Tag: Ange Postecoglou

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Spurs match reports

Palace 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. A Rotten Performance

I’m not inclined to believe too many of George Orwell’s footballing opinions, he having been a fan of the Woolwich, but he certainly stumbled upon one truth when he rambled on about all defeats being equal but some being more equal than others (or something close to that). For AANP will accept some losses with a pretty casual shrug of the shoulders – the 2-1 defeat at Newcastle for example, or the 1-1 at Leicester (which no doubt pedants will point out wasn’t a defeat, letting technicalities get in the way of a good argument).

And the reason for such equanimity in the face of defeat is that if it’s the sort of game in which our heroes could reasonably have expected to score four or five, but somehow only managed one, then AANP will not be too concerned, as more often than not those sort of performances will bring wins.

Yesterday’s, however, was a different kettle of fish altogether, and as a result the usual sunny AANP disposition has clouded over like the dickens. Had we hammered away at the Palace goal only to be sucker-punched against the run of play, there would have been merely a philosophical rumination or two over the evening bourbon. “Onwards”, would have been the gist of the dialogue. Not the end of the world. Not too many adjustments needed.

But this was not one of those occasions.

I thought that by and large, our lot stank the place out yesterday. There may have been a token show of resistance in the final 20, but anything other than a Palace would win would have been quite the misrepresentation of events. The energy of their attacking mob in pressing us in and around our own penalty area frankly put us to shame. The Palace players simply seemed infinitely more motivated.

By contrast, the approach of most in lilywhite smacked of a dubious concoction that, from my vantage point, appeared to be approximately one third complacency and two thirds absence of interest. This calculating of the proportions occurred as I watched our defensive cohort dozily gift the ball to Palace before reaching the halfway line for about the hundredth time in that dreadful first half, the mindset seeming to be that it was simply too much like hard work on a sunny Sunday afternoon to get the head down and buzz about the place with any semblance of diligence. Far easier, was the impression given, simply to waft a pass into the loose vicinity of a teammate, and let the two clubs’ respective league positions take care of the rest.

In order to make this point crystal clear, our heroes conceded a goal that exemplified in one neat take all that was wrong about their performance. Romero dwelt on the ball inside his own area for an age despite the looming presence of two Palace forwards, before declaring that this sort of fare was beneath him, and casually floating a pass across his own area and into the loose radius of VDV.

In mitigation, VDV did not give the air of one who was delighted to be in receipt of a pass bouncing across his body inside his own area, but even he then passed on the opportunity simply to clear the thing, instead allowing the ball to continue bouncing and then deciding that this was as good a moment as any to stop focusing on the game and instead start dwelling on some of life’s other, unrelated mysteries.

The Palace laddie in attendance was only too pleased to let VDV have his quiet time, and generously relieved him of the ball so he could really crack on without distraction. The next stage in the disaster was the input of the cross from the right, Messrs Romero and Porro admirably deciding that this was an appropriate cue for them to give some semblance of concern, but without checking on what the other was doing, or indeed on the whereabouts of the most prolific Palace striker on the pitch (Mateta). Instead, both rushed towards the ball and young Eze, who promptly took both of them out of the game with a flick towards the aforementioned Mateta, who himself then took advantage of the freedom of the six-yard box to score.

As mentioned, if the self-inflicted genesis of all this had been anomalous and out of keeping with general proceedings I’d have done a quick tour of the place with rallying cries of “Chin up, gents, what?” and encouraging ruffles of the hair. But instead I folded the arms and adopted the unamused expression of a bulldog that’s just chewed a wasp. AANP was deeply unamused.

The incompetence in playing out from the back continued religiously, laced with our chronic inability to win a 50-50 challenge, and by the second half Palace were shooting from all angles, and really ought to have added to their lead.

Oddly enough we nevertheless fashioned two or three presentable chances of our own in each half, but the rhythm of the piece was firmly established long before the credits rolled, and even had we slunk out of South London with a point the AANP mood would have been one best avoided.

At whom the finger of blame should point is therefore the next question, and while the players undoubtedly deserve a docking of extortionate wages and some brief but memorable physical admonishment to boot, Our Glorious Leader also needs a few stern words aimed in his direction.

