Tag: Archie Gray

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 0-2 Palace: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. More Garbage, and a Binary Choice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Kinsky

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The Rollcall of Ignominy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Liverpool 5-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A New The Same Old Low

Our ongoing rotten form throws up an interesting linguistic challenge, because as each fresh shower of absolute tripe is unleashed upon our eyes, I’m tempted to mutter something to the effect that we have plumbed fresh new depths. It seems the appropriate thing to say, accompanied perhaps by a weary sigh and general drooping of the soul.

The thing is, though, we haven’t plumbed new depths. That is to say, these depths aren’t actually new. Rock bottom? Absolutely. An embarrassment to the club? Without doubt. But plumbing new depths? Well there I politely clear the throat, raise an objecting forefinger and point out that while we reached our lowest ebb probably about six months ago, we just keep revisiting the same dashed ebb over and over, on a weekly basis. We repeatedly plumb the same depth. It’s the lowest of the low, but it’s been the same one for weeks. These finer points in life matter.

Anyway, yesterday’s rot was every inch as bad as we all anticipated. As my Spurs-supporting chum Mark put it to me before kick-off, “What is even the point of this game?” The other lot had some meaning attached to this – and I noted with a few eyerolls and impatient clicks of the tongue that the assorted commentary mob couldn’t contain their joy at that particular narrative playing out – but our heroes, true to form, seemed to resent being there, dash it.  

Now admittedly I don’t speak entirely without bias, but I’m inclined to suggest that we fans are entitled to approach each fixture with increasing apathy. Feeding, as we do, off whatever fare is served up for us on the pitch, most kind-hearted bystanders would understand the weary shrug with which matchday is now greeted. The sentiment mentioned above, of poor old Mark, would be appreciated.

For the players, however, to down tools and give up on things when initial pleasantries have only just been exchanged absolutely stinks the place out. The problem at this stage is that these apathetic sleepwalks have become the norm. A few months back the management gang might have taken one look at that performance and locked them in the changing room for a good couple of hours, spewing some bile and quite possibly flinging one or two blunt instruments about the place.

Now, however, this level of dross is just the norm. Unless it’s the Europa, whichever eleven is selected will mooch about the place with all the quiet solemnity of a team of pallbearers, and patiently wait for the other lot to do as they please before slinking off quietly at the end.

2. The Brief Light of Hope

Oddly enough, our heroes actually began things with a spot of buck and vim yesterday. Maddison, to his credit, seemed to take seriously the whole armband business, and for the opening ten or so minutes appeared determined to leave his mark on proceedings with some contribution or other.

Solanke too appeared rather taken by the prospect of a few rounds with van Dijk. When he popped up with his goal I doubt that any lilywhite in their right mind expected that it would last, but it at least gave our lot something to cling onto. Some defensive discipline, I caught myself thinking, and a bit of grit and whatnot, and we might make an event of this.

Looking back, I can see the futility of that particular thought process. I’m not sure I’ve ever witnessed a Spurs side display defensive discipline, or grit, in the last four decades, so there wasn’t much reason to expect we’d suddenly unearth it yesterday, but there we were. One early goal, and the light of hope flickered away like the dickens.

Naturally, it all fell apart pretty swiftly, but as ever it was the manner of the collapse that irked. I suppose one might point out that for several of the goals (and near misses) we did at least have healthy numbers stationed about the place. That at least reflects a degree of willing amongst the cast members.

But by golly they were a directionless rabble. Looking suspiciously like they’d never undertaken a defensive drill in their lives, and also raising the question of whether they’d ever actually met each other before, they crashed about it into each other and spun on their axes a few times, and generally scurried this way and that to precisely zero effect.

Liverpool passed around them whenever they felt the urge, and if they felt particularly perky they even popped the ball into the net, so that they could go back and start again from a different angle. It all bore a lot of similarity to those lows of previous weeks.

The whole process was so numbing that I can barely muster the energy to prattle on about how, somehow, the players do seem capable of raising themselves for Europa games, and how these appalling league performances are therefore all the more galling to drink in.

Given that the standard surges upwards a few notches for the Europa games, Our Glorious Leader is squandering chance after chance to stock up on some goodwill in these league games. A bit of the old We’ll-Fight-For-This-If-It’s-The-Last-Thing-We-Do might not necessarily have stopped Liverpool winning yesterday, but it would have gone down well with the paying public. “Bested though we were,” the patrons might have remarked on the way home, “that Liverpool bunch at least knew they were in a scrap”.

Instead, as with just about every other League game since early autumn, down we went with little more than an apologetic shrug and a stifled yawn. Ben Davies waved his arms. Djed Spence tried a shot from 40 yards. Brennan Johnson was, apparently, there. Ange’s repeated inability to get a tune out of this lot week after week does currently suggest that a life-size cardboard cut-out of him would fare just as well. Europa trophy or not, he’s currently managing himself out of the job.

3. A Musing or Two on Archie Gray

I’m tempted to pack up the writing materials, pour myself a bourbon and stare aimlessly into the mid-distance until Thursday night. One point of note did dolefully emerge above the rest of the dirge, however. The starting XI included the intriguing sight of young Archie Gray in midfield.

Now of course, the young bean won us all over pre-Christmas by taking the plunge – or, rather being shoved in without much say in the matter – in central defence, and there he did one heck of a job. One of those thoughtful eggs, it turned out, who does his defending by reading the game and quietly inserting himself in appropriate stations, rather than crashing about the place with Romero-esque lunacy, AANP took rather a shine to him, and I was not in a minority.

Buoyed by the earnest young fellow’s performances at the base of defence, much excited chatter followed about how he might therefore fare when in his preferred position, in midfield.

As it happens, I was – and remain – a little dubious about the prospect of Gray midfielding away. The way I see it, he is no midfield enforcer, having already demonstrated at centre-back that he prefers the subtly timed interception to the crunching tackle. Neat and tidy he undoubtedly is in possession, but as we already have approximately umpteen of those exact models beetling about the place, I’d actually prefer he stays at centre-back, where he can mop up defensively and then distribute with a spot of vision and technique. We have numerous problems in midfield, but Archie Gray does not really strike me as the solution.

Anyway, yesterday he was given 45 minutes in midfield, and while half a game is nowhere near enough to pass judgement on a young man making his way in life in a new position, this was nevertheless the dampest of squibs.

Put bluntly, I don’t actually recall Gray even being present amongst the rabble. I recall Liverpool slicing straight through us at will, typically in those precise positions that Gray was presumably tasked with patrolling, but of Gray himself I remember precious little. A midfield terrier who prowled and snapped, yesterday he most definitely was not. I don’t particularly remember him contributing in possession either. In fact, if it weren’t for the pre-match graphic stating emphatically that he was amongst those present, I wouldn’t have believed he played at all.

To repeat, half a match in a new role is no amount of time to judge a chap. To hammer home this particular point, I cast the mind back to Bergvall, who for his first half-dozen or so Europa appearances gave every indication of floundering wildly, before finding his feet to such an extent that he is now first choice. Gray, therefore, has plenty of time on his side to ease himself into things. For now, however, we presumably revert back to Bentancur on Thursday night.

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Spurs match reports

Fulham 2-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. Romero

I’ve heard it said that a picture is worth a thousand words, and if you’d caught sight of AANP watching on as yesterday’s mess unwrapped itself, the first six of those thousand might well have been, “Golly, there’s an unamused soul, what?”

However, while it’s true enough that, taken as a whole, the latest fiasco rather hollowed out the insides, I did draw a spot of comfort from a pretty unusual source. If you’ve dipped into these pages before you may be aware that while clucking and cooing over the returning VDV like a doting mother over a favoured child, AANP regards Cristian Romero with decidedly less warmth. Those bursts forward to lunge wildly at ball, player and anything else in sight are a dash too maniacal for my conservative tastes in defending; and his tendency to blot from his consciousness  the whole business of monitoring opposing forwards sneaking in at the back post is pretty maddening stuff.

Safe to say that the fellow does not feature too highly on the roster of feted heroes at AANP Towers. If the club decide that there’s a quick buck to be made from pawning off the chap in the summer – and let’s face it, Grandmaster Levy can scent a quick b. from a mile off – then they’ll have my blessing.

Given all this back-story, you may shoot a pretty suspicious glance when I tell you that by the time he was withdrawn in one of those heavily choreographed moves, on the hour, I was pretty firmly of the opinion that Romero had been our star performer.

Admittedly there might be an embarrassed cough from the stalls at this point, as someone tactfully points out that the place was hardly flooded with contenders for that particular rosette. It would be a fair point. The bar for star performers was low. Bergvall injected his usual youthful vim; Sonny too, oddly enough, seemed to conduct himself with a determination to leave an imprint; and young Tel gave evidence that he’s better fitted to life as a flank-based whippet than a centrally-positioned beast of brawn and muscle. However, Son and Bergvall only entered the fray at half-time, and two useful gambols from Tel did not a match-winning performance make.

No, it was Romero who seemed to catch the eye. Not so much cream rising to the top, as the only packet of milk in the batch that had yet to curdle, he at least did all that centre-back should do and with a few extras thrown in.

He may have erred once or twice, but not so badly that one would notice, and he generally he did a decent job of blocking incoming crosses, and keeping his particular quarters under lock and key.

Moverover, while I’ve lamented pretty regularly that tendency to fly off on personal vendettas of ill-judged aggression on halfway, yesterday he actually judged them pretty well. Credit where due. Every time Romero was struck by the urge to leave the back-four behind and upend a Fulham player higher up the pitch, a Fulham player would indeed end up pleasingly splayed across the turf, and apparently within the regulations of the game.

