little link-ups being executed just to look pretty. They were moves with a specific purpose. Within about two or three passes one of the front-five were generally speeding off into the Brighton penalty area and clearing the stage for a pop at goal, and such was the routine in that first half that just about every time we took possession of the thing one felt that the culmination of the sequence would be some manner of attempt lasering in towards the Brighton net.

While it was very much a collective effort, I found myself drawn to the notion that Kulusevski is possibly the key component in an on-song Spurs, at least when whipping up a head of steam from deep. His energy and directness seem to instil a certain nervousness in opposing sorts, all the more so when given the freedom to advance centrally rather than having his movements slightly curtailed out on the wing (although his combinations with Johnson and Porro on the right were nevertheless effective).

A gentle ripple of applause too for Solanke for his contribution to both goals. There were many pairs of hands involved in both, of course – and for the second in particular I think the fingerprints of a good half-dozen could be detected – but AANP is a particular fan of a well-weighted pass inside a full-back, which turns him around and allows an onrushing colleague to arrive from deep at a rate of knots and collect in his stride. Solanke had a bit of a knack for the things in that first half, timing to perfection the pass for Johnson’s opener, and then playing in Werner in the build-up for the second.

I was also pleasantly surprised to see Maddison popping up in advanced positions – at times the furthest forward, in fact – given that, with Kulusevski alongside him, he has previously seemed happy enough sit five yards deeper. On more than one occasion in those early stages he rather stealthily wormed his way forward unnoticed, before ripping off his mask to reveal his identity only once well inside the Brighton area and with a sight of goal.

Another notable feature of the first half was the alacrity with which our lot swarmed over Brighton whenever they gained possession inside their own half, Spurs players to a man giving the impression that they had little time for such interruptions and wanted to revert to relentless attack at the earliest opportunity.  

All in all, it was the sort of fare on which we have dined pretty regularly this season, augmented, in a pleasing break from the past, by no fewer than two of the chances actually being taken. While several others were spurned, I did beetle off for the half-time snootful with a pretty satisfied exhalation. A fairly pleasing opening stab, was about the gist of it, at least in an attacking sense, and while our lot are always susceptible when in reverse, there seemed no reason to suspect the attacking free-for-all would let up.

2. Werner’s End-Product (and a Word on Mikey Moore)

Before getting down to the grisly details, a pause to sink the head into the hands and muffle a few unrepeatables, as I reflect on the latest misadventures of poor old Timo Werner.

Nothing about him surprises us any more, of course. His is a movie we’ve all watched a few times now. Plenty of willing was on show, as ever, and, taken in isolation, that burst of pace ought to be worth its weight in gold. Not for the first time he appeared to have his opposing full-back at his mercy, being possessed of a far cleaner pair of heels. Werner needed only really to nudge the ball a few yards past the full-back and that particular part of the mission was as good as done. There was no catching him. It might as well have been an unguarded doorway.

Oh, that simply outpacing his man were all that were required, eh? If Werner could simply have beaten his man to the ball, raced to the by-line and then triumphantly put his foot on the ball and waved a colourful flag, we’d be throwing garlands around his neck.

Alas, there typically follows the delicate issue of an end-product, and here, as ever Werner tended to fudge things. The tone was set in the opening fifteen seconds, when Werner absolutely zipped away into space behind the Brighton defence (courtesy of another of those delicious passes between defenders from Solanke), and looked up to see young Brennan Johnson galloping in synchronicity, ten yards to his right.

Not much additional work was needed, the sum of it requiring that one international footballer pass straightforwardly to another, the path from A to B uncluttered by any third parties. This being Werner, however, he rather pickled the operation by delivering that final pass with far more oomph than the situation required, and the moment concluded down by the corner flag rather than in the back of the net.

This was probably the nadir, but thereafter every time Werner attempted similarly to cross to a suitable body in the area, he failed to hit the mark, most typically banging the ball straight into the nearest Brighton limb. Dashed frustrating stuff, given the ease with which he was able to scuttle past his defender in order to create the opportunity in the first place, but such is the package he provides.

To his credit, he did start to work out that crossing into the centre was beyond his capability, and opt instead on several occasions to play a shorter pass, of four or five yards. This proved vastly more effective, not least as it meant we retained possession in a dangerous area and someone slightly more qualified – by which I mean literally anyone else – was then tasked with picking the critical final pass. Maddison’s goal was created in this way, so it certainly had its benefits, it just seemed rather a waste of all that initial good work Werner would do in getting himself into a crossing position.

As ever, there were increasingly furious yowls from the assorted observers, with each Werner mishap, demanding that Mikey Moore be utilised instead. I would caution against this myself, the young egg’s brief cameo seeming to illustrate that at present all the talent in the world is somewhat on pause, as he is currently too lightweight for this sort of thing. Every time he tried to take on a man or two he was fairly straightforwardly buffeted out of the picture. His value may be greater when we lead and can counter, running into space, perhaps, than when he needs to flex the upper-body sinews and take on a waiting defender.

3. Defenders Who Can’t Defend

Concerns about Timo Werner, however, are a mere bagatelle when contrasted with the broader second half performance.

Going forward we showed far less of that first half potency, for reasons that can only be speculated upon. The intense, high press of the first half was wiped from the memory, with only Solanke really playing the game after the break, and while we still did look to create, notably on the right, there was nowhere near the same threat.

But vastly more disturbing was what was transpiring at the back. One understands that the whole Angeball apparatus lends itself to an often calamitous susceptibility at the rear. One hardly revels in the fact, but one understands it. If every man and his dog are going to attack, one rather anticipates that gaps will appear at the back.

What is a lot harder to stomach is when the opposition scythe right through the heart of our defence when all four of them are in position and in a neat line, aided by Bentancur and whomever else is nearby, and seemingly not having been under any imminent threat at all. For it is a pretty verifiable fact that Brighton did not have to work particularly hard to carve us open and shoot from the centre of the goal. Not unless one’s idea of hard work is to saunter unopposed through a front door.

The litany of individual mistakes makes for pretty gruesome recollection, to the extent that one barely knows where to start, but for the sake of a bit of order I’ll go through this geographically, right to left.

3.1 Porro

He may have escaped censure on the day, given the more obvious blooters from Udogie and whatnot, but Pedro Porro needs to dashed well pull up his socks and sort out his ideas. Simply being in the vicinity and running in the right direction are not sufficient. If Werner only had to outpace his opposing right-back to be free of him, then whomever was on Brighton’s left wing (typically Mitoma) did not even need to do that much. They merely needed to look up and kick the blasted thing, because as sure as night follows day, Porro was going to allow the cross to be made.

There was a warning sign in the first half, when Mitoma curled the ball into the area for Welbeck to pop wide, and it continued with Brighton’s first two goals, shortly after half-time. Watch the footage back and Porro can be spotted in the vicinity and appearing to chase back diligently enough – but, as with that first half cross, the blighter does nothing even to attempt to prevent the ball being knocked past him and into the centre. There’s not much point in there being a right-back on the pitch if he’s not going to make the slightest attempt to stop the opposition left winger, but Porro didn’t even outstretch a leg.

Similarly for the second goal, Porro ambles out towards Estupinian and in the blink of an eye the ball is played inside him, taking him out of the game. While Brighton did have an overload there, Porro might still have stationed himself somewhere that made the pass at least a mite more difficult, but instead Brighton simply hopped around him and cracked on.

3.2 Romero

If Porro can be chided for failing to prevent crosses, there ought to have been a safety net of sorts alongside him in the shape of Romero, but so far this season he has seemed to sleepwalk around the pitch with zero awareness, and seemingly not much interest, in what is happening around him.

As mentioned, the Mitoma cross in the first half found Welbeck unmarked from six yards out, and this represented an astonishing dereliction of duty from Romero. The genesis of this was no desperate sprint back from halfway either – Romero had all the time in the world to spot Welbeck and keep tabs on him, but simply dozed off while jogging back, lost sight of him completely and was mightily lucky that he missed the target when it was easier to score.

Then for the second Brighton goal, once the ball had been played inside Porro to Mitoma, Romero went out to meet him, but his attempted tackle exemplified much that was wrong with our defending. Frankly the very term ‘attempted tackle’ is pretty wildly misleading, because it was that in name only, consisting of Romero dangling a half-hearted leg at Mitoma with the air of a man who thinks there are plenty of others around who can put an end to the danger should  the need arise. One hardly calls for Romero to crunch him at the knee, but he could certainly have applied himself more fervently to blocking the man’s path and forcing him to look elsewhere.

And then for the third, Romero was back to his absent-minded self, rocking on his heels and simply watching on as the ball looped up for Welbeck to head in. In the last week or two I have lauded Dominic Solanke for anticipating a rebound well in advance, setting off at the merest sniff of an opportunity. In Romero we saw the polar opposite, a man utterly oblivious to the threat of danger, even within his own six-yard box.

Romero is mightily impressive in possession, demonstrating at various points yesterday and in recent weeks his eye for a natty, threaded pass in midfield that bisects the opposing press – but first and foremost the man is a defender, dash it. Above all else he ought to be defending. In common with those around him, he seems far more attuned to life when on the attack than when keeping at bay the other mob.