I’m firmly in the Postecoglou camp, as there has been enough to suggest we should handsomely beat most teams, and do so entertainingly, but the mentality about the place emanates from the top, and if the players on the pitch are simply mooching their way through 90 minutes without urgency or care then a jabbing of an angry towards the manager is only right. Win another seven of our next eight and AANP will be content enough, but frequent displays of this impotence and the disapproving eyebrow will be well and truly arched.

2. Mikey Moore: The Sequel

I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced the talkies, but AANP finds them a most riveting form of entertainment, and if there happens to be an evening without football will quite often seek one out to pass the time. And one aspect of these motion pictures that I’ve noticed is that if one of them constitutes a thoroughly entertaining two-or-so hours, the boffins behind such fare will sure enough paste together another one for general consumption, but – and here’s the rub – more often than not, the sequel will not match the original for quality.

There are, of course, exceptions. Terminator 2 and Aliens, I would suggest, stand peerlessly in the AANP pantheon of greats, and both are sequels that arguably top the original. But for every Terminator 2 there’s a Die Hard 2 – or, come to think of it a Terminator 3, 4, 5 or 6 – viz. a sequel that comes nowhere near the thrilling quality of the first.

And it was armed with this knowledge that AANP peered cautiously over the teamsheet and drank in the inclusion of Mikey Moore as a starter. Because, for the benefit of those who have been living under an N17 rock the last four or five days, young Master M’s left-wing bow against AZ in midweek had been about as spiffing as this sort of thing gets, all youthful exuberance and slaloming runs, and a decent amount of end-product too for good measure.

It would have been pretty tempting therefore, to expect the same and more yesterday, from the off. Make oneself comfortable and feast the eyes upon another Mikey Moore highlights reel, would go the narrative.

Knowing what I know about sequels, however, I demonstrated what generations hence will respectfully term admirable restraint, and duly convinced myself that perhaps only nineteen of every twenty attempted dribbles by the lad would result in havoc in the Palace defence and wild applause from the travelling lilywhite continent.

It would be easy to castigate MM’s performance, it having failed to bear fruit and having ended with his unceremonious abstraction on 60 minutes, but despite one pointed concession of possession in the first half that almost brought Palace some joy down their right, I thought he was one of our best performers in the first half. The bar here is admittedly so low that passing earthworms would pause and consider the odds, but nevertheless, I maintain that he fared pretty well when opportunity allowed.

On a couple of occasions he set off infield and beat a two or three players before being hacked to earth; and on a couple of other occasions he played well weighted passes into space on the left for Udogie and Maddison to race onto. That was admittedly pretty much it in terms of his highlights reel, but with everyone else in lilywhite generally misfiring I thought that this constituted a decent enough contribution. Nowhere near the level of the original, but taken on its own it had some memorable moments. Predator 2, if you will.

As a curious aside, and in the interests of fairness, I also thought that Herr Werner made a decent stab of things once he emerged from exile. While not exactly rip-roaring he did cause his opposing full-back a few problems, and also swung in a couple of crosses that arguably deserved better than simply disappearing down the gullet of the ‘keeper. I mention this purely because I bang on about the chap every time he stuffs things up in front of goal. Only fair, what?

3. Richarlison

There were not too many other notable contributions, most individuals fitting neatly within the stale, all-encompassing headline of the dreary team performance. Pedro Porro showed his attacking chops, in the second half in particular, reminding me that deep within his Angeball-moulded, inverted model there lies a traditional, touchline-hugging full-back. Solanke continues to show more value around halfway than in the opposition area. Any good that Bissouma did with ball at his feet seemed to me to be negated by his inability to provide useful protection when we were out of possession (in marked contrast to that Wharton lad for Palace, who would be advised to make a living out of snuffing out opposition attacks at source).

But one depressing thought that sprung to mind was that Richarlison is simply not up to the level we require. Why this thought chose yesterday to worm its way into my consciousness is anyone’s guess – yesterday’s was hardly his worst showing in lilywhite, and the unfortunate young chestnut is still short of match fitness and whatnot. More pertinently, there were at least a dozen others who underwhelmed massively and have had far more chances to prove themselves good enough.