Romero also seemed to have his radar well set when it came to picking forward passes. This made a welcome change from the endless cycle of fairly empty sideways passing that tends to infect our lot for long periods each week. On a few occasions Romero directed a pretty useful pass through the midfield, bypassing various Fulham bobbies in one fell swoop.

All of which was useful enough, but to repeat, most importantly he ticked the basic defensive boxes, and this was pretty welcome stuff.

2. Ben Davies

By contrast, Ben Davies seemed not to know what sport he was playing. To be outmuscled, as he was for the second goal, by, of all people, Ryan Sessegnon – a poor sap whose frame seems comprised of biscuits held together by elastic bands – is a pretty damning indictment of one’s capacity for the physical battle.

And yet, having initially observed a straightforwardly bouncing ball with the sort of horror normally reserved for a dropping atomic bomb, Davies managed first to fail to clear it, then allow to Sessegnon to hold him at arm’s length and toss him this way and that like a ragdoll, before finally watching on with a pretty depressing impotence as Sessegnon picked out the top corner of all things.

Nor was this the extent of Davies’ ignominy. That first goal from Fulham, while owing much to the misjudgement of Odobert on the right, and the half-hearted flapping of various cast members inside the penalty area, had at its genesis another Ben Davies moment – albeit rather more excusable – when in attempting to win a header from a goal-kick he was resoundingly bested in the air by that Muniz chap.

On top of which, it’s easy to forget that back in the first half, a period one might easily expunge from the memory on account of nothing of note happening at all between its first and last whistles, Ben Davies contrived to gift Fulham the only real chance of the half.

To fill in the loose plot, such as it was, a Fulham sort aimlessly chipped a pass into the area just after the half-hour mark, with not a teammate in sight. Now here, in Davies’ defence, he might reasonably have expected a guttural roar from his goalkeeper, giving clear instruction. Whether or not such vocalisation was forthcoming I couldn’t say.

What was beyond doubt was that at this point, and under no pressure, Davies took to the edge of the six-yard box and rearranged his limbs into what appeared a mid-air yoga pose, arms pointing in one direction, legs in another and overall balance pretty seriously lacking. This done, and still airborne, Davies then attempted an ungainly hack at the ball.

One could have advised him by this point that the plan was stinker. No good could come of it. He’d have been infinitely better off in every conceivable respect if he’d just given up the thing – as everyone else in the area had done – and let the ball drift the necessary yard or so into the arms of Vicario.

He didn’t however, and instead made contact with the ball, succeeding only in presenting it neatly into the path of Castagne, while Davies himself concluded his input by sprawling along the ground.

As mentioned, the sorry affair may well have been resolved by Vicario laying claim to the thing; but having made up his mind to take action, Davies’ pickling of it may have been disastrous. As it turned out, there was plenty of time for disaster at the death, with the Sessegnon goal.

I suppose everyone has a bad day now and then, but I struggle to remember Archie Gray, for example, making quite as many ghastly – and costly – errors at centre-back.

3. Broader Problems

There are, of course, more pressing concerns at play than an off-day from our possibly sixth-choice centre-back. The lack of urgency in possession (particularly in the first half), lack of precision in simple passes, complete disappearance of an effective high-press and general failure to give two hoots about winning back possession in midfield all struck me as indicative of a team whose motion-going-through antics were pretty polished.

I recall back in the mists of August or perhaps September, our heroes drew with Leicester and lost to Newcastle, on both occasions have given these sides a bit of a leathering. On those occasions I shrugged the forgiving shrug. Play peak Angeball and create 20 or so chances, ran the theory, and the goods will more often than not be delivered.

The forgiving shrug was shrugged once more over the winter months, as the squad was decimated and staggered their way through games. Extenuating circs, and so forth.

Yesterday, however, one rather struggled to find reasons to explain away the dirge. Individual players not putting their heart and soul into matters is a tough one at which to aim the forgiving shrug. One appreciates that all eggs are now neatly arranged in the Europa basket, but it undoubtedly lies upon Our Glorious Leader to motivate the players for such events as ‘Fulham (away)’, even when there is little to be gained in the remaining league games. An uptick in performance will be needed after the international jollies.

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Spurs match reports

Man City 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. Defenders Who’d Rather Not Defend. Again.

One of those peculiar assemblies this one, the sort after which everyone oozes out struggling to make sense of what they witnessed. Head swimming like I’d just watched an arty European film in which the leading man changes into a beetle halfway through, I came away last night asking myself all sorts of pretty deep questions. Had we done well or badly? Ought I to have been disappointed? Did any of this actually matter, or was it all just pointless fluff to keep us busy until Thursday nights roll around and we shove all chips into the Europa pot?

In the first half our heroes laboured away pretty busily, without ever actually getting anywhere. So top marks for labouring I suppose. However, when the sum of it all is an about-turn on halfway and a pass south to the centre-backs, the kindly observer does don a puzzled look and politely wonder what the hell is the point of it all.

We actually had a chance to begin things in a blaze of glory, ferreting away into the City area as early as the first minute. Unfortunately, at this point both Johnson and Odobert became strangely reticent, and dallied shyly rather than striking at goal with all the fury they could muster.

And that was the last anyone was to see of our attacking routines for about an hour or so. The remainder of the first half was the usual rotten sauce, as our midfield simply melted away whenever City turned their attention to attack. Our defenders, themselves hardly the sorts to step in with authority and resolve all life’s ills, seemed somehow to take up stations everywhere except the most obvious and useful positions. Hot knives slicing through butter would have looked on enviously at City, as they advanced to zero resistance, time and time again.

It’s a familiar failing. Not the more palatable for its familiarity, but I suppose at least lacking any element of surprise or shock. “Death, taxes and a flimsy Spurs midfield”, was the chorus on the AANP lips throughout most of that first half.

And it’s a pretty regularly-banged drum around these parts, but as each cast member popped up to do their bit, I noted with a certain weariness that they all seemed so much more comfortable attacking than defending.

Here I don’t really blame them, actually. Whenever I donned the boots and got down to it, my interest was always primarily in the fun to be had when haring down on the opposition goal. There isn’t much glory to be had marking an opponent at a corner after all.

However, it’s one thing to indulge the attacking tendencies on a Powerleague pitch after work; but a pretty significant leap to be employed full-time as a Premier League defender. In the latter case, any urges towards attacking frivolity ought really to be dismissed from the mind. The priority surely ought to be to focus on one’s defensive eggs. What tricks might best be deployed to shimmy away from opponents and scuttle toward the opposition goal, is surely a matter that belongs a long way down the agenda, when one’s job title reads “Centre-Back” or something similar.

And yet, if one were to scrawl a list of ‘Strengths’ and ‘Weaknesses’ for our defenders, more often than not, under S. one would find such qualities as “Bursting forward from the back, with or without ball”.

Take young Danso, upon whom I’d been particularly eager to cast the hawk-like eye, AANP still gathering evidence on the chap at this stage. He certainly doesn’t want for enthusiasm, but seems to leap to the fore primarily when the opportunity arises to burst forward. Looking something like a young rabbit that has spent all day pent up in its hutch and suddenly had the door opened , there was little stopping the man when the ball was cleared up our left. He was off like a rocket, either carrying the ball himself or feverishly signalling to those in possession that he was advancing towards halfway and available for hire.

Porro was another, rather obvious example. In the opening minutes, when our lot dozed off and left Haaland of all people free to have a swipe from within the area (straight at Vicario), a brief once-over of the crime-scene revealed that it was Porro who had drifted off. As the City winger hit the byline, and Haaland took a sneaky step back, Porro, whose babysitting duties at that point pretty obviously included the giant Norwegian, was drawn to the ball like a moth to a flame, and ambled towards the goal-line, completely abandoning Haaland to the Fates.

It was not the first dereliction of duty on the Porro showreel, and presumably not the last. Fast forward an hour or so, however, and when our lot upped the general intensity and started banging away on the City door, there was little stopping Porro. Regularly to be seen flying up the right, barely had the door been opened to him and the butler cleared his throat to make formal announcements before Porro was barging his way in and lining up his crosses.

Marvellous crosses they were too, no denying that. Absolute pearlers, some of them, and had we eked out a goal there would not have been too many tuts of injustice about the place. So all hail Porro’s attacking onions; but that’s exactly the point. It’s not his attacking o. that we should be hailing. Nice to have, no doubt about it – but hardly the essence of his role as, lest we forget, right-back.

All rather futile moaning of course, Angeball is as Angeball does – which seems to mean that defensive work is rather optional, and the priority is for just about everyone to contribute to attacks as best they can. As my Spurs-supporting barber, Doug, put it this week, ours is a system that relies upon the goalkeeper to play out of his skin each week.

2. Vicario

On which note, Vicario played if not exactly out of his skin, then stretching his skin to its limits. There is of course far more to the ancient and noble art of goalkeeping than simply leaping about the place making saves – but that element does rather help, and Vicario was evidently well up on current events yesterday.

Not a great deal he might have done about the goal, so one waves the forgiving hand (while noting that Udogie, so prominent on the front-foot, was responsible for allowing Haaland the freedom of the 6-yard box at the crucial moment). In just about all other instances, however, when full-body extensions were required, and soft or firm hands as necessary, Vicario was very much the man with the answers.

And while one would not necessarily look back on last night as a masterclass in Passing From the Instep of the Goalkeeper, I do think one ought to offer the chap a small salute, simply for not putting a foot wrong in this discipline. Recently, young Kinsky has deputised, reasonably well I thought, but still showing an occasional tendency to shove his foot in his mouth when it came to short-passing, if you follow.