3.3 Van de Ven

No doubt about it, VDV’s pace is a blessing like few others, particularly when deployed within the Angeball high line. If a foot-race to the ball is in order, to snuff out a looming threat, VDV is your man; and indeed, he has a rather pleasingly no-nonsense approach to covering the left-back position too, regularly seen to rush over and put in a slide-challenge that deposits the ball out of play and allows everyone else to man their stations.

Yet in terms of the basics of one-on-one defending, such as making a tackle or simply preventing an opponent from skipping gaily past to t’other side, VDV is alarmingly susceptible. Standing one’s ground and forcing an opponent to take a roundabout route to goal ought not to be the complex operation that VDV has turned it into.

Again, for that second Brighton goal, VDV was turned inside out far too easily, and on various other occasions in the second half in particular, he seemed to be beaten with minimal effort. If sides play some scintillating football that tears the defence to shreds, one can bow an accepting head, but Brighton really did not have to work particularly hard to bypass VDV – or those around him.

3.4 Udogie

Rather more conspicuously, Udogie made quite the pig’s ear of his clearance for the first goal, but in a way I am more inclined to absolve this. That was a lapse in concentration that might have happened anywhere on the pitch; more concerning is when he has to carry out basic operations when up against an opponent, and is beaten with the same ease with which I skip past my youthful nephews out in the park.

The third Brighton goal being a case in point (a move preceded, by the way, by Udogie needlessly running the ball out of play instead of clearing up the line). The Brighton chappie posed no threat with back to goal and few options available, and for clarification was not Pele either. Yet Udogie allowed him wriggle past him with the sort of perfunctory challenge that Romero had been showcasing earlier, a slackness that cost us a goal.

As can certainly also be said for Porro and Romero, and to an extent is true of VDV, Udogie seems vastly to prefer life when charging forward. And he does a marvellous job of it too, which is lovely in its own wy – but that’s not the point of a left-back! Our four defenders seem not to grasp the basics of defending. As mentioned above, it’s challenging enough when they’re all racing back from halfway and stretched in all directions, but yesterday they showcased that even when all organised and in position, they are simply such bad defenders that opponents can, with a few carefully-selected steps, waltz straight through the heart of them.

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Spurs match reports

Ferencvaros 1-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Team Selection

AANP has prattled on a few times in recent weeks about the virtues of integrating up to a maximum of four non-regulars in a Starting XI, and conversely the vices of shoving in youths and extras until a Starting XI is bursting at the seams with lesser-seen faces, so I won’t bang on about it again.

Suffice to say, the eyebrow raised when news of yesterday’s Starting XI trickled through was not one of unrestrained gaiety and joy. Asking for trouble, was the gist of the rumbling over here.

As it turned out, Ferencvaros themselves made five changes, in a whopping endorsement of the new, endless, Europa format. And while, for the first half hour, our lot showed the usual sieve-like security of a defensive line stationed on halfway, we muddled through, by accident – and the impressive inputs of Vicario – rather than design.

One can only imagine the series of embarrassed and quizzical looks exchanged between Archie Gray and Ben Davies when informed that the former would start at centre-back and the latter at left-back. However, that was the curious defensive call made by The Brains Trust at the outset. To suggest it was a roaring success would be to inflict some pretty significant damage upon the English language.

I suppose part of the thinking may have been that if Gray could be found to include central defensive brilliance amongst his many talents then we would have an additional, ball-playing option for the fixture slog of coming months (and potentially one with a spot of pace about him, although I confess I’ve never observed the young tyke in a basic sprint). Anyway, it all turned out to be academic, because Gray showed himself to be as full of willing as he was bereft of expertise for the role, and having been caught out numerous times by fairly straightforward passes played behind the back-four and into space, the experiment was scrapped at half-time, presumably never to be seen again.

The midfield at least seemed appropriately fitted for the occasion. Bissouma, after an errant opening, made a pretty useful fist of things in front of the back-four, and Sarr seemed to enjoy the freedom to stretch his legs in the final third as the whim allowed, elevating himself, to the AANP gaze, to the heady heights of one of our two best performers.

Bergvall, frankly, had a slightly rotten game, happy enough to do all the running but regularly giving the ball away or tripping over himself. Hardly a crisis, as the young imp is evidently here for the long haul, but another Europa night on which he’s unlikely to dwell with too much fondness.

As mentioned, the midfield three were at least assigned appropriate roles, but not unexpectedly there was little rhythm or understanding between them, and one could almost see on one’s telly-box the looks of pleasant surprise whenever a little combination of passes clicked, betraying the fact that here was a group of young specimens who had never played with each other before.

The fact that beaverings in the final third slickened considerably once the cavalry arrived should be of little surprise to anyone. Off-the-ball the press was more intense, and in possession the various protagonists seemed to have an innate understanding of where to be and at which appointed hour, which helped chivvy things along. In short, the players who had played together regularly looked like a mob who had played together regularly.

As such, Our Glorious Leader, had he caught the AANP eye at the final whistle, would no doubt have directed a satisfied smirk in this direction. For all the naysaying emanating from my lips beforehand, he would be entitled to argue that he played his hand to perfection – blooding the younglings, giving minutes to fringe players, excusing the big guns from a full night’s work and then reaping a pretty solid harvest when he did eventually lob on the aforementioned BGs for a twenty-minute sweat.

2. Mikey Moore and Lankshear

Without doubt the biggest learning about Mikey Moore from last night was that, like Ben Davies, he is one of those coves whom one always addresses by their full combination of forename and surname. The next biggest learning was that he seems pretty capable of taking steps unaided in the big wide world.  

I mentioned above that I thought Sarr was amongst the top two performers, and alongside him I’d place Mikey Moore. Displaying a rather endearing fearlessness, every time he received the ball he seemed struck by the thoroughly commendable notion of doing something useful with it. As often as not this seemed to involve getting his head down and dribbling infield, to create a whole new world of options; but even when he stayed wide and was forced to use his right foot for something other than balance I thought he did a good job of things.

When ushered up on stage to receive his award and acclaim for yesterday’s work, I’ve no doubt that in listing all those to whom he gives thanks he’ll include Pedro Porro, for the slightly unhinged right-back seemed to do a good job of keeping an eye on him – giving him space to do his own thing but never straying so far away that he left the young pup completely marooned. Their combinations were amongst the more natural from our lot in the first half, and it was just a shame that when he was switched out to the left towards the end he didn’t gamble at the far post for what would have been a tap-in from a Johnson square ball.

As for young Lankshear, I suspect he might have a few self-inflicted welts on his own thigh today, from frustrated hand-slaps, but apart from not quite directing his chances within the frame I thought he made a good fist of things.

The fact that he was in the appropriate spot to miss a couple of chances was encouraging – a statement I appreciate might sound like lunacy of the first order, but my point is that, like any good striker, he took up the right positions, rather than watching from twenty yards south as the ball sailed harmlessly across goal.

He ought to have done better with the first half header from Werner’s cross, and he was unlucky that his scruffy second half effort from a corner bounced over rather than under then bar, but as Dominic Solanke can presumably attest, these things fall into place eventually.

Lankshear can also be mightily encouraged that he received a start in only the second game of this curious competition – with approximately eighty games left to play, presumably including one or two dead rubbers, there’s a good chance he’ll have more than just substitute cameos in the coming months.

3. Confidence, and Lack Thereof

I only studied German for one year at the old alma mater, so while I can pretty confidently assure you in that language that I’m fifteen years old, and can ask they way to the train station like the best of them, when it comes to screaming at Timo Werner to just bury the bally thing for heaven’s sake, adding that he’s supposed to be a professional footballer for the love of all things holy, I’m afraid I have to revert to the old mother-tongue, rather than conveniencing him with a spot of Deutsche.

As the hopeless young bean lay on the turf muttering oaths after his latest clanger, and then had the ignominy compounded by promptly being forced into a walk of shame around the pitch for substitution, I did muse – not for the first time – that he is both blessed and cursed by that turn of pace.

Blessed, of course, because it meant that when Mikey Moore set off on the right wing and looked up, there was nobody within a mile of Timo. And not for the first time. Only a Van de Ven would catch Werner, given a few yards headstart and clear path to goal.

Cursed, naturally, because here is a fellow who seemingly would be more at ease chewing off his own leg than finishing a one-on-one chance created by that pace. I’m actually inclined to suggest we re-purpose the chap as a centre-back, and see if we can put that speed to use in a sphere in which hitting a stationary target is not really a requirement.

Anyway, while I’ve never been anywhere near the professional game, the sages around me seem convinced that his do-anything-but-score approach to life stems from a lack of confidence, and as if to hammer home the point, Brennan Johnson then put his ten minutes to good use by cheerfully peppering the goal until he got one to stick.

The Johnson first-time effort that pinged off the crossbar was, lest we forget, inaccurate, but nevertheless spoke volumes – the audacity to see a ball rolled towards self, and greet this correspondence with a shrug of the shoulders and decision to forego all niceties and simply lamp the thing first time made crystal clear that here was a chappie who felt that he could do little wrong.