But watching him scurry enthusiastically before finally missing his kick, or overhitting his kick, or in some other way failing to execute effectively the kicking part of football, just made me realise that we’ve persevered with him for quite some time now, and he’s not really improved a jot since Day One.

At some point last season – I think the point at which he inadvertently trod on the ball on halfway and fell over – it was suggested to me that he might have the worst technique of any Brazilian footballer in history. Now I must confess to having lacked the willpower to conduct the research necessary to verify that claim; but the gist has stuck with me. His touch is pretty off, what?

I have in the past peddled the line that one Harry Kane has an oddly poor touch – by which I mean that if you subject him to inspection you’ll note that the ball regularly bounces off him as if it were being thrown against a wall – but this is more than compensated for by his extraordinary goalscoring, range of passing, ability to shield the ball, winning of free-kicks, ability with both feet, ability with head, penalty-taking and various other assets. Richarlison, however, seems to possess much of the wall, but precious few of those redeeming features.

It certainly made sense to throw on a second striker yesterday, one understood the logic inside and out. And Richarlison does have physical presence, and fits neatly within the prescribed system of pressing high and expending bundles of energy. But give him the ball, or ask him to go fetch, and things start to break down. And amidst everything else that went wrong yesterday, I became aware of the notion that I had had rather enough of the wretched fellow.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-0 AZ Alkmaar: Three(ish) Tottenham Talking Points

1. Mikey Moore

When an aged and arthritic Mikey Moore calls time on his career a decade or two hence, arms laden with Ballon d’Or trophies and neck weighed down with medals, no doubt he’ll look back fondly on last night as something of a milestone, the day on which he called for hush and proceeded to announce himself, officially, as something of a Big Deal.

Of course, the curiosity here was how little early indication was given that this was going to turn into a bit of an event for the slippery young eel. Not to put a dampener on things, but his early missed header was one that due and proper process dictates is filed under ‘Glaring’, and in fact, until the half-time toot that faux pas was his most prominent contribution to events. Put another way, Mikey Moore on the right did not have much to recommend it.

I actually thought that the decision, by those paid big bucks to make such calls, to shove aside Timo Werner at half-time was rather brutal. I noted Ange gruffling away afterwards that Herr Werner’s removal was due to his low confidence, and the thought struck me then, as it does now, that kicking a man while down was perhaps not the textbook-suggested method of reviving his flagging spirits, but so be it. Werner was offed, Johnson took to the field on the right and, in a move for the ages, Mikey Moore began the half on the left-wing.

What then transpired, in the opening 20 minutes of the second half, was something of a blur – particularly if you happened to be the AZ right-back. From the off, the young whelp approached matters with supreme self-confidence, clearly having decided that simply getting his head down and racing at the opposition with ball at feet would do the trick, and by golly the approach worked splendidly.

His combination of pace and close control, augmented by the occasional stepover and jinky change of direction, made for exhilarating viewing – and here at AANP Towers that’s not a phrase we throw around too lightly. Of course, Mikey Moore’s reputation has spread about every corner of N17 and beyond over the last year or two, and some amongst us have even been privileged to witness his talents first-hand at various youth levels, but to see the intrepid youth parade his wares in such fashion for the First XI, in a competitive match, was thrilling stuff.

As pleasing as anything else was the fact that this was not just one memorable solo dash, etched into the memory – young Master M. packed in about half a dozen of them. That start to the second half was sensational, with Moore repeatedly demanding the ball, all in lilywhite obligingly feeding it to him and he then wasting no time in taking on as many men as the other lot could send over to stop him.

I also gave an approving nod to the fact that Moore seemed pretty open-minded when it came to direction of travel, completely unfazed whether shown on the outside or cutting infield and seeing where life might take him from there.

I suppose if one were in particularly churlish mood one might wait for the bluster to die down before pointedly remarking, quite possibly with hands on hips, that all that direct running looked very pretty but the nub of the thing was end-product, in which column there wasn’t much of note. Any such criticism, in my mind, would be pretty thick stuff. On a couple of occasions, a desperate defensive lunge blocked off an attempted cross and shovelled it aside for a corner; but he also popped in two or three top-notch crosses, the ilk of which really merited a finishing touch, as well as very reasonably having a shot at goal himself, when the mood took him.