It was therefore comforting not to have to worry about any such mishaps befalling the crew members last night. Operation Pass Out From The Back is still ludicrous stuff, make no mistake, the sort of horrific fare one can only watch with heart in mouth and eyes peeping from behind the hands; but at least Vicario plays his part with the calm assurance of a man well drilled in the art.

3. Bergvall (In The First Half At Least)

The other fellow who caught the AANP eye was young Bergvall, or at least he did so until he didn’t, so to speak.

In the first half he conducted himself in a manner that suggested he did not simply consider that he belonged on this stage, but that in fact he held ownership rights to the thing, and consequently was master of all he surveyed. Every time he wandered toward the action for a spot of investigation and enquiry, he seemed to emerge from it with the ball attached to his feet, and a small legion of City sorts flailing at his fast-departing shadow.

It was terrific stuff, sullied only, as far as I could tell, by him occasionally losing his footing and finding himself unable then to prevent whatever disaster immediately befell – a City weevil gathering up the loose goods, most typically. In those moments, however, the forgiving hand was once again waved. The pre-eminent point was that Bergvall was damn near running the midfield show, at least in possession.

I thought this narrative took a bit of a swivel in the second half, at about the time our lot generally upped their game, oddly enough. What with substitutes entering from all angles and a spot of urgency sprinkled about the place, one slightly lost track of the various sub-plots. The general message, however, had already been communicated: Bergvall is as capable as the next man of puffing out his chest and directing traffic on a big occasion.

This is probably a useful juncture at which also to tip the cap at Archie Gray, who not for the first time seemed visibly to learn from mistakes and make adjustments as the game progressed. Come the final curtain however, being unsure of whether we’d done well or badly, or whether or not I ought to have been disappointed, I found it best to shrug off the whole thing as pointless fluff until the real business begins next Thursday in the Europa.

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Spurs match reports

Villa 2-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Midfield That Will Not Tackle

No messing around yesterday, was there? Normally in these polite gatherings there’s a certain amount of harmless piffle spouted on both sides, as all concerned take a few minutes to adjust the eyes and get used to their surroundings, knocking the ball back to the goalkeeper and so forth while the assorted punters shuffle to their seats.

Not a bit of it from our lot though. Right from the starter’s gun, they seemed pretty intent on broadcasting to the watching world that they were absolutely and emphatically not in the market for any sort of midfield challenges.

In fact, the very concept of a ‘midfield’ seemed to be one with which they played fast and loose. ‘Why begin things by populating the centre of the pitch’ seemed to be the collective murmur, ‘when we can scatter ourselves hither and thither just as well?’

And so it transpired that right from kick-off we were treated to the sight of Porro shoving all the way up the right wing, which meant that Bentancur dropped to right-back; while Kulusevski similarly headed North-West to double-up with Mikey Moore on the right; all of which meant that once Villa had triangled their way through us, young Bergvall was the only one in a remotely central position.

Wild positional sense aside, however, it was the absence of any semblance of a tackle that really caught the eye. Time and again, Villa were able to stroll straight through the heart of our midfield with the casual of air of dog-walkers in a park. And not one of those dubious parks either, populated by shifty-looking youths staring and spitting, and littered with unspeakable detritus along the paths. The type of park provided by the Spurs midfield was, by contrast, one of those pristine numbers in which anyone wanting a spot of calm and quiet could amble by uninterrupted for hours if they so wished.

Vexingly, those tasked with occupying our midfield positions simply would not put in a tackle. It was most glaringly illustrated in that wretched opening minute. During this episode, at one point five of our lot ambled towards the Villa man (Rogers), all five doing just about enough to register what one might classify as ‘passing interest’, but none extending themselves to the point of actually rolling up their sleeves and thrusting self into the face of the chap with a snarl and a bit of meaning.

It was almost as if they were under orders to avoid tackling, dash it! One could see in real-time as the play unravelled, moment by moment, each opportunity for a tackle; and every time the relevant lilywhite seemed struck with the notion of diving in with a bit of welly, before caution prevailed and he suppressed the urge, instead allowing Rogers to jink off a couple of more steps as he pleased.

Lest you need reminding of the gory details, that particular scene culminated in Villa scoring, but on repeated occasions thereafter, particularly in the first half, the pattern remained the same. In fact, at least in the opening minute, as mentioned, five of our number had the dignity to at least appear to care, by wandering gently towards Rogers in the first place, even if they applied themselves with all the energy and bite of a set of mannequins. In the half hour or so that followed, they didn’t even bother approaching the onrushing Villa forwards to make some preliminary enquiries. Villa were able to trot through completely unopposed.

AANP sympathised with our back-four, which, although far from flawless, seemed to have copped a pretty rotten deal, essentially being abandoned by their chums and left to fend for themselves any time Villa sent forward a swarm of attackers.

One might argue that things improved in the second half, as each of Bergvall and Bentancur were booked for utterly cynical, agricultural fouls in the middle. It was hardly the panacea for all previous ills, but I suppose it at least demonstrated a vague recognition of the need to delay Villa’s breaks over halfway.

Now AANP is more sympathetic than most when it comes to this issue of injuries, absentees and the tired bodies of those poor saps being wheeled out twice weekly for almost three months. As Our Glorious Leader was at pains to emphasise post-match yesterday, those out on the pitch are entirely out of battery power, and really all need a week or two on a sunny beach.

Nevertheless, tired bodies or not, this business of a midfield allergic to the sacred art of tackling is one that nags. I’m not entirely convinced that it can all entirely be blamed upon flagging energy levels.

The profiles of pips like Bergvall, Bentancur, Sarr and Maddison (and Gray once he graduates to a midfield role) are all of the neat-and-tidy-in-possession ilk. The sorts of chumps who are happiest when putting their foot on the ball, having a look about the place and applying a spot of technique to send it from point A to point B. More Redknapp than Roberts, if you follow. None are the sort one envisages brandishing a spear and leading the troops into battle, driven by a thirst for blood.

Bissouma is perhaps the only one of the current mob with a bit of bite in him, but he seems only to impose himself once every five or six games. The rest just aren’t cut out for a fight.

And for clarity, I’m not really suggesting that we need Romero-esque lunging challenges in every direction, uprooting everybody and leaving a trail of blood and destruction about the place. Simply positioning oneself to prevent free passage for the opposition would suffice. Block their path and force them backwards.

My Spurs-supporting chum Mark last week pointed out that Kieran Trippier was charging about the place, in the Carabao semi between Newcastle and Woolwich, like a man pretty hell-bent on preventing that rotten lot from advancing, and it’s a trait sorely missing at N17. Similarly, that McGinn rotter for Villa, although not a species of whom I’m too fond, doesn’t half set about each challenge like one whose life depends on it. Alarmingly, and one doesn’t really like to speak too loudly about these things, it’s been a feature of our teams for decades. I’m not really convinced the injuries can be blamed for that.

2. Kinsky: Brilliant or Rubbish?

Not for the first time, young Kinsky between the sticks seemed to swing wildly between extremes, with barely a jot in between. His is a marriage of the sublime and ridiculous. Nor is it one of those low-key marriages that dutifully ploughs on through the decades without too many dramas. His is more the sort conducted in Vegas, its every passing moment providing tabloid fodder.

His first touch of the ball was inexplicably sorry. The Villa laddie, benefitting from the usual Porro hospitality, had about an acre of space and plenty of time to go with it, but nevertheless delivered a pretty duff effort, high on power but poor on direction. Kinsky actually seemed to do the necessaries too, dropping to the requisite height and in the requisite direction, and essentially positioning his frame between the ball and the goal.

That he still somehow stuffed the pay-off therefore took some doing – but if his first month or so in lilywhite has taught us anything, it is that one cannot take the eye off Kinsky once the ball is near him. It was a pretty cruel irony then that he seemed to do precisely that himself, taking his eye off the ball and letting it somehow spin off behind him.

But, in a follow-up that was as baffling as it was entirely in keeping with his career to date, he followed up that ghastly clanger with a series of impressive saves to keep our heroes within a goal of parity.

A critic might sniffily point out that in launching himself full-stretch and palming long-range stingers this way and that, he was merely doing his job. And it would be a reasonable point I suppose, but still needed doing – and AANP certainly still shudders to recall the latter stages of Monsieur Lloris’ career being peppered with instances of him simply crouching and watching as balls sailed past him into various top corners.

So Kinsky’s shot-stopping, whilst generally a firm positive, had cast over it throughout the lurid spectre of that opening-minute faux pas of the ages. As for his distribution, again, one struggles to land on a firm and satisfactory opinion.

With ball at feet, Kinsky seems increasingly beset by nerves. At least once a game now, he seems possessed with the conviction that the ball will at any minute come alive and start leaping about the place.

This is rather a shame, because in his calmer moments he has demonstrated that he has within his repertoire a useful enough range of passing, both short and long. It didn’t help against Liverpool in midweek that each time he launched the thing it came back with interest off the loaf of Van Dijk, and yesterday similarly there seemed precious little harvest when he pinged the thing towards Tel.

But mingled with this ability to hit a fairly accurate 40-yarder lives the tendency to chip a short pass straight to onrushing opponent, or to misread the situation completely and aim a pass towards a defender who, though placed near enough, is being hunted by forwards and is not actually looking, which does throw a sizeable downer upon the whole operation.