It was a conclusion emphasised by his goal a few minutes later, a chance that, on receipt of the ball, was hardly worth of the name, he receiving a bouncing ball when stepping backwards, and with a small line of defenders between him and the goal. To have the gumption to shift the ball onto his weaker foot and then place – this time with perfect accuracy – a shot off the post and in, essentially rubber-stamped the fact that he and poor old Werner sat at the extreme opposites on the scale of confidence.

I suppose if one had to raise the Werner spirits, one might yet point to his fine work in crossing for Lankshear’s first half header, and the fact that whenever he does decide to go outside his man and test him for pace, he generally wins. However, if Cheering Up Werner is the objective, probably best not to mention to him that young Mikey Moore prefers the left flank, what?

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-0 Qarabag: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Glorious Lunacy of Angeball

There are several ways to skin a cat, so I’m reliably informed. Not a hobby for which I’ve ever gone in myself, you understand, but presumably the hypothesis stretches to playing with ten men too. Several ways to do it, is the gist. One can pack one’s own penalty area, abandon all notions of attack, adopt a 6-3-0 and feign injury every five minutes (and still fail to achieve the one, single object). Or one can go full all-action-no-plot.

In much the same way as the home game vs Chelsea last season – the poster-child for this sort of madcap wheeze – was encapsulated by that shot of all eight of our remaining outfield players strung across the halfway line, so the mental snapshot will live long in my head from last night, of poor old VDV and Davies manfully back-pedalling in the face of three Qarabag sorts, while a good 5-10 yards back Messrs Gray, Udogie, Sarr and Bissouma desperately tried to race back in time to avert disaster.

They needn’t have bothered, as it happened, as Qarabag appeared to have Ray Charles leading the line (and Johnny Wilkinson on penalties), they packing the sort of finishing quality that had you convinced they could have played all night without scoring. But that’s not really the point, what? The point is that even with ten men, the last thing any of our lot want to do is defend.

Not strictly true, I suppose, as the two centre-backs by and large stay at home and man the fort. And admittedly when the opposition has a little spell of calm possession, all in lilywhite will obediently trot back into formation and at least pretend to play the game.

But once we regain possession, heaven help the centre-backs and Vicario, because for everyone else, all bets are off. I doubt that VDV and Davies even hear the cheery adieus of Gray and Udogie as they go sprinting up into midfield. With Bissouma and Sarr the segue from defence-minded to attack-minded is perhaps a little more subtle, but within about ten seconds of our gaining possession they also find themselves almost irresistibly sucked up the pitch, leaving VDV and Davies to puff the cheeks and brace themselves for the inevitable two-on-two fandango.

Now personally I think it’s absolutely riotous fun, but then I’ve spent half my life penning a tome called ‘All Action, No Plot’, so one would expect as much. I suppose the grudging proviso I would make is that, given that every other team in the history of the game will be better in front of goal than Qarabag, there may be value in considering a minor modification – such as that one of the two full-backs hangs back at any given time, for example, or that the nominal sitting midfielder does actually, in real life, sit (as I actually thought Bentancur did quite well vs Brentford the other day). Some such low-level tweak might facilitate just a mite more security at the back to guard against the counter-attack, while still allowing all concerned to have an absolute blast when in possession.

Broadly, however, I love this stuff. It’s fitting that last night was a European jolly, as it allowed one to focus the mind’s eye on that AC Milan game under Conte, our most recent, prior European night, and an absolute low-point in the club’s history. Harking back to that felicidal theme, just as there are many ways to skin a cat, so there are many ways to go sixteen years without a trophy, and I’d rather we lose going full Ange and swinging wildly, than having Conte make our eyes bleed in a 0-0 against Milan that we supposedly had to win.

Of course, the smoking room at AANP Towers is full to the rafters these days of incandescent lilywhites petitioning for a return to paper-based transactions just so that they can rip up their season tickets in front of Our Glorious Leader. And one understands, because the man’s stubbornness does take the breath away somewhat. As indicated above, one need only make a few minor changes to maintain high levels of gung-ho whilst tightening considerably at the rear. In plain English, we could very feasibly have our cake and eat it.

We won’t, however. Ange won’t. Just about any other team in Europe would have scored three against us last night; it just means that next time we’ll need to score four. AANP is fully on board.

2. Dragusin

Still early days, of course, and the place is absolutely teeming with mitigating circumstances – he’s barely played; when he does play it’s once a month, hardly allowing him to learn the lyrics; it’s a different formation to the one he played at Genoa; it’s the madness of Angeball, for heaven’s sake; and so on.

This is not to exonerate Dragusin for last night’s faux pas, a clanger that I estimated was three parts complacency and two parts lack of concentration (and served also to ruin poor old Bergvall’s evening).

Rather, the point I make is that, more broadly, it seems too early to make a judgement. Early signs are that he’s going the way of a Ramon Vega, Federico Fazio or, to give it a suitably Romanian twist, Vlad Chiriches – viz. that he’s one of those bobbies who looks thoroughly at ease in national colours, and then appears not to know what shape the ball is when he trots up the tunnel at N17. But let’s give him time to make a few more clangers before we lock that one in.

If ever there were a time to throw in a seventh minute red card it was probably at home to Qarabag. More concerning to the inscrutable AANP eye was that this was the lad we spent months researching and courting. I mean, really? They have legions of scouts, and all sorts of files of data, capturing every conceivable metric – and the chap they pick for an Angeball central defence has a top speed of ‘Moderate Jog’?

‘Quizzical’ doesn’t really do justice to the look on my face as I try to wrap the head around that one. I’d have thought that before anything else, the absolute priority in a central defender who will be spending most of his time preparing to sprint back from halfway would be a turn of pace.

Anyway, there we go, and here he is, so we’d better muck in and hope that VDV’s hamstrings hold up for the next 50 or so games until May, because goodness knows the chaps alongside him won’t be much use once we lose possession.

3. Vicario

If you popped your head in around these parts after the Brentford game you’ll know that I delivered to the masses a pretty coruscating appraisal of Vicario’s misadventures, he having posted one of those wild performances from which one cannot tear away one’s gaze, in a sort of morbid fascination.

Well, he made amends last night. Whether someone had a quiet parola in his ear, or he simply tired of the wild hyperactivity and fancied a calmer night, I could not say, but this was altogether more conventional stuff, and quite impressive too.

As mentioned, the Qarabag compass seemed to point in every direction but the goal, but when they did finally hit the target Vicario did all that was required. In the second half in particular he made one or two highly impressive saves, padded out somewhat by a couple of more straightforward ones that he embellished with unnecessary leaps and roles and all sorts – but we can accept that. First and foremost, Vicario is a shot-stopper, and he stopped shots last night like a champion.

I was also rather taken by a moment in the first half – still at one-nil – when he came off his line to deal with a low cross in unconventional manner, sliding forward full-length across the turf to punch clear the ball as it was delivered. Looked a bit odd, no doubt, but a year of Vicario has taught me that here is a man who does not mind looking a bit peculiar to the average passer-by; and more to the point, it did the job. Had he not slid forward thusly, and instead stayed on his line, there may well have been an opportunity for the approaching Qarabag striker to miss another open goal.

And right on half-time, again with the score at one-nil and therefore the game far from won, he came charging approximately forty yards out of his goal, which cost me a few heartbeats I’ll never get back, but it was ultimately to good effect.

It came about when Ben Davies, in a rather charming act of solidarity with Dragusin, dithered on the ball when last man, was robbed and immediately exposed for having no burst of pace worthy of the name. The immediate fear that Davies was going to take that Dragusin Tribute Act a little too far and haul his man down was swiftly superseded by the sight of Vicario racing in the other direction, bringing with it a brand new fear, that he was going to trump Dragusin by clattering into the man from the front. Either way, in that split second, the AANP mind computed that we would be playing another nine-man defensive line on halfway, and wondered who our substitute goalkeeper was.

As it turned out, I need not have fretted. Vicario had his calculations spot on, reaching the ball first and then extending every conceivable limb to ensure that no rebound would get past him either. It spared Davies’ blushes, kept us in the lead and avoided a second red card – and while the 3-0 scoreline was evidence of a comfortable enough finale, had Vicario not got that challenge right then things really would have pickled themselves.

4. Solanke

The attacking mob can probably pat themselves on the back for last night’s efforts. Son looked a pretty constant threat on the gallop, and Johnson took his goal well (albeit he ought to have had a second), the young egg’s confidence evidently now on a pleasingly upward trajectory.

I thought it a slight shame that Kulusevski was stuck out on the right again, rather than the centre, but if nothing else his very presence appeared to terrify the Qarabag lot; and Sarr’s contribution to the high press helped bring about our opening goal. Young Gray was a curious mix of fine touches and technique, that give evidence of a pretty special footballer lurking, married to some dreadful passing and control to give away possession in important areas. And for some reason, every five minutes one or other of the Qarabag lot would stroll up to him and give him a hefty kick around the ankles.