His effort at the very start of the half, in which he beat three players, was then crowned with an absolutely glorious pass in between two or three defenders for Brennan Johnson to run onto. The pass alone was worthy of an ovation, but to have beaten three men beforehand – having initially collected the ball deep inside his own half – had us goggling away like nobody’s business. In short, the fact that no goal was spawned from his efforts should be of minimal concern, for by and large he had the AZ defence on toast and sent all manner of inviting balls towards the attacking mob.

Of course, there is now a bit of babble amongst the massed ranks to have Mikey Moore start against Palace, captain the team and spearhead Tuchel-era England for good measure – but I suspect Our Glorious Leader will not be too heavily swayed by any such background noise, and a big puffy jacket and cushioned seat on the bench will be next up for the lad. Should Sonny be unavailable on Sunday, or indeed at any point in the near-future, I’ll give our selection the eye, but with Odobert now returning to fitness I suspect Ange will be quite happy to ration the minutes of The Young One.

2. Timo Werner

While Mikey Moore’s night was quite the triumph, one might fairly reasonably argue that Timo Werner’s was somewhat less so. Indeed, there has been some speculation that with Sonny first choice, Mikey Moore’s statement performance last night and the return from injury of young Odobert, this might have been the last we’ll see of Herr Werner. Such a theory seems a tad extreme to these particular ears, there being plenty of fixtures through which we still have to churn, but as ever, Werner is in pretty desperate need of an uptick in confidence.

Gallingly for the chap, things almost started so well, that cross of his for the head of Mikey Moore being an absolutely beauty. I don’t mind admitting that the train of thought flowing through this particular loaf at the time was along the lines that Werner had already shown the capacity to beat his man for pace on the outside, and here we had proof that when cutting back on the inside and onto his right clogger, he evidently also had the ability to deliver an enticing cross towards approaching scalps – as such demonstrating a threat from both feet.

Be that as it may, however, even the most ardent member of the Werner Fan Club would struggle to get past the wretched fellow’s chronic inability to finish a one-on-one. One almost wishes he were not blessed with such pace, so as to avoid repeatedly steaming clear of opposition defences and creating for himself such opportunities to display to the watching world his glaring ineptitude in front of goal.

If one could, one surely would club together with one’s chums and simply buy the poor fish a goal, to relieve his pain; the next best thing, however, seems to be the Postecoglou option of putting him out of his misery.

I have wondered, in my idle moments, whether he needs simply to pop up at the back-post for a tap-in, one of those chances that requires minimal thought and simply needs an instinctive dab of the toe, to get his goal and fire up his juices. Call it the Brennan Johnson Effect, a single turning-point that will transform an attacker from whimpering bundle of nerves to unstoppable goalscorer. We can but dream. Until then, it is difficult to imagine that Werner remains ahead of Mikey Moore in the left-wing pecking order.

3. Pros and Cons Amongst The Other Personnel

As ever, the game was a mildly maddening mixture of dominance in possession not quite translating into goals, coupled with occasional opposition forays a little too easily escalating into clear goalscoring opportunities. One can probably excuse the absence of fluidity, given the nine changes in personnel, so I’ll give the magnifying glass a quick spit and polish, and hop straight over to the individuals instead.

3.1 – Dragusin

Master Dragusin reappeared needing to put in a decent amount of spadework to redeem himself after the ills of his most recent, red card-marred appearance, and although a clean sheet in the record books is something he can merrily take to his grave, the evidence of the eyes was a little less convincing.

The dictionary defines “erratic” as “moving or behaving in a way that is not regular, certain, or expected”, and while I’m not sure that that captures perfectly the fellow’s offering last night, it will probably suffice. At some points burly and imposing, at others quite the liability, his was a mixed bag.

If there was one consistency to his game it was that he seemed as much of a risk in possession as he was when defending – caught over-elaborating on the ball a couple of times, and similarly not quite providing the reassuring presence one would expect from a man-bunned gum-chewer when required to prevent opposing forwards blitzing the lilywhite goal.