It all leaves one sinking the head into the hands and yearning for a day on which his involvement is so low-key that one forgets about his very existence. I suspect with Kinsky we won’t get too much of that. There appears to be a pretty handy bean lurking in there somewhere, but at present we’ll also have to accept that amidst the solid saves, smart passing and confident catching there will, from nowhere, occasionally spring up – unannounced and completely unexpectedly – some random malfunction that costs pretty dearly.

3. Sonny

Nothing says ‘Off the boil’ like the gurning of a straightforward one-on-one from point-blank range, and Sonny duly slapped his opportunity straight at the ‘keeper when the rest of us had already adjusted the scoreboard in our heads and were considering how the goal might change the game’s pattern.

Even the best of us can pickle an easy chance I suppose, so I won’t hammer the poor chap too heavily for that one – and similarly I suppose that even the best set-piece merchants can chip a critical last-minute delivery straight into the hands of the ‘keeper. One looks to the heavens and unleashes a few choice oaths, but one understands.

More concerning is that Sonny’s little legs seem to have given up on him. Of the burst of pace that used to see him whizz past defenders in a bit of a blur, all the way from halfway to the penalty area, there is no longer a rack.

Whether that is due to a temporary impediment – a niggling injury, for example – or a general gathering of rust about his hinges is unclear, although the AANP dollar is on the latter.  Either way, however, that handy 20-yard burst seems ever less likely to be an option.

As such, with a view to the future, it seems as good a time as any to think about winding down the fellow and gradually easing him out of the picture. Odobert’s trick of arriving and promptly collapsing into a heap has rather sullied that particular operation, but as he returns to fitness I think it might be best for all parties if a gradual handing over of the baton were effected, this side of May.

As concerning in the shorter-term is this business of Sonny as captain. By all accounts he’s a thoroughly lovely chap, a story which is pretty believable and to his credit. The world needs a few good eggs about the place, after all. What the world doesn’t need, however, is any such good egg leading our lot on the pitch. As ranted about above, a major failing amongst our mob is the utter toothlessness and lack of fight on show, and when one considers that the on-field lieutenant is renowned as one of the nicest chappies in the game, it’s fair to say that things rather start to make sense.

Not that there is an abundance of likely candidates to replace him. Romero may be the most aggressive, but his playing career does seem riddled with questionable life choices. Maddison, the other vice-captain, like Sonny is one I can’t actually remember every attempting a tackle, let alone winning one.

Kulusevski and VDV strike me as likelier sorts to lead by example, but irrespective of whomever actually wears the armband – and frankly, as a fashion statement, I don’t give too many hoots – the broader point is around a lack of fight and leadership in our ranks.

The club’s recent policy of bringing in one promising young thing after another certainly has its merits, but a couple of nibs with a few years under the belt, to whom the kids might look for inspiration, would not go amiss.

Still, apart from a midfield that can’t tackle, a goalkeeper liable at any moment to gift possession to the opposition and a star player whose powers are on the wane, things aren’t so bad. The absence of a midweek game this week finally allows the usual suspects a proper rest (and again next week), whilst various of the invalids are set to return – all of which means that Ange will soon have a fit-for-purpose squad from which to pick, and we’ll finally be able to gauge whether or not he is actually any good at this management lark.

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Spurs match reports

Brentford 0-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. Angeball

Had you been otherwise engaged yesterday, and happened casually to catch the final score without having cast eye upon the ceremony itself, you’d be forgiven to leaping to the conclusion that Angeball had re-engaged. 20-plus shots, might have been the thinking of the educated non-observer, with possession monopolised and perhaps a bravura goalkeeping performance to keep a sheen on things at the back.

Well – and this might surprise you like the dickens – as it turned out it was nothing of the sort. Precisely none of the above applied. Rather than being one of those rip-roaring binges in which we rain in shots from all angles, this was what you might politely call a more traditional away win, fashioned from hard graft and focused defending.

If it was laugh-a-minute entertainment you were after, the Tottenham Starting XI yesterday was not the place to be. Serious expressions and deep concentration were the order of the day.

Frankly, it was most peculiar stuff. Utterly marvellous, of course, and precisely the tonic, but as I observed Pedro Porro watching his attacker like a hawk, and our back-four repelling one cross after another, and various other visual anomalies, I did have to rub my eyes to make sure that it was indeed A. Postecoglou Esq. lurking on the touchline.

I should actually backtrack a few steps, because when I warbled earlier that the gag about monopolising possession did not apply, I did stretch the truth a tad. In the opening stages our lot actually had plenty of the ball. If you want the precise stats you’ll have to beetle off elsewhere, but sometimes the evidence of the eyes is enough, and as the first half sparring played out yesterday, the ‘Give’ and ‘Take’ columns seemed fairly equally matched.

The AANP take on this, by the way, is that it was down to Kulusevski. It usually is. Stick him in one of the central midfield roles and the effect is that of a switch being flicked. Things buzz into life and it’s not long before everyone around him is humming and whirring. With Bentancur and Bissouma doing a nice line in neat-and-tidy slightly south of him in midfield, Kulusevski was able to spend his afternoon collecting possession and dragging it forward, throwing in a couple of eye-catching little combos with young Mikey Moore for good measure.

With MM withdrawn at half-time and Kulusevski shoved out wide, it struck me as no major coincidence that our attacking verve dialled down a few notches in the second half, but by golly we defended well.

I don’t know about you, but I often find the commentary babble rather irritating, particularly when the chappies in question adopt a certain viewpoint as their opinion de jour and take to hammering it over and over again. It’s like having a mosquito buzz about one’s ear. Anyway, I muted the noise, as one would, but not before I had heard the assorted geniuses bang on a dozen or so times about how many crosses Brentford were tossing our way. It was as if they thought that this alone seemed to merit more than the zero goals they chalked up. There was a faint sense of moral outrage that they could bombard our area so, and still not score.

Anyway, that they failed to do so was an absolute credit to our heroes, particularly the four strung out across the back. Too often this season I have bemoaned one or other of our defensive unit switching off and failing to register some opposition sort tiptoeing into position just behind them; but yesterday there were no such failings.

As mentioned above, and to my continued surprise, Pedro Porro was fully signed up to the defensive drill, winning all manner of aerial challenges at the back-post, an area so frequently open for business for opposing forwards who fancy sauntering by for a goal bonus, that Porro ought really to have begun charging for the privilege.

You will hardly be shocked to know that the AANP spirits sank to irretrievable depths pre-kick-off, upon learning that VDV was nowhere to be seen and instead Ben Davies would be in the hot-seat at the back. Credit where due however, and gallons of the stuff, because Davies, alongside young Gray, was note-perfect all afternoon.

I suppose the back-four, Kinsky and one or two others might spontaneously have taken it upon themselves to pool resources and trot out our finest, most organised defensive performance of the season; but I’m rather inclined to think that The Brains Trust may have played a part in there too. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that there were some deep-rooted tactical approach underpinning things.

They certainly knew their onions when it came to batting away crosses, but on the floor too the cupboard seemed always to be stocked with sufficient pairs of legs to prevent Brentford having too many clear shots on goal. Nor was it solely the back-four, as all in natty light blue seemed pretty committed to the cause, the usual devil-may-care approach to ball retention and defensive responsibilities replaced by a commitment to the basics that I would scarcely have believed possible from the current vintage.

More of the same on Thursday night would be just the ticket, don’t you think?

2. Our Second Goal

As well as all the good and honest blood, sweat and blocked shots in defence, another feature that came to the fore yesterday, and that has hardly been a historical trademark of Angeball, was the game management displayed by our heroes in the latter stages.

Specifically I refer to a couple of mightily impressive passages of play in the last ten or so minutes, during which our heroes seemed driven by the impulse simply to keep hold of possession, without slapping too much custard on the whole business of bombing forward towards the opposition goal.

Just to drive home my point, the counter-example of this would be if our lot, having been starved of possession and forced to defend for much of the second half, upon finally winning possession immediately raced up the pitch as fast as their little legs could carry them, in a frenzied dash to score as quickly as possible.

There was not too much of that in evidence yesterday, however. It did happen from time to time of course – only human, after all – but, eye-catchingly, our lot also took the opportunity to knock the ball about amongst themselves. Upon reaching the middle third, rather than trying to force killer passes through gaps that just didn’t exist, they were just as likely to pivot and play short, square pass.

‘And why the devil not?’ I found myself murmuring, after something of a double-take, followed by a moment’s deep consideration. ‘We are, after all,’ continued the line of thought, ‘ahead on the scoreboard, so the priority is as much to retain possession as to go sniffing out another goal’.

Bentancur was to the fore in this respect. He seemed to see the value in pirouetting past opposing midfield legs in any direction, as happy to dance his way backwards as to scamper his way frontwards.

Another well kitted out by nature for this sort of lark was young Bergvall. I mentioned how his half-time arrival meant the shoving-to-the-right of Kulusevski, which robbed us of much of our attacking thrust. However, where we benefited from the change, as well as in the defensive energy of Bergvall, was in his cool head in possession. Seeing him tootle over halfway, note that all around him – both friend and foe – seemed rather drained of energy, and accordingly put his foot on the ball and drink in the surroundings for a while made me think that here was a lad wise beyond his years.

Ironically enough, perhaps the best example of the game management on display ultimately resulted in our lot applying boot to neck and actually creating a goal. The one or two minutes prior to the ball hitting the net, however, involved a lengthy spell of keep-ball at its finest. My spies tell me that no fewer than 16 uninterrupted passes were booked in during this spell, involving every outfield player bar Spence. Watch it back in real time and you may well emit a satisfied purr or two.