But one of the most pleasing elements of the evening was the ongoing acclimatisation of Solanke to the lilywhite uniform. The headline, I suppose, was that he scored, which obviously helps jimmy things along, and I do rather think that the poacher’s goal, converting a rebound from close range, is something of a dying art. Not one we see so much of any more, don’t you think? Good for him, anyway, and a drink on the house for his alertness in beginning to chase for a potential rebound even before the ‘keeper had saved Son’s initial shot.

As much as his goal, however, I was rather taken by his all-round game. If there were beavering to be done in deeper positions, Solanke was a surprisingly willing volunteer. He held up the ball reasonably well, and picked the odd pass from deep for onrushing chums, into which category one might file his contribution to our opener. Solanke is evidently happy to play his part in a high press, and once the ball had been won he showed a pleasing spot of the old upper-body strength to shove aside his man, before rolling a pass into Johnson’s path just so.

While it was hardly world-beating stuff, it nevertheless seemed exactly the sort of performance he needed to settle into the role as our focal point, offering a threat in front of goal as well as contributing to the general to-ing and fro-ing further back.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Brentford: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Maddison and Kulusevski

Some good stuff peddled by the forward line yesterday, what? And ‘forward line’ is a term I use pretty loosely, including Udogie (although not the oddly-muted Porro), and giving an honourable mention to Bentancur, who generally sat deep – and did a fine job of it too – but had the good sense to follow up well-timed interventions with some quick and meaningful forward distribution.

But it was the bona fide attacking mob who caught the eye. Solanke, Son and Johnson were all fully signed up to the whole business of the high press (and bless them, Brentford were pretty accommodating in this respect, offering one opportunity after another to our lot to make hay), and there was also a pleasing commitment amongst our lot to do whatever they had in mind at double-quick speed.

As it happens, I’ve personally been pretty happy with our attacking in general this season – tending to get into the area and create some sort of chance, rather than just shuttle left and right from thirty yards out – but yesterday the speed with which matters were shovelled forward was particularly pleasing, and in this respect James Maddison had possibly his finest hour and a half of 2024. Now the more mischievous amongst us may suggest that it’s a pretty low bar, but let that not detract. This was wholesome stuff from our No. 10.

For a start, his passing seemed often to be disseminated with a view to cutting a swathe through the Brentford back-line, rather than the approach of too many previous games, of being content to pop it sideways and await inspiration from another source. There was some good incisive stuff from his size nines from central positions; on top of which, in the first half in particular, he was also surprisingly jaunty about his prospects when breaking into the left-hand side of the area and firing a pull-back into a populated area.

But more than his passing, I was particularly taken by his tendency to collect the ball, put his head down and get wriggling. Frankly, I wasn’t aware that Maddison had it in him to dribble past two or three thrashing legs, but having given it a whirl early on in proceedings he quickly developed a taste, and could be spotted on numerous following occasions doing more of the same. And very impressively he did so too, turning out of two or three challenges to turn a moment of stasis into an attacking opening.

On top of which, his own contribution to the press brought about our second goal, and he took his own goal most confidently. It’s the version of Maddison of which we need to see a lot more.

Kulusevski was the other soul who made himself a constant menace, albeit in a manner less refined but every bit as effective as Maddison. In what I had hoped would also hammer a nail in the coffin of the idea of him as a right winger (only to see him reassigned there after the substitution of Johnson) Kulusevski had a rare old time bludgeoning his way through the centre.

With Solanke demonstrating a pleasing openness to the notion of dropping deep to chivvy things along, Kulusevski did not need too much encouragement to get involved in the central attacking spots. He contributed to the high press, contributed to the neat link-up play in and around the area, gave a few reminders of those deceptively quick feet inside the area and lent his bulk to the general mass of bodies lining up to apply the coup de grace whenever our attacks made it inside the area.

An approving nod too to The Brains Trust, for taking one look at Sarr and Bissouma, and deciding that the situation instead called for an attack-minded cove to complete the midfield triumvirate alongside Bentancur and Maddison; but top marks primarily to those out on the pitch, for going about their work with a pleasing urgency right from the second minute.

(Although before I move on, a slap on the wrist to Sonny for a couple of fat-headed decisions when clean through on goal with the game still in the balance, one in each half.)

2. Vicario

To say the mind boggles hardly scratches the surface. Scalpel open the fellow’s head and peer inside, and I rather suspect that in lieu of three pounds of brain one might discover a small army of frogs hopping about the place, for young Vicario is the most extraordinary specimen, within whom the sublime and ridiculous indulge in an absolutely riotous co-existence.

At 2-1, while Sonny up the other end was fluffing his lines when twice through on goal, Vicario did the opposite by pulling off two smart saves – one of which was absolutely outstanding, featuring a full extension of the frame and the clawing back of a ball which appeared to this beady eye to be already well past him.

However, as if to lend particular emphasis to the notion that he cannot simply go about his daily life as a remarkable shot-stopper and free of drama in other areas, approximately a minute later he rose unchallenged for a long throw into the area, and instead of simply catching the dashed thing and being done, he launched himself into a pretty spectacular flying leap, tumbling over the nearest body and cartwheeling to the floor, his paddling of the ball behind for a corner almost a footnote to the whole routine.

And if this were the extent of his lunacy I could probably have dismissed it as a minor blot on an otherwise pristine escutcheon. But this being Vicario, madness lurked at every turn. Unannounced, and without any prior indication, he simply introduces the most whacky behaviours, leaving all around him scrambling to pick up the pieces, and sending the AANP pulse-rate into orbit.

That moment in the first half, for example, when he received a pass to feet, and instead of dispensing with the ball to the nearest chum – or indeed the furthest chum, or any other chum in between – he waited until the Brentford lad was upon him, and, showing admirable resistance to the notion of just extinguishing the danger by conventional means, then let the same Brentford lad nick the ball from him and lay it off to – note well – his nearest chum, to shoot. But of course, this being Vicario, he then redeemed the situation by saving the resulting shot from point-blank range.

The piece de resistance was yet to come of course, Vicario picking a moment in the second half to bestow upon the ball a gentle pat of the hand, with scant regard for the geography of the penalty area. Even had it been spotted it would presumably have amounted to little more than a free-kick and a caution; but that seems to miss the point. As if our defence is not madcap enough, with its halfway line starting point and licence to charge forward, we have a certified madman behind them tasked with bestowing the all-seeing-eye upon the whole. As my Spurs-supporting chum Ian noted, it was all rather reminiscent of Heurelho Gomes.

3. Angeball

The mood around the campfire had apparently been souring a bit in the last week or so, by all accounts, which certainly makes me hoist an eyebrow, but to each their own.

As mentioned above, from the AANP perspective there hasn’t been much to complain about this season. Now I appreciate that such a sentiment will have various readers spitting out their evening bourbon in apoplexy, but as I saw it, our lot had given each of Leicester, Everton and Newcastle a battering, failing only in the department of popping our chances away, and doing so playing football a few million times better than the dirge peddled under Jose, Nuno and Conte. While stubbornness over set-pieces and the high-line admittedly had me tutting away like the best of them, and making nine changes for the Coventry game turned some of those tuts into audible grumbles, in general the sentiment here has been that Angeball is entertaining and will generally win us games, so I’ve been happy enough to sit back and let him crack on.

However, it takes all sorts, and evidently there are growing swathes of the lilywhite population popping up all over the place to thump a fist on the nearest table and declare that enough is enough, and Our Glorious Leader should be elbowed out onto the High Road.

All that is a slightly roundabout way of saying that I thought yesterday was pretty standard stuff from our lot. As has happened in most games so far this season we largely bossed possession and made a decent handful of chances inside the area – not the clear chances that need only tapping into an empty net, but those of the vintage that don’t really invite a pause and considered mulling of options, and instead require a pretty immediate tug on the trigger before an opposing swarm does its thing.

As mentioned, yesterday we transported the precious cargo about the place a spot quicker than in previous weeks, but by and large I saw against Brentford what I see most weeks – except with the pretty crucial caveat that this time we took more than one of the many chances created.

The defence was still massively exposed without too much effort on the part of the opposition, and in truth we were still pretty profligate in front of goal, but rather than scoring once and duffing things up thereafter, this week we took a couple more chances.

As such I suppose that those who were dissatisfied beforehand will remain so now, but here at AANP Towers I remain pretty content with life. Angeball is, of course, massively flawed, but as I mused after each of the Leicester, Everton and Newcastle games, so I muse again today – if we continue playing this way, we’ll win more often than not, and it will be dashed entertaining stuff too.

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Spurs match reports

Coventry 1-2 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Team Selection

I’ve always thought that Big Ange and I got on rather well. Admittedly we’ve never actually met, but skirting past that rather moot point I’ve always backed the man, and just sort of assumed that he’d do likewise as and when the situation ever arose.

Well, fair to say that after last night’s reveal of the teamsheet, A.P. and AANP might be entering the territory of a first ever lovers’ tiff. For context, the line about not changing every bally name on the list just because the opposition are lower-division is one I’ve been peddling since being dandled on my mother’s knee. Common sense stuff, if you ask me. Make eight or nine changes, and even if you’re bringing in peak Hoddle, Gascoigne and Bale amongst half a dozen others, they’ll take a while to get up to speed on the quirks and preferences of those around them.