As I seem to conclude each time I see the chap, he probably needs a run of games before we all rush to judgement, and he can’t be helped by being thrust into a makeshift back-four and in front of the reserve goalkeeper, but nevertheless he is yet to convince.

3.2 – Gray

Alongside him, Archie Gray seemed to me to have a rotten old time of it at right-back, providing precious little resistance whenever the AZ left-winger built up a head of steam. The thinking behind his deployment is presumably that his ability in possession makes him a decent fit for those moments when we need our full-backs to beetle off into midfield and do useful things; but if AANP has a principle by which he lives and dies it is that defenders inhabit the planet first and foremost to defend, and on yesterday’s showing young Master Gray did not even seem aware that a manual for such things even existed, let alone giving any indication of familiarity with its contents.

3.3 – Udogie

That said, when it comes to defending I increasingly fret about Signor Udogie. Going forward he does, of course, tick numerous boxes, but early on in proceedings last night an AZ johnnie sent over a peach of a cross from the right that had three or four chums stretching and mere inches from a tap-in.

All well and good, and a shiny commendation to whichever AZ winger was responsible – but re-watching the spool rather glaringly highlights the negligible effort put in by Udogie to prevent the cross. In the first place he did not attempt to close down his man, and then when the cross was being readied he turned his back on it for heaven’s sake. It was all dusted under the carpet because the chance ultimately went begging, but this sort of guff strikes me as amongst the absolute basics of defending, and yet our first choice full-back seems barely interested.

3.4 – Forster

It was not all bad news at the back, however, as Fraser Forster lumbered in, gave an immaculate performance between the sticks and then lumbered off again at full-time to wherever giants go to rest.

In terms of the eye-catching stuff, he emerged with full marks. The leaping save to palm away a header from a corner in the first half was what one would expect, I suppose, but, casting one’s mind back a few years it was the sort of effort that Monsieur Lloris got into the habit of simply watching sail in, so a polite ripple of applause seems appropriate.

He then came racing off his line and to the edge of the area, a manoeuvre that I don’t mind admitting initially appeared not so much fraught with risk as a glitzy advertisement for the act of kamikaze, but to his credit it turned out to be impeccably judged, Forster not just getting to the ball in time to avert danger but also managing to stay within the confines of his area when he splayed his limbs.

And then in the second half he got down swiftly enough to repel the late AZ shot after they broke from halfway. This one was pretty much straight at him, but needed saving, and on a night on which the back-four in front of him seemed to have much about them of the kitchen colander or sieve, his ability to beat away the incoming was vaguely reassuring. Mercifully, there were also few alarms when he played the ball with his feet, life chugging along pretty serenely on that front – which has not always been the case with Forster – so all in all his presence provided quite a welcome antidote to the slightly less robust unit pieced together in front of him.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 4-1 West Ham: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Kulusevski

One of those knowledgeable sorts once told me, “There’s no ‘i’ in ‘team’”, which I suppose is true enough if you’re going to be linguistically pedantic about these things, and looking back I suspect that if I’d bothered to hear any more of what they had to say they may well have continued, “And there’s a dashed sight less creativity and energy in that same team if there’s no Dejan Kulusevski contained therein”.

This seemed to be an epithet taken to heart by the magnificent Swede himself yesterday, for he swanned about the place with all the majesty of a man upon whom has been the thrust the personal responsibility to conduct the afternoon’s entertainment.

Apart from what one might call his measurable outputs – goals, assists, chances created and so forth – I was particularly taken by the sheer joy with which Kulusevski seemed to oil about the place. Here was a big kid in the playground, who, upon receiving the ball, simply wanted to dribble towards goal (and, if at all possible, round the ‘keeper before stopping the ball on the goal-line, crouching down and heading it in along the ground).

If an opponent were in his way then all the better, or so seemed the Kulusevski mantra, as this merely presented an opportunity for him to reach into his box of tricks in order first to bamboozle and then to remove from consideration said opponent. Accordingly, he could be spotted dipping a shoulder, shimmying in between flailing opposition legs or simply using what I suppose you could call his trademark combo of pace and strength to bulldoze his way through trouble and off into space.