As mentioned, its critical feature seemed to be the decided absence of hurry to force a route to goal. In its early stages, finding all such routes closed off, our heroes simply pivoted and sought out sunnier climes, waving aside the option of a further goal, in favour of simply hanging on to the merchandise a little while longer.

And the rummy thing is, having prioritised possession over everything else, after a while gaps in the Brentford defence simply started to appear anyway, organically, if you will. Bentancur chose wisely his moment to play a more aggressive pass, and while Sonny’s best days may be behind him, he still had enough going on upstairs to spot a goal-making-pass-into-the-path-of-an-attacking-midfield-burst when he saw one. In this age of social media and attention-seeking I suspect that goal and its 90-second, 16-pass genesis won’t attract too much outside noise, but at AANP Towers we’re playing it on a loop.

3. Spence

I complimented both Sonny and Bentancur for their roles in the goal, and Sarr obviously merits his post-match glass of something celebratory for bobbing from the halfway line to the six-yard box in order to apply the critical touch.

From my vantage point, however, much of the critical spadework was done by Djed Spence. As mentioned above, he was the only shrimp out there who didn’t apply boot to ball during the entirety of the episode, but I suppose as Barry Davies might put it, Sonny used him by not using him.

By which I mean that  when Son was weighing up his options having received the ball, Spence handily went off on the gallop up the left wing. It was a sprint of sufficient pace to attract the eye of the Brentford right-back, who understandably enough thought he had better tick that particular box, and accordingly retreated alongside Spence – crucially, in a rather wide area. This defensive adjustment meant that the gap in front of Sarr gave a considerable yawn. While it is debatable whether one might have driven a bus through it, one could certainly fit within its confines a sprinting Sarr.

Officially, therefore, the assist goes down as Sonny’s, but the small-print really ought to capture the contribution of young Spence.

This particular input occurred only a couple of minutes after Spence had also right-place-right-timed his way to a goal-line clearance, and as such neatly topped off what was, all round, a particularly impressive performance.

Moreover, while it would be understandable if it slipped from the memory, way back in the first half Spence was also proving a pretty key cog in the attacking mechanism. Within these environs he could be spotted not just lopping forward but drifting infield too, to pretty good effect. One would have to ask those on the high pay-grades whose bright idea that was, but it was certainly effective, providing a most useful additional outlet.

However, it was his defensive chops that really caught the eye. As he did a few weeks back with Mo Salah, so yesterday Spence kept his beady eye on the effervescent Mbeumo throughout. I recall one first half moment in which Mbuemo wriggled free, but that aside Spence seemed more or less to have his number, which takes some doing.

As mentioned above, the entire back-four brought their A-game, but Spence in particular ticked all his relevant boxes.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Leicester: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Maddison

Of course one likes to approach things with an open mind, but when I tell you that an hour before kick-off I was already letting loose some choice grumbles, you get the sense of the sort of afternoon that was in store.

The pre-match gripe centred around the omission from the entire squad of James Maddison. You might think there was enough fodder amongst those who actually took to the pitch, but on hearing the official reason for Maddison’s absence – “A bit sore” – I took to chuntering away like nobody’s business.

A bit sore? I mean, really. AANP has experienced a bit of soreness, after an hour of honest sweat on the 5-a-side pitch, for example, or after an evening of whiskey-based snifters at an obliging watering-hole, but I still have the decency to haul self out from under the covers and make at least a perfunctory stab at the next day. Being sore is no excuse.

One appreciates that young Maddison put in the full 90 minutes on Thursday, and a pretty decent 90 m. it was too. One of his better efforts, no doubt. And I genuinely do sympathise with the fact that there were not even 72 hours between the culmination of adventures on Thursday night and the start of the brand new episode on Sunday afternoon. If there were the option to cock the sympathetic head and offer the sympathetic shoulder-pat I’d have been front of the queue. Forget the business of these fellows being millionaire prima donnas, the human body can only take so much, and the scheduling of these games is pretty unforgiving.

Nevertheless, Maddison was not the only one dealt this rotten hand. Bar Reguilon and Kinsky, I think everyone on parade yesterday was involved on Thursday night. And while my medical expertise is pretty minimal, I’d hazard a guess that most of them were also sore in places after Thursday. The difference between the rest of them and Maddison is that the rest of them seemed to have rolled up their sleeves and dashed well got on with it, sore bodies or not.

If the official explanation had been that Maddison had a dead leg or scraped knee or dicky tummy, one would have bemoaned the luck about the wretched place, but accepted it and soldiered on. “Another blasted injury,” one might have muttered. However, when the party line been trotted out is that he is “A bit sore”, the conclusion seems to be that in the club’s hour of need, this chap didn’t fancy it. And against his former team, forsooth.

Even availing himself for 15 minutes off the bench in case of extreme circumstances would have been of use to the collective, because as it happened, when we hit the 15-to-go mark yesterday, the circumstances were about as extreme as it gets. At that point we were absolutely crying out for one of Maddison’s more useful cameos.

And aside from the principle of a footballer just deciding that not to bother, tactically our lot were absolutely screaming out for something different in midfield. Each of Bentancur, Sarr and Bergvall – and indeed young Master Gray, when he was eventually shoved there – are pretty much the same sort of midfield spade doing the same sort of midfield thing. The sort of egg who sits deep and nudges the ball left or right a few yards, in risk-free fashion. A ‘Number 6’, as I think the younger generation call it.

The point being that yesterday we had precious little attacking spark in midfield, every plan of note in this regard involving a pivot out to the wide positions and cracking on from there. Absence of course makes the heart grow fonder, and there’s a reasonable chance that if Maddison had been in operation he’d have spent his afternoon rolling his foot over the ball before giving up and passing backwards, but I’m still mightily irked that he slunk off into the shadows instead.

By all accounts Sarr was not fit enough for duty, but still obediently trooped up anyway. He had a stinker, as it happens, but 10 out of 10 for effort. Maddison has comleted 90 minutes on only two or three occasions this season, a record that in itself prompts a major arching of the eyebrow. It does make one ask a delicate question about the fitness of this chap, who every now and then ends up wearing the captain’s armband. His cheeks should burn with shame.

2. Porro

There’s a train of thought that all this time Pedro Porro has actually been a right winger, and is merely pretending to be a defender. Not really one of those revelations that will rock society to its very foundations, admittedly, but the case for the prosecution continued to stack up yesterday.

On the bright side there was his cross for our goal, which by anyone’s standards was an absolute doozy. It’s a strange quirk of the way our lot play, that if you take away set-pieces, we tend not to send in too many aerial crosses. Consider that we have in attack a sizeable unit such as Dominic Solanke, and it’s even stranger. Aside from that headed goal vs Newcastle a few weeks back, I can barely remember one all season.

Anyway, Porro set about correcting that towards the end of the first half yesterday, and a fine job he did of it too. No doubt about it, the chap’s forte is his attacking beans, and he gave rich evidence of it with that particular cross.

A brief tip of the cap I suppose to Richarlison as well, as he did have to contort the frame a fair bit to get all the relevant body-parts pointing in the right direction. Would have been easy to duff up the chance, is what I’m getting at. His movement to get there in the first place also merited a tick. He contributed precious little else, and being a pretty fragile sort had to be removed before the hour-mark, but at least he did the goalscoring bit, what?

Back to Porro, and just to emphasise that he’s happiest when lurking about the opposition area, he also fizzed in a shot that stung the relevant palms, late in the first half.

So no doubt there. Porro likes to attack. What remains as maddening as ever is his tendency to give the shoulders a bit of a shrug and indulge in a spot of motions-going-through when it comes to the defensive lark.

The point was rammed home at one point in the first half, when after arranging selves for a corner, the ball squirted out to the flank and young Gray, rather than Porro, found himself in the right-back spot. What happened next was instructive. As the Leicester chap embarked on a little dribble, Gray stuck to him, block the cross and then cleared up the line.

Not too much in that, you might suggest. ‘Defender Blocks Cross’ is hardly headline stuff. However, contrast it to the usual m.o. of Porro and it stands out like a flare in the night sky. Porro seems utterly incapable of preventing crosses, so much so that when someone else steps into his role and does exactly that, the jaw drops to the floor and the eyes are rubbed in disbelief.

As well as his chronic inability to defend in the conventional sense, Porro was also guilty of absolutely gifting possession to Leicester for their second goal. Lest you missed the detail, imagine a handsomely-paid professional footballer trying to pass the ball 5 yards but making a ricket of the operation, and you’ll be up to speed.

Mightily unimpressive stuff, but at least one was able to console oneself with the notion that when we tried to lather on a spot of pressure at the end, it would play to Porro’s attacking strengths. Even here, however, he took to misfiring. Too many attempted crosses sailed beyond the gaggle of willing takers, for a start.

Then, late on in the piece, he wriggled free and headed towards the byline, with Gray to aim at by the near post, and Mikey Moore unmarked at the far. For reasons best known to the man himself, Porro instead opted to thunder the ball as hard as he could into the side netting. It was an act of daring with which the South Stand failed to wholly buy into.

3. The Current Pickle

It says much about our performance that when preparing for Nature’s sweet restorer last night, and reflecting on the day’s events, my attempts to dwell on the positives draw a pretty firm blank.

Mikey Moore’s willingness to motor down either the outside or inside was vaguely encouraging, and I suppose one might argue that besides the goals Kinsky didn’t have much to do – but even that latter point is fairly brutally negated when one notes quite how easily Leicester were allowed to fashion those two goals.

It’s a pickle of the highest order. The eleven on the pitch would normally have been comfortably good enough to create 20 or so chances against this lot, and would just have needed a modicum of clinical finishing (as was the case in the reverse fixture at the start of the season, when we hammered away but contrived to miss every chance and draw).