And that’s if you’re bringing in such luminaries as G.H., P.G. and G.B. Bring in, instead, Dragusin, Gray, Werner et al, and those in attendance waiting for all protagonists to slip smoothly into gear alongside one another might be advised to bring along a pack of cards to pass the time, because the chemistry will take a while to develop.

As such, the AANP approach to Cup games vs Coventry or whomever is to maintain the spine, and bring in at most four of the less regular cast members. The challenge here, of course, is that not everyone gets a night off, and this approach might tire the limbs as the season progresses – but if all goes swimmingly then five more regulars can be hooked as the game progresses.

And more to the point, retaining a core of seven regulars ought to be enough to despatch even a highly-motivated Coventry on their own patch; whilst also helping the four newbies settle into a fairly well-oiled machine. Put another way, might we not have had a better idea of Archie Gray’s capacity for right-backery if he had regulars to the west and north of him?

Anyway, Our Glorious Leader wasn’t having any of it, and twelve months after a nine-change gambit backfired in the League Cup away to Fulham, he duly made nine changes in the League Cup away to Coventry. After a soulless first bunt in which our heroes looked, funnily enough, as if they’d never played together, things took a sharp lurch in the second half as Coventry started to give us a bit of a battering.

Established XI or not, the rest of the mob don’t seem to care much for helping out the defence, preferring to watch from a good 20 yards or so away as the back four desperately sprint back towards goal and stretch every sinew in the cause, and as a result we had the mesmeric quality in that second half of finding ever more ingenious ways to allow Coventry in on goal.

Credit where due, as in the closing stages our lot became good value for a goal or two, but I do wonder if the whole nerve-jangle could have been avoided by starting with a more recognised XI and putting the game out of reach within the first hour.

(All hypothetical, of course, but it has also been quite reasonably pointed out by my Spurs-supporting chum Dave that had we started with something like the usual XI they would arguably have been too complacent and found some other way to make a complete pie of things.)

2. Werner

Tempting though it was to headline this section “Werner: ” followed by a few choice oaths, I reasoned that decency probably ought to prevail. One never knows when the impressionable sorts are stopping by, after all. But goodness me, the earnest young Bohne was doing his damnedest to push all AANP’s buttons last night, make no mistake.

His pseudo-re-signing was not really the main headline of the summer, that honour probably being reserved for another on the long list of eggs earning full marks for effort but some pretty embarrassed looks for output, in Dominic Solanke. But back in July or so, the AANP take on Werner’s return on another loan was that all things considered it just about made sense.

The cost was minimal, it being a loan; the chap has pedigree in the Premier League, Champions League and internationally; wouldn’t need time to settle having already ticked that box last season; and while no-one in their right mind would place a starting bib over his neck for the crunch stuff, with a guaranteed glut of Europa games, plus potential domestic cups, having a few competent reserves in wide areas would be required. So, to repeat, it seemed to make sense. Note, however, the past participle: it only seemed to make sense.

The reality, as hammered home last night, is looking a dashed different state of affairs, for all of those aforementioned neat and logical arguments come absolutely crashing down when Werner scurries out onto the pitch and gets down to bricks and mortar.

Did he put a single foot right last night, at any point? I’ll answer that one myself actually, because I even made note of the exact timing of Werner’s one positive contribution, it being such a collector’s item. 59 minutes, if you want to rewind the spool and check for yourselves. At that point, having collected a short corner, Werner made for himself a yard of space and then curled in a pretty inviting right-footed cross that deserved better than to be headed clear by the first Coventry head.

That, however, was the zenith of his evening. As for the low-points, my first thought is to wonder how much space the interweb allows. His passes were misplaced; his crosses were overhit; his dribbles typically tended to result in him cycling backwards, or at best sideways. His pace – his greatest asset – was never really utilised, and it is probably for the best that he was not presented with a clear sight of goal, because I suspect the universe might have collapsed under the weight of the subsequent abuse that would have rained down on him from all sides.

I suppose The Brains Trust would argue that Werner’s style suits the system, and his work-rate and off-the-ball contributions go unnoticed. And in his defence, I did notice him track back at one point in the first half to put in a solid block on an attempted cross.

So a modicum of credit is grudgingly bestowed; but I maintain that the primary role of a winger is to wingle, in the attacking sense and with ball at feet. The defensive guff that accompanies it might well be necessary, but ought to be in addition to rapier-like thrusts that leave the opposing defence begging for mercy. In the same way that I yell and screech at Romero to get the defensive basics right before he goes trotting off on some adventure beyond halfway, I similarly give Werner a few lungfuls in the cause of adding a spot of end-product to all his forward scuttling.

Of course, one sympathises with his injury, rotten luck for any fellow no matter how bow-legged and utterly incompetent, and with Odobert also chipping a fingernail this might cause a problem for Europa engagements in the coming weeks. However, last rather hammered a nail in the coffin as far as AANP was concerned. No more, I beg of you.

3. A Quick Word on Fraser Forster

Werner was not the only one to prompt endless eye-rolls and muttered imprecations. I’m not sure Archie Gray really knew where he was supposed to be at any given point; Sarr had a bit of a stinker; Ben Davies, for all his willing, seemed to illustrate that we remain a centre-back short for the fixture slog to come; and Solanke gave his most Solanke performance yet.

A curious one for me was the enormous frame slowly ambling between the sticks at the back. Looking back at it objectively, Fraser Forster, in an admirable act of solidarity with most around him, had a pretty middling evening, put generously. Beginning with the inaccurate first-minute pass that put young Bergvall in trouble; extending to a second half flap at a corner that completely missed the ball; and capped, without doubt, by the mid-pitch collision with Dragusin that quite likely registered on the Richter scale as both behemoths tumbled to earth in slow-motion, this was hardly a low-profile, neat-and-tidy sort of showing.

And yet. For some reason, whenever the opposition had a corner, a most unusual sensation of equanimity passed through my entire being. Even as I surveyed the growing melee in the six-yard box, even as Forster demonstrated not so much rustiness as corrosion – something about the fact that it was not Vicario in goal at a corner put the AANP mind at ease. He may not have claimed every flighted cross as if picking an apple; he may have required a nearby chum to wind him up before he was able to move the limbs; but just not being Vicario at set-pieces earned Forster a huge rosette and garland from over here.

And if that’s the sentiment from the comfort of the AANP sofa, I do murmur to myself “Golly”, and wonder how the poor souls tasked with defending the penalty area at corners themselves feel about having Vicario as commander-in-chief, hopping and yelping about the place like a poorly-trained puppy.

4. The Goals, And Other Positives

For all the first half frustration, and second half panic, the arrival of the cavalry for the closing stages pepped things up a bit.

Maddison, while hardly controlling things, contributed a couple of those neat forward passes for which we’ve yearned so far this season and for much of the latter half of last season – the sort of slick pass that bisects a couple of defenders and finds a yard of space for a forward. His first-time dink around the corner in the build-up to our equaliser was one such moment, and given his contributions to date this season I am rather minded to camp outside the honest fellow’s abode with some sort of home-made banner imploring him to put to one side all the usual fluff and just deliver one or two more of those each game.

Kulusevski was even more prominent, not really bothering with polite introductions and handshakes, and instead just crashing around the place as soon as he was unleashed, and to good effect too. His contribution to the first goal was surprisingly delicate, and added neatly to an overall excellent aesthetic quality to the move, but in general one got the impression that the Coventry lot were in need of an illustrated manual on how to cope with the chap.

A congratulatory word also for Bentancur, for a glorious pass to release young Johnson for the second. Bentancur, while another who cannot really be said to have imposed himself upon the match, did, like Maddison, pick out one or two eye-of-needle passes, and the spotting, directing and weighting of that pass for Johnson could not have been better, so one can only presume he treated himself to a celebratory splash or two of the good stuff before hitting the pillow last night.

Of course, it was also pleasing to note the identity of the two goalscorers. Young Spence, I get the impression, is being powered along in each game by a surge of goodwill from the massed ranks of Spurs fans both inside the stadium and beyond, each one desperate for him to do well. He’s drawn a bit of a short straw in ending up at left-back in each appearance, and how he quite fits into the inverted full-back system makes my head swim a goodish amount, but in the simpler context of being an attacking sort I do rather like the cut of his jib. The sort whose eyes light up a bit once he’s nearing the opposition penalty area.

And as for Brennan Johnson, by golly he needed that. Worryingly, he has much about him of Timo Werner – principally in terms of repeatedly banging his delivery into the first defender – but when it comes to popping away his goalscoring opportunities, mercifully he stands head and shoulders above the German, and his finish was another that can be filed under “Pretty-Looking, As A Bonus”.

And in parting, a polite word of praise for young Bergvall, whom I made probably the pick of the first half bunch. Energetic, and in the wholesome habit of shoving the ball on quickly, I’d estimate that he did more than any other in lightish green (that completely unnecessarily clashed with the Coventry kit, for heaven’s sake) to burrow a way through the massed opposition ranks. Hardly the finished article, but he receives the approving nod nonetheless.