While there were decent contributions from the supporting cast – Sonny and Johnson certainly got into the spirit of things and played the game, in terms of contributions to the build-up or attempts to finish off the manoeuvres – Kulusevski was the pulse that beat at a merry old pace throughout.

Too often over the years a well-meaning lilywhite has received the ball just over halfway, with opportunity spreading itself in front of him, only for him to put his foot on the ball, have a bit of a think and play a neat but meaningless pass that does little to speed things along. By contrast, the present iteration of Kulusevski seems inhabited by a spirit of adventure that dictates that on receiving the ball he’ll charge towards goal, all else be damned. And who amongst us cannot cheer to the rafters such a cavalier approach?

A tip of the cap to the man as well, for the precision of his strike for our equaliser. I don’t doubt that there are some who would scoff, and label him lucky for having utilised both posts in striking gold; as one who regularly berates our heroes for missing the target rather than sympathising with them for lack of luck whenever they hit a post (I’m looking at you, Sonny – hit the target and I’ll laud you), I’m happy to lavish praise upon anyone whose shot has such precision as to strike first the left upright and then the right-hand one too before trickling in.

2. All Hail The Great Half-Time Tactical Switch

Much has been made of Our Glorious Leader’s half-time toggling of the knobs, with Maddison yanked from the stage and young P. M. Sarr shoved on in his stead. In fact, the adulation for this move has been pretty startling. To say that the corridors of the shiny THFC Stadium are still strewn with yesterday’s garlands is not to overstate things too dramatically. One could not jab a finger in the phonebook without it pointing towards someone queueing up to praise Big Ange for that Maddison-off-Sarr-on routine.

Truth be told, however, the AANP eyebrow has being raised skyward on a surge of bemusement and surprise at this particular element of the post mortem. I should probably whisper it, but I thought we were doing pretty well in the first half anyway, and was fairly confident that we would score more in the second half if the personnel had remained the same. Conventional wisdom over the last 24 or so hours seems to be that Kulusevski was practically impotent until Sarr was introduced to sit (I use the term loosely, as Sarr is the sort of young twig whose energy levels mean he can go about 48 hours non-stop without needing a sit-down) alongside Bissouma, and it was only thereafter that the Swede was able to cast aside his shackles and really impose himself.

Now this is a pretty violent desecration of history. Kulusevski was having an absolute whale of a time from the off, and didn’t seem to mind or care too much whether he had stationed to the rear James Maddison, Pape Sarr or Steve Sedgley. In fact, the entire attacking mob were on their mettle in that first half. Sonny, Johnson, Solanke, the so-called full-backs – everyone who could, was, if you follow my gist.

Come to think of it, the only member of the attack who wasn’t scooping up great armfuls of attacking goodies in that first half was possibly Maddison himself – not a particular criticism of him, as last time out at Brighton he dovetailed quite neatly with Kulusevski, as the deeper of the two attacking midfielders, but yesterday he seemed slightly neutered in what was presumably supposed to be a deep-lying creative role.

Anyway, all of the above makes me wonder if the fables of Sarr’s arrival releasing Kulusevski’s inner Maradona were actually just dubious media constructs, given a spot of the old polish in order to fit the narrative of three second half goals. The AANP theory is that Sarr’s great virtue was actually in helping to ensure that the back-door was kept firmly shut in the second half.

Within the opening 20 of the first half, the all-swinging-all-kicking Kudus had been allowed two unopposed shots from inside the area, despite West Ham barely having had a sniff of the ball in that period. The whole thing rather stank of that constant flaw in the Angeball set-up, that of being too open defensively. As has been harped on about relentlessly for about fifteen months now, with Porro and Udogie so fond of life in the final third, we regularly find ourselves desperately undermanned at the back, all of which has a tendency to undo all that attacking potential.

And given that Maddison was having a quieter time of things, the logic of replacing him with a chap whose defensive instincts register a bit more clearly on the grid made some sense. Sarr came on; the aforementioned attacking mob continued to attack just as they had in the first half; but, crucially, when out of possession our lot then had a bit more protection at the back. The gap between the two centre-backs and the midfield supporting cast was not quite as seismic as we’d been used to. In layman’s terms, Kudus did not fire off any more shots unopposed from just inside our area.