Fast forward to the present day, however, and our heroes are no longer creating 20 chances. They are barely running 20 yards before pulling up lame, or at the very least needing a few restorative gulps of oxygen. I struggle to remember the last time we unfurled a press worthy of the name and won possession high up the pitch. Anyone left standing is completely out of steam.

Any goodwill left in the Postecoglou account is draining by the week, which is to be expected if the on-pitch luminaries roll over and have their tummies tickled by as wretched a mob as Leicester. For every triumph of a defensive tweak against Liverpool there’s a calamitous formation change against Everton. The man’s reputation is taking hits from all directions.

One appreciates that the inner corridors of N17 are strewn with mangled limbs and snapped hamstrings – and James Maddison feeling sore – all of which massively limits Our Glorious Leader’s options. AANP sympathises with him more than most, and is still keen to see a fully restored squad peddle Angeball once more and create 20+ chances per game.

However, it’s not enough for the manager simply to shrug the shoulders and write off all matches as lost causes until some time in late-Feb, when the A&E brigade bound back to life. It’s still the manager’s job to find a solution.

No signings are forthcoming, which suggests that the decision-makers no longer trust Our Glorious Leader, but they seem reluctant to dispense with him until our Carabao Semi-Final fate is known. This strikes me as equal parts cruel and thick-headed, seeing as it achieves neither one thing nor another, but I suppose the nuances of all this are above my pay-grade.

Sacking the chap at this stage and replacing him with some other well-meaning soul would not achieve much, as even Bill Nick would struggle to get a tune from the existing cast of eleven exhausted bodies.

So the current plan of action, as far as I can make out, is to trust that we sleepwalk to victory against Elfsborg; write off Brentford as a loss; and shove every available egg into the basket at Liverpool next week, praying for Romero and other members of the gang to be up to speed and eke us through. Dare and do, what?

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Spurs match reports Uncategorized

Arsenal 2-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

Even Duo Lingo stuck the knife in after this one.

1. Kinsky

After his opening bows, against Liverpool and Tamworth, I’d rushed to shove in all my chips with young Kinsky. Here, after all, appeared to be a man who could gather in-flung corners like one plucking apples; spread every available limb when faced with a shot to stop; and of course, most notably, casually ping the ball from either foot, to chums stationed in all parts of the pitch.

As such, the applause with which I greeted his every input in the opening minutes yesterday was pretty enthusiastic. Might as well encourage the lad, after all, what?

Admittedly he seemed to take the whole ‘Comfortable with the ball at his feet’ maxim and stretch it to the very edge of decency, but he dealt with the first half-dozen or so corners pretty admirably, and that struck me as particularly important against this mob of all mobs. Woolwich would adopt their stances; the dreadful telly-box commentators would fawn over their record from such situations; and Kinsky would take a stride or two and punch the thing from amidst a gaggle of bodies.

I continued to trumpet his abilities accordingly. “Marvellous stuff, old boy”, was the summary of comment from this quarter.

However, by the time the half-time whistle tooted, I have to confess to a pouring a generous dram and taking a moment to reflect. Could I really continue to laud this young bean’s every act, I asked myself, when he is actually beginning to stuff things up a jot?

Take the passing from the back. As mentioned, he seemed convinced that the path to success in this field lay in maximising every last second available, which I suppose is theoretically sound enough; but where one draws the line is when he starts using additional seconds that actually aren’t officially available.

Put another way, he dwelt so long on the dashed thing that Woolwich bods started tackling him, or at least deflecting his attempted passes at the point of contact.

Now, AANP is a generous sort, and will grudgingly accept that we mortals all err from time to time. As long as the lesson is learned, and one doesn’t err in precisely the same way a second time – and sure as heck not a third time – then it’s fine by me. Even Homer nods.

The problem with Kinsky was that he seemed not to learn his lesson, at any point throughout the game, no matter how often he made the same mistake. When it came to dwelling on the ball, he did not just err twice or thrice, he seemed to do the same thing literally every time he received the ball, dash it, as if contractually obliged.

On top of which, for their first goal, he then also made a pickle of that business of dealing with corners. Where previously he had quite merrily identified a route through the bodies and applied a solid fist or two, for the first Woolwich goal he back-pedalled, neglected to check his rear mirror and ran into a whole heap of traffic within the 6-yard box. The upshot of it all was that he was nowhere near the ball, and in no fit state, nor appropriate position, to deal with the messy goalbound effort.

And then just to add serious question marks to AANP’s judgement in backing a horse, he even bungled the previously reliable area of shot-stopping. Trossard’s effort just before half-time was solid enough, but by no means one of those unstoppable effort that zing into the net before you’ve even adjusted the eyes.

Indeed, Kinsky seemed to have matters well in hand to repel the effort. He effected the first part of the operation swimmingly, by lowering himself appropriately and extending the correct limb the correct length.

Maddeningly, however, he undid all these ticked boxes by allowing himself to be duped by the bounce of the ball, of all things. While one allows that the laws of physics will dictate that footballs bobble, I’d expect a goalkeeper worth his salt to be sufficiently alert to read the bounce and adjust the glove accordingly.

Not that the disastrous performance in its entirety was the fault of Kinsky and Kinsky alone, of course. I will, however, allow myself a judicial clearing of the throat and a moment’s reflection before I next laud him as the solution to all our goalkeeping ills.

2. The Older Heads

It says much about the frankly awful guff being exhibited by so many of our number that rather than hone in on them one-by-one for a spot of full-blooded character assassination, it would actually be easier simply to shove them into a single sack, pick up a blunt object and give the sack a bashing.

The contents of that sack are pretty multicultural in nature, featuring a Spanish full-back, Korean forward, Welsh winger, Swedish forward weaving between the centre and the right, and so on. Full marks for diversity, then, but that’s about as much praise as can be heaped upon them.

2.1 Son

Mis-hit, deflected goal or not, Sonny was once again massively off the boil. It’s not that anything he tried failed to work; it’s more that he didn’t seem to try anything in the first place. I can barely remember him touching the ball apart from his goal.

Peak Son has been a thorn in the side of this lot in particular, offering a welcome outlet at the Emirates through his pace on the flank, and fleetness of foot in the penalty area. Last night, however, he retreated into his shell and remained there for the entirety, breaking the routine only once, to score (or contribute towards) our goal, before disappearing once more to the comfort of his carapace.

2.2 Kulusevski

Kulusevski at least seemed willing to take to the stage, rather than fade into the background. Unhelpfully, his every contribution ended in failure, as he trotted out a series of attempted dribbles that resulted in him being tackled, and attempted tackles that resulted in him conceding fouls.

2.3 Porro

Porro, meanwhile, reinforced the notion that while he is a reasonably talented footballer, the well runs dry when it comes to exercising the grey matter. If there were a market for poor decision-making on a football pitch, this chap would be one of those billionaire oligarchs one hears about who parties on super-yachts with much younger female models.

He adopted ill-considered positions, as is becoming his trademark, and as was most notably illustrated in the second goal conceded, when he was found, naturally enough, 10 yards too far forward. His distribution was also fairly shonky, be it in the short-pass or whipped cross categories.

Nor is he the most reliable defender around, although I did sympathise that on one of the few occasions he did get his defensive affairs in order, blocking a cross and winning a goal-kick, the decision not only went against him but also resulted in a goal.

2.4 Johnson, Egads

Johnson, as one rather expects these days, added so little of value that I now wonder whether his half-time introduction actually happened at all, or was instead one of those mirages that one finds is occasionally induced by times of high stress and fine bourbon.

2.5 Maddison

Maddison at least rarely wants for effort, but last night gave ample exhibitions of his slightly irksome tendency to take up a useful position, make all manner of arm-based gesticulations and then decide it’s all pointless anyway, and knock the ball sideways or backwards. His limited-value distribution reminded me not for the first time of how Gary Neville once stumbled upon a truth, intoning that the modern team seems more inclined to take risks in defence than in attack.

2.6 Bissouma (And Dragusin While I’m At It)

A brief word too for Bissouma, whose form I have actually mentally categorised as ‘Not Too Shabby By Half’, in recent weeks. Having seemed willing enough to roll up the sleeves and muck in, he made a dreadful pig’s ear of things in Minute 44, in the moments leading up to the second goal conceded.

To remind, we were going through yet another one of those painful dances out on the left – you know the sort? I refer to those awful stews of our own making, in which we try to play out from the back, but all concerned take too many touches, and those not so concerned don’t bother to avail themselves.

Anyway, the wriggling-free was actually almost accomplished, with Spence having done a spot of give-and-going. All that remained was for Bissouma to feed the ball back to him and off we would jolly.

Bissouma, however, in common with most in our colours last night, opted to use his moment in possession as a cue to pause and dwell on how his life had treated him in the two or three decades so far. Instead of nudging the ball straight back to Spence, he paused and reflected, and swiftly found himself swarmed upon. Before one could even check the clock to see how long we had to hold out until half-time, we were behind.

(A clip around the ear too for Dragusin, for almost visibly mouthing “It’s not my job, guv” as Trossard ambled forward without anyone racing to cover.)

And with that many of the senior players firing blanks, or opting not to fire at all, or failing to realise that they were allowed to participate at all, it is little wonder that from start to finish our lot stank the place out.  

3. The Younger Heads

It really shouldn’t happen, but the standout performers amongst our lot were a couple of the young chappies whose principle life concerns are about how to cover up their spots and whether the good bar-staff of North London will ask for proof of age.