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Spurs match reports

Newcastle 2-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Angeball

First things first, and for avoidance of doubt the official line is that if you haven’t scored more than the opposition then, linguistically as much as anything else, you categorically cannot claim to deserve to win. Legally, it seems, it’s not allowed. Won’t stand up in court.

With that cleared up, we can rattle on in good conscience, and the first remark I’d offer is that we gave it a jolly good effort. No points for effort of course, but to pitch up on some other mob’s turf, dominate possession and rattle in shots – 20 of them apparently – is pretty good going in my book. And whereas last week one wasn’t quite sure if the Everton gang had ever played the game before, to produce a performance like that against a Newcastle side that could be objectively classified as one of the better teams around, on their patch, again seemed to paint this as a positive.

There’s a train of thought that occasionally flits to my mind, makes its presence felt and flits off again, that sometimes the national team seem to adjust their level to the quality of the opposition. One witnessed it quite a lot in the recent Euros, and in the early stages of the first half today a similar notion crossed my mind. Newcastle harassed and harried, snapping at ankles and trying to apply the high press – and our lot responded by popping the ball around with impressive alacrity, bypassing said press.

‘Zippy’ seemed to be the mot juste. It was all quick-fire stuff. There was no standing on ceremony, our lot one-touched their way out of trouble and moved the ball from south to north swiftly and efficiently, with Bissouma again doing a good job at the base of midfield.

That said, the cutting edge was certainly missing in the first half. A couple of low deliveries from the left seemed to clear their throat and yelp, “Convert me!” but those in the centre didn’t really seem to get the memo, and the closest we came was the endless stream of Pedro Porro shots whistling six inches the wrong side of the frame.

Noting at the midway point that there was limited employment for a second holding midfielder, Our Glorious Leader took the pretty punchy step of doing away with Sarr, and shoving on Johnson for a spot of extra oomph in attack.

The gambit worked pretty well. The general domination of possession continued, but was supplemented by more inclination to rain down a few shots and see what that did to the plot.

This approach having eked out an equaliser the more loose-lipped amongst us were strongly tempted to suggest that our lot deserved to go on and win the thing – but of course any such sacrilege was quickly snuffed out by the arched eyebrows and polite coughs of those eager to remind that you don’t deserve to win if you don’t score more than the other lot.

And it’s clearly a source of unquantifiable frustration, this business of monopolising the ball, trying to fashion a half-chance in the area and seeing countless shots blocked and countless crosses fly across the sweet spot and carry on flying. For all the domination and possession, not bunging the ball in the dashed net was utterly exasperating. Be not fooled by the cheery exterior presented by your humble scribe here; behind closed doors inanimate objects are being kicked and colourful oaths uttered. The absence of both Solanke and Richarlison could I suppose be classified as rotten luck, but whether or not Messrs S and R are stomping about the place there still ought to be enough fellows milling about the place capable of hitting the target – or, as pertinently, capable of availing themselves at the far post for a squared pass.

All that said, the pre-match mood at AANP Towers having been one of deep concern that we would be run ragged throughout, I was pretty pleased to see our lot on the front-foot for the majority. If this is Angeball, then I’m fully on board, it just needs someone to put away the chances.  

2. Johnson

I mentioned above that the plopping of Johnson into the melting pot augmented things a notch or two, and the earnest bean’s contributions probably merit a spot of gentle elaboration.

He does still possess the capacity to infuriate a tad, by either failing to pick the most suitable option when racing away into space on the right; or alternatively by picking the suitable option but mangling the delivery, and hitting the first defender or failing to place the thing neatly into the path of Sonny or whomever.

Nevertheless, he was decent value. His pace caused endless problems for their various Newcastle bods at left-back, and he also had the presence of mind to pop up at the far post and do the necessaries when Maddison’s shot was parried, ultimately forcing the equaliser.

However, it would be a bit of a disservice to various others about the place to yammer on about Johnson as if his were the only creative juices. I rather enjoyed the healthy habit that developed amongst the attacking mob for dispossessing Newcastle high up the pitch and creating a slew of three-on-three type opportunities, each of which we found new and exciting ways to gum up.

Bissouma, as mentioned above, was again pretty hot on the ball, in picking it up under pressure and wiggling his way clear; Maddison, while perhaps lacking a line in crafty passes that scythed open the other lot, was nevertheless busy and involved; and Kulusevski continued to hone the art of charging around like a bull in a chinashop, but one of those more strategic bulls, who knows exactly which bits of china would be suitable for smashing.

3. Dragusin (and Romero)

There was a bit of ill-concealed panic about AANP Towers when the cast list was unveiled pre-match, as tends to happen when the absence of VDV is announced. The inscrutable stare was therefore directed firmly upon young Dragusin, with the chorus ringing loudly in my ears that delivering the goods for Romania in the Euros is a different kettle of fish from the insanely high lines peddled at N17.

But to his credit, he pretty much did what one would have hoped. When one early foot-race broke out between him and a speedy Newcastle sort, Dragusin made the pretty smart move to get his sliding challenge in nice and early, thereby removing the need for any awkwardness to unfold over 20 yards. Similarly, in the second half, when Romero made a misjudgement of some sort, Dragusin it was who again raced back and stretched out the lower limbs to effect a block. It might not have been prime Ledley, but by and large it was good enough.

The problem, frankly, seemed to be Romero alongside him. As mentioned, he went missing when Isak broke early in the second half, and seemed to be on a different planet altogether when Newcastle broke for the winner, displaying a body-shape completely inappropriate for one organising a high-line and evidently not keeping up on current affairs in terms of the whereabouts of those around him.

If I really wanted to stick the knife in I could also highlight his dereliction of duty for the opener, for the culmination of which he was not amongst the five lilywhites stationed defensively across the penalty area; but in truth there were faults aplenty for that goal, just about every one of our number having dozily switched off and seemingly astounded to discover a football of all things flashing across the box.

Such things would be mere footnotes if we had converted any of the chances swished along in the second half in particular, but such is life. Grounds for optimism in the performance, for those who are that way inclined; but doubtless the streets of N17 will be lined with weeping and gnashing of teeth after this one.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 4-0 Everton: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Odobert

I don’t mind admitting that AANP was as surprised as the next man on casting the bleary eye over the morning headlines a few days ago and seeing one Wilson Odobert unveiled as the latest shiny new lilywhite on the shelf.

Naturally, here at AANP Towers when such seismic events occur we hot-foot it to a darkened room and embrace technology, so within moments I was dusting off the spools and watching grainy footage of Odobert’s highlights from his former incarnations. And all very impressive it looked too, when condensed into a few minutes and soundtracked by some of that modern electronic noise; but the critical question was whether or not he could peddle such wares within the cut and thrust of the THFC Starting XI.

We didn’t have to wait long, Our Glorious Leader evidently deciding within 48 hours or so that Odobert merited elevation above the pre-existing queue of wingers. Naturally one respects the privacy and confidentiality of the changing room, but I would certainly have enjoyed the opportunity to sneak a furtive look at the maps of Messrs Werner, Solomon and Richarlison upon learning that Odobert was being shunted to the front of the Left-Wing queue.

And whoever whispers pearls of wisdom in the Odobert ear earned themselves a pay-rise, because within about the opening quarter-hour the young oeuf had ticked all manner of boxes on the ‘How To Please Your New Employer and Win Raucous Applause From Your New Fans’ cribsheet.

From the off Odobert took to the attacking requirements with breezy vim and energy, immediately adopted as one of the cool kids by Messrs Maddison and Udogie, and combining with this pair to impressive effect on the left. He attacked his man at every opportunity, but was also sensible enough not to go overboard and try the same trick every time, making full use of the availability of those around him to try to eke out opportunities.

A couple of dribbles and attempted balls into the centre gave the impression of a lad who knew his onions, and with Johnson, Kulusevski and Porro forming a similar alliance on the right, we seemed well-stocked in the department of provision from the wings.
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Odobert’s diligent tracking back towards his own goal to execute a sliding challenge early on in the piece was a smart move, earning him a rousing ovation, as many a seasoned observer turned to the chum by their side to remark upon his work-rate with an approving nod, but the moment that really caught the AANP eye and elicited a pretty audible purr from the natives was when he trapped a ball falling from the sky with the a level of control that could not have been bettered had he used his hands, and for added impact threw in a neat change of direction, all in the same movement.

So all pretty whizzy stuff from the new boy, and excited chatter was very much the order of the day, but here at AANP Towers we are nothing if not curmudgeonly old cynics. As Odobert departed early to his standing ovation I therefore cleared the throat and gave tongue to the sentiment that in future performances I’d like to see a spot of end-product. We do have a certain history after all, from Bergwijn to Bentley, Nkoudou to N’jie, of bringing in wingers who look frightfully bucked and full of ideas, only to underwhelm and rather quietly exit the place a year or two hence, with nothing but a few low-key sentences on the website to record that they were ever part of the gang at all.

And watching Odobert cut back one pass into a defender, and have another attempted cross turned behind by another Everton sort, the thought did occur that the odd piece of rotten fruit has been flung at Werner and even young Johnson for the similar transgression of failing regularly to generate an end-product that really does the business. So a decent enough start from young Odobert, but room for a notch or two of improvement.