So I suppose I can allow a grudging word or two of commendation to escape my lips and fete the big boss, but as a matter of principle I emphasise that his achievement was in adding a layer of defensive security rather than in unleashing Kulusevski.

3. Porro (In The First Half)

Amidst all the chatter about Sarr, and the wholesome goodness of the second half, it seemed that the first half and its contents were rather banished to the vaults of history, never to be revisited. Fair enough, I suppose, but rather harsh on young Senor Porro, who I thought was contributing quite usefully in that opening 45, in his own unique way.

This is not to suggest that he was the standout performer amongst the general rabble; far from it. I was just rather taken by his contributions.

I suppose it stems from the fact that while all around him – and particularly those on the left – were trying to fashion increasingly intricate approaches into the penalty area, involving one-twos of ever decreasing distances, and feints and nifty footwork and so on, Porro seemed to see the value in the more rudimentary method of getting the ball out of his feet and whipping in a cross.

AANP was all for it. It gave the West Ham mob something different to get their heads around, and provided Solanke and the back-post mob some scraps to fight over. Moreover, peculiar though it is for me to fathom, the art of the cross from wide is one that precious few elite-level footballers seem able to master these days, but it is most certainly a string to the Porro bow, so if he is at all inclined to line one up then he has a fully signed-up supporter over here.

On top of which, as early as the first minute Porro also slid a delightful ball around the back of a defender for Solanke to chase – the sort of pass one rather hopes Maddison will churn out once or twice a game. He also very nearly scored one of the goals of the season when he arrived to meet an airborne cross from the left and decided, as any slightly unhinged sort would, that the best option to pick would be a mid-air karate kick. His choice having been made he did not hold back, and made a contact so sweet that the ball was almost scythed in half, shooting off like a rocket but unfortunately missing its mark.

A quieter second half followed, and as mentioned, we all focused on other things thereafter, but I did like the options he added on the right in that first half.

4. Sonny

Of course, it won’t be long now until Timo Werner races onto a through-ball and buries his one-on-one chance, leading to the confidence coursing back through his body and the emergence of a credible, menacing left-wing alternative.

Until then, however, we can all slaughter a small animal as an offering of thanks to the footballing gods for returning Son to the starting line-up. He did plenty of well-intentioned scurrying in the first half, and notably produced a gorgeous swivel of the hips and shoulder-drop that sent Wan-Bissaka out of the stadium, resulting in a curled shot just wide of the post; but it was in the second half that he really hit his stride.

In the sort of display that would be lapped up by mathematicians the world over, his contributions to each of the second half goals steadily increased in quality. The pass for Udogie, in the build-up to Bissouma’s goal, was expertly-weighted, and while there was still plenty of shovel-work to be undertaken (for which Udogie in particular deserves credit), the presence of mind and delivery of foot that Son demonstrated did much to create that initial crack through which the West Ham defence was pried open.  

Sonny then raised the bar a few inches with a similarly well-weighted pass in the build-up to the second. One would have to carry a heart of stone to fail to purr a little at a pass delivered with the outside of the foot, inside a defender and into the path of a speeding colleague, so that alone would earned a spot of the good stuff; but as befits any attacker worth his salt Sonny was then seized by the potential for glory at the other end of the production, and sped away in search of a return pass, benefiting no doubt from a spot of fine visual slapstick but still doing enough to earn the acclaim as the scoreline ticked over to 3-1.

As for the fourth goal, there are few finer sights – or, I suppose, few more terrifying sights, depending on one’s perspective – than Son Heung-Min at full pace and with ball at feet, throwing in no fewer than three mesmeric stepovers without breaking stride, before lashing the thing into the net. As well the ability and stamina and everything else, the fellow seems in those moments to be blessed with an exceptional sense of theatre, for the aesthetic value of that type of goal is sky-high.

One eagerly awaits the day when Timo Werner produces similar – surely only a matter of time now – but until then a Son Heung-Min fast getting back up to speed will, I suppose, suffice.

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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.