Bergvall did so well in so many positions that he ended up playing as three different midfielders simultaneously. Despite being seemingly tasked the outset with playing furthest forward of the midfield three, he was as prominent as anyone in dropping deep to receive possession.

I am particularly taken with his tendency, demonstrated at least once per game in each of his recent starts, to collect the ball roughly halfway inside his own half, and simply run with it until halfway inside the other half. Sounds dreadfully simple, and possibly a little underwhelming I suppose, but it’s a heck of an asset when materialising in real time. It was like watching Mousa Dembele without any of the muscle or shoulder-dips. Bergvall strips the whole exercise down to its basics and goes from there, with the result that the entire game-situation is shoved about 50 yards up the pitch.

Then in the second half he drew one heck of a short straw, when being having an Australian index finger thrust at him and being told to protect the back-four single-handedly.

This he did rather better than anticipated. He might not quite exhibit a Graham Roberts-esque capacity for the crunching tackle, but more often than not he could be spotted racing back to add to numbers inside our own area, more than once doing enough to slow down a Woolwich attack while reinforcements arrived.

Not the worst fellow to have around when Kinsky had used up his allocated dwell-in-possession time and needed a passing option, either.

Vying with Bergvall, however, was young Gray. By golly I can’t praise this chap highly enough. I get the impression that those peering in from beyond N17 (such as the lamentable folk on the telly-box) take one look at the Goals Conceded column and conclude that Gray isn’t much cop. More fool them, is the AANP take. Gray strikes me as a national treasure.     

His barcode, once scanned, might state that he is a midfielder, but I’m fast becoming convinced that he ought to be first-choice centre-back. I certainly feel more at ease seeing his bright-eyed features adorn the back-four than the more grizzled Romero, and the impulsive, brainless decisions that go with him. I doubt we’ll ever see Gray and VDV partner up at the back, but I don’t mind gazing wistfully into the mid-distance at the thought.

Perhaps, though, we might one day instead see Gray and Bergvall partner up further forward.

4. Fatigue? Tactics?

Quite what the hell went wrong last night is beyond me, but our lot looked thoroughly undercooked from first whistle to last. That we scored, and that Solanke might have had a couple from close range but for timely defensive interventions, were frankly pretty misleading (ditto the phantom conrer). There was no semblance of control from our lot at any point, either in or out of possession.

The initial AANP take was that it came down to fatigue. It’s a pretty tired line of course, but the whole chorus about a thin squad, injuries and inability to rotate is the easiest one to bleat.

Alternatively, it might be something around the tactics, as we seemed unable to play out from the back, let alone reach the halfway line or beyond. Long balls towards Solanke similarly met with little joy, and I struggle to remember any move involving two or three one-touch passes at any point. One found oneself simply puffing out the cheeks and wondering what the devil was the reason for such underwhelming dirge.

Still, one never really know what our lot will come up with next, when one reflects on the week’s worth of results just passed. On to Sunday then.

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-0 Liverpool: Four Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. Kinsky

Not lacking in confidence, this one, eh? His first involvement as a Spurs player – that moment in which he decided to chip the ball into the air with his feet, rather than just taking the regulatory catch on offer – was admittedly a slightly zany way to introduce himself to the massed hordes, but thereafter young Master Kinsky seemed hell-bent on showcasing himself as everything the young, modern goalkeeper should be.

Most obviously, Kinsky seemed pretty determined to make clear to the watching world that he fancies himself with ball at feet. The faux laid-back air with which he carries himself when picking a pass can probably be ignored, as it seems all goalkeepers these days like to present themselves as achingly laid-back, even if utterly incapable of passing along the ground.

However, this young fellow was evidently able to walk the w. as well as talk the t., as evidenced by a capacity not only to play the ball with either foot, but also to impart backspin and stun his passes and all sorts of other nuanced techniques, to make life that bit more comfortable for his chums. A considerate egg, this Kinsky.  

On top of which he also channelled his inner Beckenbauer to ping a few 60 yarders just as a lark. As these things go, it was ripping stuff. AANP was all for it. Picking the appropriate, short pass from a goal-kick is a sine qua non in the world of Angeball; but augmenting these short passes with an occasionally defence-splitting long pass really does sharpen the wits of all in attendance.

However, if it were that simple we’d just stick Bentancur or Maddison in goal and be done with it. There is, of course, also the delicate issue of stopping shots and preventing goals, and here Kinsky passed his first test soundly enough.

That one moment in the first half, in which he allowed a shot of the meat-and-drink variety to squirm away from him and reappear behind him like some uncooperative small child, was a little concerning. If he’s going to make a production of the basics, I caught myself thinking, things might quickly take a turn for the farcical when the real business kicks off.

I needn’t have worried. He swallowed up most other ideas from the other mob, and when called upon made a particularly impressive stop early in the second half, when a Liverpool sort had a close-range ping on their right and Kinsky dutifully remembered to stay relatively upright, spread his frame and put in place various other wholesome initiatives.

The Hollywood moment, however, came late on in the piece, when Nunez contorted himself to get a close-range volley away, and Kinsky was hit with something of an emergency. The shot, as it turned it, was whistling off to his right; and the critical factor here was that he himself was already putting in motion plans for a day-trip off to his left.

The episode required quick thinking, and some rearrangement of limbs at an equally healthy lick. Kinsky delivered all of the above like a champion, extending an important paw, and keeping his record unsullied.

One can bleat about Liverpool being under-par and remixing their personnel, but this was still the best team in the country and arguably the continent, the highest scorers in the country and with all manner of star-power out on show. On top of which, I honestly can’t remember if our lot have kept a clean sheet at all this season, such has been our general porousness. Defending has not, one might diplomatically offer, been our forte.

I still await evidence around the young bean’s handling of crosses, particularly at corners and whatnot – an area in which Austin, B. proved himself most competent at the weekend. As such, I’ll hold fire on the cork-popping and garland-streaming for another game or two, but for the second game in succession, one can cheerily note that the new chap between the sticks seems to know his apples well enough.

2. Bergvall

Fair to say young Bergvall did not quite hit the ground running in his lilywhite career in Kinsky-esque fashion, memories of him being shoved aside in various Europa ties still lingering in the mind’s eye.

Last night, however, he rattled off the latest rather shiny recital, picking up where he left off in his last turn against Liverpool. At kick-off he seemed tasked with scampering forward with gay abandon whenever the mood took him, with Messrs Bentancur and Bissouma further south being the more natural, reserved sorts.

The horrible Bentancur incident brought about a reshuffle, but if the appearance of Kulusevski in the central midfield three were supposed to dim the Bergvall light, I’m not sure anyone actually passed the memo to the chap himself. “Kulusevski or no Kulusevski”, seemed the Bergvall train of thought, “I’m going to keep haring about the place anyway, and if that takes me right off into the final third then so be it”.

And a cracking fist he made of it too. Full of beans, as these young people tend to be, he also seems to have learned a fair bit about how to handle oneself when great brutish lumps like van Dijk are swinging muscular limbs about the place. No longer simply one to be pushed into the background, Bryan Gil-esque, Bergvall did plenty of useful things both in and out of possession.

A winning goal always adds a layer of garnish, of course, but even before that he rather caught the eye.

As for the whole yellow card issue, by golly watching the Sky Sports coverage back made me wonder if some crime had been committed and the whole bally thing ought to be brought to the House of Commons for a proper debate, and quite possibly reinstatement of the death penalty. Anyway, the AANP take for several decades has been that the referee’s decision is final – be that allowing Jota to stud Skipp in the head and prance off to score a last-minute winner, or waving aside Bergvall’s flying lunges.

3. Spence

One admittedly dreamy pass from young Archie Gray seems to have won over the hearts of the nation, which I suppose was only a matter of time. As secure as ever when doing the defensive thing, that little dribble and outside-of-the-boot-don’t-you-know pass in the second half was a pretty pointed reminder that he’s a midfielder first and foremost. However, as I prattle on about the chap every week, and one doesn’t have to go too far to find wordy serenades about his work last night, I’ll push on to young Spence instead.

What the hell happened in the first four months of the season to prevent him even being considered for selection is a mystery that deepens every week, because his performances since returning to the fold have been mightily impressive, be they right, left or centre.

It was only when he beat his man, scurried to the line and then doubled back on himself rather than crossing, in the first half, that one was reminded that his left foot is primarily in situ for balance and decoration, such was his comfort at left-back.

A different type of beast from Udogie, no doubt – less about him of the bludgeoning instrument when on the forward march – but Spence in his own way is a handy nib when going forward. Moreover, if anything I feel slightly more reassured when we’re on the backfoot that he’ll actually be present, rather than marooned 20 yards too far north.

I suppose because we keep leaking goals, not too much has been made of him beyond the confines of N17. However, I certainly do hope that once the walking wounded shed their bandages and bound back into action, Spence will remain part of the general setup.

4. Ange Postecoglou, Tactical Genius

The key to muzzling Liverpool, it would appear, is to stick someone on that Gravenberch chap. Kulusevski seemed tasked with it last night, obediently putting his head down and charging towards him each time he received the precious cargo. While I suppose it might just have been coincidence, they did appear decidedly less on the button than on their previous visit.

Now AANP is no tactical soul by any stretch, so if the above is true – and once pointed out to me, it did indeed seem that way – decency dictates that I step aside and let the acclaim wash over my Spurs-supporting chum Dave, who cottoned onto it pretty quickly. Either way, a nod of acknowledgement is probably due to Our Glorious Leader for a handy tactical button pushed. After all, heaven knows we knock him when he pickles these things.