2. Bissouma’s Redemption

I suppose ‘redemption’ is rather over-egging the thing, but having spent the opening weekend of the season on the naughty step it was very much in the interests of Yves Bissouma to produce a return to the form of early last season. While Everton were amongst the more feeble opponents ever to work up a sweat in the magnificent environs of N17, Bissouma still earned himself some pretty hearty back-slaps for his efforts.

This being the sort of bash in which our heroes monopolised possession, the onus was on Bissouma not so much to perform sentry duty and prevent an onslaught from the foe, as to use possession wisely when collecting it at the base of midfield. Pleasingly, the fellow not only got that particular memo, he also had the good sense to dip into the memory bank and trot out some of his greatest hits from early 2023-24. 

As such, we were treated to such classics as Bissouma picking out – and delivering – a natty line in short forward passes that bisected opposition defenders; Bissouma effecting upper-body swerves that sent Everton players off into different postcodes and allowed him to glide forward; and Bissouma running with the ball from inside our half to inside theirs. It was sensible use of the thing, and carried out at a healthy lick too, free from dawdle and ponderousness.

As an additional bonus, when Everton did healf-hartedly string a few passes together and make some perfunctory attempts to get over halfway, Bissouma was on hand to effect a couple of handy and forceful blocks and tackles. To repeat – and it cannot be overstated – Everton were awful, but we nevertheless required a chap to collect the ball from deep and have the clarity of mind to get us onto the front-foot. Bissouma did this more, and with tasty fixtures looming it was a most timely return to form.

(As an aside, frightfully good of the bean to chip in with the opening goal, a special mention to such efforts that cannon off the underside of the bar for a spot of additional aesthetic value, what?)

3. Romero

Keep this to yourself, but prior to kick-off I was becoming rather oddly invested in an earnest argument that questioned the defensive capabilities of Cristian Romero. Before you turn on your heel, never to return, a brief precis of the argument.

Romero, I hypothesised, was being praised to the rafters by such luminaries as that Messi chap, so evidently had something about him, but a nameless irritation had nagged away at me at times last season that such commendation was on account of the more forward-thinking elements of his play – his ability to pass from the back, and chip in with goals at corners and suchlike. Regarding the bread-and-butter, of marking his man and winning defensive duels, or besting attackers who tried to sidestep him, I was giving the upper lip a concerned chew. And if the concern brewed last season, it was given a fresh shot of biff last week at Leicester.

Well on the basis of yesterday, most of the above turned out to be amongst the finest rot ever peddled by this particular quill. Romero was in barnstorming form, not just hitting right notes but giving it full Midas and delivering an absolute defensive masterclass.

After one or two early misplaced passes to make the AANP pulse spike a bit, he settled into his groove and carried out his every duty like an absolute champion. Block tackles weren’t just carried out, they were delivered with the force of a man determined to send his opponent into next week. If the ball were lobbed forward for an Everton laddie to chase, Romero matched him stride for stride and either inserted self between ball and man, muscled the opponent out of the way or, if circumstances absolutely demanded, extended enough limbs to block any attempted pass or shot.

On top of which he was dominant in the air, picked out some delightful passes (witness the chipped ball that put Maddison through on goal early in the first half) and thundered in a headed goal. He very nearly preceded all of that with a goal in the third minute, having shown technique one would scarcely have credited him with to take a pass on his chest and thump goalwards.

I suppose that, as with Bissouma above, one can point to the quality of the opposition, but that Calvert-Lewin chap can be quite handy, and Romero did not allow him a sniff. Van de Ven was also in fine fettle, in particular in matters of bursts of pace, but goodness me Romero delivered an absolute masterclass.

4. Smart Formational Thinking

It was a strong afternoon for approving nods. Sonny, filling in atop the tree, demonstrated rather pointedly the virtue of the high press, before taking clinically his second half chance; Udogie seemed much more like his old self than last week; Vicario pulled off a very smart save at 2-0 that might otherwise have given the nerves an emphatic jangle; Spence caught the eye in both penalty areas in his cameo at left-back; and so on.

In fact, right from the line-up reveal an hour before the curtain went up I felt a quiet thrill, upon seeing the formational tweak of one holding midfielder and two more attack-minded sorts alongside him. The choice of both Maddison and Kulusevski to partner Bissouma was rather punchy stuff from Our Glorious Leader, the sort of decision that yelled ‘Fie upon thee, oh opposition sorts, I sneer at your line-up and impose upon you an attacking formation that will give you the dickens of an afternoon before you even think about scoring yourselves’. And it did exactly that.

As mentioned, Maddison swum off to the left to buddy up with Udogie and Odobert, while on the right, irrespective of the pre-match scrawls on the whiteboard, Kulusevski spent half his time operating as a second winger alongside Johnson. An intriguing gambit, and I suppose strictly speaking Kulusevski was more of an inside-right, expected to occupy spaces in between the right flank and the centre, but the net result was that the left side of the Everton defence was frequently overrun, with the additional sweetener of plenty of lilywhite bodies arriving to supplement things in the penalty area.

I piped up a few terms last season to campaign for Kulusevski to play centrally rather than on the right wing, and while he also drifted wide to excellent effect yesterday, his quick-footed trickery inside the area, which created Bissouma’s goal, rather exemplified the fine produce that sits within his size nines from a more central berth.

This overly attack-minded setup, in which Romero, VDV and Bissouma sit and everyone else flies forward, might perhaps be ill-advised against the league’s elite, and with Newcastle and Woolwich to come I suppose that Kulusevski might be jettisoned for a slightly more conservative option, but in a home fixture against a relegation contender I was all for it.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Sheff Utd 0-3 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Dragusin and That Tweaked Back-Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Van de Ven

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Contributions to Our Goals

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Porro

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

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

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

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

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

5. Kulusevski

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 0-2 Man City: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Shiny New Formation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Sarr

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

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

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

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

3. Hojbjerg

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Playing Out From The Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5. Our Glorious Leader’s Post-Match Rant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Liverpool 4-2 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Bissouma

Being something of a glutton for punishment, and having had younger members of the clan to entertain during the live production, AANP treated himself to a repeat viewing of this one, and was actually struck by the fact that, aside from a couple of key shortcomings, this was not quite the horror-show that a 4-0 deficit inside an hour might have had one expect. Now admittedly the phrase “A couple of key shortcomings” is doing a heck of a lot of heavy lifting in that opening soliloquy, covering both the fact that for an hour our attack was utterly toothless, and the fact that throughout the entirety our defence was utterly clueless.

But nevertheless, fans of silver linings would have been spoilt for choice in seeing our midfield give as good as they got, in terms of both pressing out of possession and moving things quickly when in possession. Put another way, there was a bit of urgency about the place.  

Bissouma caught the eye in this sense, because at least in possession he had what you might call a tidy little game. More than once I tipped the hat in his direction as he collected the ball on around the halfway line, two or three Liverpool bodies converging on him, and with a dashing swivel of the hips pirouetted away out of trouble and was able to shove the problem over to someone else.

None of it really stood out in the memory because our attacks tended to fizzle out in utterly forgettable manner whenever we reached the final third, but had the forward mob been firing we might have generously thrown at Bissouma such choice compliments as ‘The foundation’ and ‘The heartbeat’ and other such knowing tokens of appreciation.

All that said, I still expect a dashed sight more from whomever is sitting in front of the back-four in a defensive sense. Handy though Bissouma’s capacity for skipping away from challenges no doubt is, at least 50% of the Job Description involves patrolling when Liverpool race forward, and in this respect one might euphemistically suggest that he did not quite manage to blunt at source every Liverpool attack, given that they kept wandering into our penalty area at will.

The feeling nags away that there is a decent defensive midfielder lurking within the Bissouma frame – on the evidence of the first few months of this season as much as anything else – capable of both winning the ball from threatening opponents and bringing it forward with the care typically reserved for a protected species, but whether ‘tis he or some other, it’s a position in which the quality needs to improve a notch or three next season.

2. The Bentancur Conundrum

While Bissouma had me muttering “6 out of 10, I suppose”, I was decidedly less convinced by Bentancur. In fact, I was downright baffled by Bentancur. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering what his purpose was in this team.

For clarity, this is not to question his dreamy, silk-like technique. If I were to be invited as a guest to the training ground, I may well spend the entirety of my visit with eyes trained on Bentancur, just to feast the eyes on that technique from close quarters for a couple of hours.

But come matchday, and yesterday in particular, I trained the eye on the honest fellow with laser-like sharpness, and was left with one of those quizzical expressions etched across the map. He is neither a tackler like Bissouma ought really to be; nor a creator like Maddison ought really to be; nor a box-to-box ball of non-stop energy who does a neat side-line in doubling up on the wings like Sarr tends to be.

To his credit Bentancur did occasionally avail himself as a passing option, but even in this capacity he tended to do so in a manner so peripheral one would often forget he was still on the pitch. Apart from anything else it seemed a dashed waste of arguably the most talented player in our squadron.

 It would not take a great leap of the imagination to paint him, for example, as a Modric-esque deep-lying creative sort, as he seems to possess the required skillset. I’ve also heard the theory bandied about the streets of N17 that he was sculpted by nature as a box-to-box sort, but that the injury earlier this year put an understandable dent in his capacity in this sense. This may be the case, and I would certainly expect a fully restored version of Bentancur to potter about the place a bit more meaningfully next season, but within the current incarnation of Angeball I’m just not sure of his specific role – and at times I’m not sure he is either.  

3. Our Defence

However, for all the honest endeavours of Bissouma, Bentancur et al in poring over the midfield small print, the really sensational stuff was going off in the two penalty areas. Or rather, in one of them, because but for a couple of inviting Johnson crosses from the left that were duly ignored by all his teammates, all goalmouth activity occurred in our penalty area.

In recent weeks I have filled the atmosphere of AANP Towers with lamentations and curses about our defending at corners, noting amongst things that we still find ways to allow opponents free headers even when all eleven are stationed in the penalty area. And watching in particular the second and fourth goals sail in (Robertson’s close-range rebound and Harvey Elliott from outside the area, for those struggling to keep track) I noted that, as at corners, we were not conceding for want of defensive numbers filling the vicinity, but rather for want of any of the assembled having the bright idea of leaping into action in order to prevent damage manifesting.

Taking the Robertson goal, our lot had four members present and correct across the six-yard as things got toasty with a cross floated to the back-post. There then followed a rapid sequence of three opportunities for Liverpool folk to shoot – for not one of which was any attempt made to prevent a shot.

Taking them in order, Robertson arrived at the back post (he actually opted to square the ball, but certainly had the opportunity to shoot); Salah shot from a central position; and Robertson then tapped in the rebound from close range. Exciting stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree, but events with which any of our four defensive attendees might have interfered had the urge arisen.

Alas, the concept of preventing opposition shots from inside the area seemed well beyond their remit. As with corners in recent weeks, our heroes seemed to be operating on the premise that simply being in the vicinity was sufficient, and represented a pretty decent day’s work. Anything beyond that was evidently considered a bit of a stretch. One can only imagine the mystified looks and furrowed brows if the suggestion were put to them to rush from their stations and actually try narrowing the angle or blocking the incoming shots, or any other such progressive manoeuvres.

With the Elliott goal similarly, various lilywhite bodies were stationed in the area as the chap readied himself for his shot, but none seemed too concerned about any eventuality that might soon follow. Bentancur admittedly earned himself one small measure of credit by springing to life to effect a tackle, but immediately lost that measure by making a pretty perfunctory effort of it, letting Elliott skip straight past him and continue as if nothing had happened. Thereafter, both Bissouma and Sarr were on strictly watching duty only, and Elliott’s shot did not have too many outstretched limbs to negotiate.

But what rankled as much as the goals themselves was the fact that this same routine seemed to play out every time Liverpool attacked, dash it, in the first half in particular. Every time they strolled forward the pretty inevitable conclusion was that within a hop or a skip one of their number would be allowed a pop at goal, unmarked and from disturbingly close range. This sort of nonsense really should not happen as a one-off, let alone on recurring occasions, and yet by half-time it had become the norm, relying upon marginal offsides, goal-line blocks, the post, the crossbar, errant finishing or any other act of God to keep the score down to two.

And meanwhile, just to twist the knife in, up the other end a completely different set of principles were in operation, our attackers being denied the time even to consider the concept of a shot, before a flurry of red-bedecked limbs were upon them to crowd out the opportunity and ensure that the moment was lost in the mists of time.

(And just to tag on one final, supplementary complaint to the main body of complaints, our obsession with defending solely within the width of the six-yard box seems utterly empty-headed. The obvious flaw in this approach is the ample space it leaves for opponents to drift into beyond the back post – witness Salah and Gakpo’s goals – as such not so much preventing the concession of goals as providing a well-lit route to them for heaven’s sake. Moreover, if the squeezing of four defenders into the width of the six-yard box were a fool-proof means of blocking shots I’d see some merit in it – but, as indicated above, most of the time the blocking of shots appeared to be the last thing on the minds of our defenders.)

4. Emerson

While the collective were at fault for that maddening reluctance to prevent shots inside the penalty area, one amongst them was, rather predictably, destined to emerge as the poster-boy for their failings.

I suppose one ought not really to criticise a man before walking a mile in his shoes, on top of which every comment on Emerson’s performance ought to be heavily caveated with the acknowledgement that the poor lamb was playing out of position, a conventional right-back being asked to play as an inverted left-back.


And yet. Even with these very reasonable, mitigating circumstances, one still cannot fight the urge to slap him about the face with a wet fish, whilst simultaneously banging one’s own head against a brick wall, such is the array of means he lands upon to gum up operations.

Take that opening goal from Salah. A right-back on the left he might be, but really, would it have killed Emerson to interrupt his dozy afternoon sesh. of absent-minded ball-watching, in order to give a few moments’ thought to the whereabouts of one of the most dangerous Premier League forwards of the last decade? Salah was hardly operating by stealth, or putting to use some strange and unfathomable sorcery – he was simply standing behind Emerson. Emerson simply had glance over his shoulder, or open up his body. “Flail an arm, dash it man,” one wanted to yelp, “do something to keep track of the forward loitering the other side of you!”

Aside from that goal, Emerson had a pretty tough time of it, and here I genuinely do in fact sympathise, because frankly most people would similarly struggle. There’s no real shame in being bested by an eel like Mo Salah. So when Emerson simply found himself outfoxed, undone or turned inside out by the better man on the day, I kept my curses to myself and instead looked this way and that for help from the arriving reinforcements. Even when Emerson shrugged his shoulders, mouthed “To hell with this,” and earned himself a yellow card for a needless spot of wrestling of his man, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. A tough old gig, you see.

But where AANP’s sympathies abruptly end is when Emerson brings fresh ills upon himself pointlessly and avoidably. Casual, high-risk passes I mean, or tumbling to ground under minimal contact in areas of the pitch in which it’s far better to stay upright and stick to the task. This tendency for taking a position of serenity and needlessly turning it into a big old vat full of hot water, seemingly driven by the bizarre, quixotic conviction that he’s the finest footballer ever to lace a boot and impervious to misdeed, is what really drives me potty.

And this sort of fat-headedness was unveiled again for the third goal, when having actually done the hard work of inserting self between the ball and Salah, Emerson settled in to have a pause and weigh up the options, oblivious to the presence of that Elliott chap once again arriving on the scene, to whip the ball from his feet and set up another goal.

The excuse about him operating out of position, while true enough, only goes so far in excusing his carelessness. Right-footed or left-footed, the dithering to allow Elliott to pilfer the ball was simply lack of concentration.

Whether or not Emerson picked up an injury I’m not sure, but the replacement of him with young Skipp was an eye-catching move, and as it turned out not the worst one. The tendency of our substitutes, whoever they may be, always to play better than the fellows they replace, whomever they may be, continues to perplex, but Skipp made a decent fist of things at left-back. He did not need too many invitations to nudge forward – even contributing to a goal – and worked hard enough in the opposite direction. The thought has previously occurred that those who have cut their teeth as midfielders might be well-suited to the rigours of inverted full-back within Angeball, so the sight of Skipp at left-back made for an interesting little experiment.

5. Sonny’s Sudden Resurgence

One ought not to become too excited about the late fightback – and frankly there is not much danger of that, just about everyone who witnessed it recognising it as something of an oddity within the context of the match, facilitated as much as anything else by Liverpool rather losing interest and changing half their personnel with the job already done. (As an aside though, I would like to have seen a head-height challenge with the studs carried out elsewhere on the pitch than inside the penalty area – to settle a private debate you understand.)

That said, it was nice to see Richarlison giving another demonstration of some of the benefits that accrue when one fields a bona fide striker in the central attacking role. But while the sudden change in atmosphere and energy levels brought about by the introduction to the cast list of a new character is understandable enough, I confess to being a little stumped as to what brought about Sonny’s sudden explosion into life when shoved out onto the left.

Quite randomly, and without any prior warning – either yesterday or in previous matches in which he’s played on the left – he absolutely tore into his full-back. Every time he received the ball he ran at him, throwing in stepovers, forcing him backwards and leaving completely unpredictable the issue of whether he would stick to the outside or cut inside. It frequently required more than two Liverpool sorts to halt his charge, and with a little more consideration to his decision-making he might have earned us more than just the two goals.

In theory, it was the sort of cameo that ought to have us rubbing the hands a goodish amount at the prospect of more to come in future weeks; however, having witnessed the chap barely lay a glove on his opposing right-back in midweek, when taking on Chelsea from the same position, I remain a little hesitant about his prospects in this regard. Yesterday’s successful half hour struck me more as a swallow than a summer, if you get my gist.

That slightly baffling half-hour from Son on the left, the rudimentary but effective adventures of Richarlison in the centre and the inviting crosses that Johnson pings in each week from the right suggest that at least in theory our lot ought to have a bit more threat about them than they have shown in recent weeks.  – but having all the constituent attacking parts click, and at a stage in the game in which contest is still alive, rather than at which we have already taken a hammering, currently seems rather too much to ask.