Aside from Kulusevski, various other members of the squadron also seemed to go about their day-jobs with a tad more circumspection than frankly I thought was tolerated by Angeball.

Porro’s natural instincts seemed curbed, to the extent that he made more tackles and blocks last night than I can remember in his entire lilywhite career to date. As mentioned above, Spence could probably list ‘Positional Awareness’ as amongst his strengths at his next appraisal.

The midfield that started appeared to offer a bit more in the way of solidity than normal, with Bentancur and Bissouma sitting behind Bergvall, who himself played as a central midfielder rather than a Number 10. This admittedly was rather forced upon the Big Cheese, as there were no other options left, but Bergvall’s energy allowed us to proceed thereafter with a useful blend of attacking chops and defensive numbers.

All told, I did wonder whether the ever-so-slightly more conservative approach was a product of accident or design, but it did the trick, even before the late winner. I suspect I’m not alone in being far from convinced that we’ll do the necessaries in the second leg, but simply for arresting the recent decline and chalking up a significant win, last night was most pleasing.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Newcastle: Four Tottenham Talking Points

AANP’s new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. Austin

Saturday afternoon gave us all a chance to brood deeply on the life and times of that lesser-spotted species, the third choice goalkeeper. AANP can only speak for himself, but if Brandon Austin had tapped me on the shoulder yesterday morning and given me a cheery wave, I’m not sure I’d have recognised him. 

By about 3pm however that particular wrong had been righted, and with considerable emphasis. Austin acquitted himself like a champion, and should he ever find his mouth dry and a thirst developing, he’ll always be welcome to a splash of refreshment at AANP Towers, after a debut that ticked the boxes like they were going out of fashion. 

If you were to wag a disapproving finger at young Austin, explaining that you did so because he conceded twice, I think I might unleash one of my more withering glances. That ought to settle the matter. Austin was fairly clearly not at fault for either goal. 

And had Gordon converted a chance later on in the first half that was identical in all relevant ways to his earlier goal, I’d have given Austin an encouraging pat on the head and assured him that that was another for which he was blameless. 

As it happened, however, young B.A. actually denied Gordon on that second occasion, with a very neat and tidy save. It was a stop bursting at the seams with quick reflexes and sharp movement to the ground, and well worth the ovation that followed. 

From memory he threw in another sharp save late on, extending a right paw if memory serves, to keep things interesting late on. His saves, however, were barely half the story. 

What really arrested the AANP eye was the fine young fellow’s attitude to the various corners that rained in abaft his head. A spot of context would help here, for this was not as straightforward a tale as ‘Man Catches Ball’. Critically, as each corner was being fashioned for delivery, Newcastle had hit upon the idea of stationing three absolute lumps around Austin, at least one of whom, if my eyes didn’t deceive stood at about 8 foot 6 and bore all the hallmarks of someone who in a previous life had been a tree.

With several of these sorts clambering around the personal space of Austin, and three in lilywhite faithfully marking them, the whole vicinity was frightfully congested. Had the principal custodian of N17 been in situ, the sound of jangling nerves would have been cacophonous, because Signor Vicario has demonstrated on many an occasion a tendency to malfunction when crowded at a corner.

Austin, however, once each corner was launched towards him, was an absolute model of calm and serenity. A most sincere tip of the cap to those tasked with marking the Newcastle mob, as they did a sterling job of clearing a sacred space around the goalkeeper. The man himself though, emerged from the intermittent bombardment with flying colours.

His distribution also seemed sensible enough. Brighter minds than mine may zoom in on one or two passes from the back that might have landed those around him in trouble, but I personally did not notice any such misdeeds. As far as I can see, Austin did not put a foot or hand wrong.

There is, of course, every chance that it will be vale as well as salve to the chap, with the arrival of that Kinsky bean suggesting that the goalkeeping cupboard will be pretty well stocked. If Austin is never sighted again in our colours, I suspect I won’t be the only one wishing him well and thanking him enthusiastically for his tuppence worth.

2. The Spence-Gray Partnership

There is some unnameable element of Radu Dragusin’s game that troubles me. I mean I’m never really fully at ease when he trots out into the middle, chewing away and sizing up his latest pass, which may or may not hit its mark. I find myself instinctively holding my breath, exhaling in relief as much as anything else, when he delivers some input without any dubious consequence.

All that said, however, I’ll excuse any errors yesterday, as apparently he was labouring under a spot of man-flu. The half-time reshuffle meant that we started the second period with a central pairing that would have prompted a hoot or two of mirth in the Championship last season, as Spence shuffled into place alongside Gray.

Spence has generally impressed this particular viewer since beginning his Prodigal Son routine a few weeks back at Southampton, generally blending defensive common sense with attacking fizz in pleasing proportions.

Yesterday, however, there was a murmur or two of criticism at his inability to prevent crosses from the Newcastle flank – it all seemed a bit thick if you ask me, given the track records in that particular department of Porro and Udogie over the last year and a half, but there you go. For the second Newcastle goal, Spence failed to prevent the cross, Dragusin avoided throwing up long enough to nudge the ball onto the foot of Isak, and we were felled.

So when it became evident that Spence would be moved to the centre, I must confess dusting off one of my finest philosophical shrugs. Que sera whatnot, was the gist over here. Everyone else seemed to have had a stab at centre-back, so why not Spence?

(I assume that those who watch Dorrington every day in training have simply gauged that as yet he’s not quite good enough.)

Anyway, on we all cracked, and to be honest, this actually struck me as the most secure centre-back partnership we’d had all season. A small sample size admittedly, and Newcastle seemed far more concerned with packing out their own penalty area than considering a swish at ours, but still. Whenever they did venture forward, Spence and Gray seemed uncannily adept at stomping out any would-be fires.

If there ends up being a public vote for this sort of thing, I’ve already nailed my colours to the Gray mast when it comes to considering eventual partners for VDV at the back. He may walk, talk and sound like a midfielder, or right-back, or some other position, but by golly he can cut it with the best of them at centre-back.

Now apparently I ought to temper all this praise. I’m reliably informed that Gray’s positioning to receive the ball from Austin, which led to Bergvall’s tight spot and Newcastle’s first goal, was shonky. If you don’t mind the technical gibberish, he ought to have stationed himself wider, to render himself less easy to close down. This, if true, is indeed a blot on his escutcheon.

Nevertheless, such a faux pas ought to be coached out of him easily enough. I’m still fond of the chap, as much as anything else because he does not tend suddenly to be possessed by acts of madness like Romero. Steady and sensible, seems to be the Gray motto when centre-backing, and I’m all for it.

Spence, meanwhile, displayed a most becoming spatial awareness in the role. He generally seemed to know where he ought to be and where others were around him, be they friend or foe. He even threw in a last-ditch, goal-saving, sliding block at one point.

Presumably Dragusin will be back midweek, but as desperate patched-up bright ideas go, Gray-Spence struck me as pretty hot stuff.

3. Porro

With each passing week this season, the AANP opinion of Pedro Porro has gently eased down half a notch or so, with the result that now, at the midway point, I have quite the clearly-fashioned bone to pick with the fellow.

It’s primarily his defensive work, you see, although I use the term pretty damn loosely. Show me a goal our heroes have conceded this season, and there’s a good chance I’ll be able to show you a gap that Porro has vacated and the opposing striker has tucked right into.

Yesterday, however, the angel on Porro’s shoulder was in the ascendancy, because he could not stop delivering Beckham-esque crosses from the right. Whip, height, direction – you name it, Porro was spraying it. If anything it’s been a rather under-used asset of his this season. He set about righting that wrong though, and how.

Beginning with his cross for the goal for Solanke (another who earns one of those touches of the cap, for one heck of a combo of strength and technique to head in), Porro was on the money throughout. A shame, of course, that he only struck oil once, but he stuck to his side of the bargain alright. That those further north couldn’t quite nail the coordinates was nothing to do with the quality of his delivery.

4. General Mood

It will come as little surprise to the regular visitor to AANP Towers, that the owner of the joint remains unchanged in opinion towards Our Glorious Leader. Peddle dirge-like guff, and fail to create chances, and the AANP brow scrunches like a bulldog’s; but yesterday was another of those affairs in which we had a pretty reasonable biff, and were a mite unlucky to trudge off empty-handed.

The dubious decision-making in possession at the back remains undimmed, and responsibility for this sits squarely with Ange and Co. Equally concerning from my vantage point is the general lack of protection afforded to our back-line whenever possession is lost. It’s not so much the high defensive line that bothers me, as the fact that nobody else in lilywhite is anywhere near the scene when that defensive line is forced to about-turn and sprint back. This, too, is on Ange.

The attacking play, however, particularly in the second half, was respectable enough. It ought to have been enough to outscore the other lot, which seems the fundamental tenet of Angeball. We can also consider ourselves unfortunate that the laws of the game allowed that first goal to stand – albeit we brought the danger upon ourselves.

(Bergvall, by the way, while he may have erred slightly in the first goal conceded, caught the eye. The fellow has come on leaps and bounds in a couple of months, and provided the sort of energy and willingness to carry the ball of which Maddison might usefully have taken note.)

On top of that solid second half showing, this was a game in which we ended with our third-choice goalkeeper, fifth- and sixth-choice centre-backs and fifth-choice left-back. As mentioned, I actually consider the midfield and its lack of support for those behind them, to be more of a problem, but this general annihilation of all available defenders doesn’t do much to help things.

So, as has been the case for a while now, I’m more inclined to suspend judgement on Ange until blessed with a team better suited to the rigours of the twice-weekly joust. The new goalkeeper is a start, but at least a couple more happy new faces seem necessary before things get back on track.