Tag: Ben Davies

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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

West Ham 1-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A 90-Minute Shrug of Indifference

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

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

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

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

2. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Bissouma, and Various Other Appreciative Nods

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

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

Wolves 4-2 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. How Much Longer?

The game, it would appear, is almost up. One never really knows with Grandmaster Levy, but it does not take a great leap of the imagination to imagine him now preparing some words of thanks and making arrangements with the media team, because short of a miracle that would make Lazarus blush The Postecoglou Era is seemingly coming to its natural end.

Put simply, you cannot go about the place stuffing up literally every engagement and expect to skip away gaily at the end of it all without any consequences. Stuffing up once in a while, you may get away with. Even stuffing up a couple of times consecutively could conceivably be excused, in a “Such-things-happen-dear-boy” sort of way. And depending on circumstances one could maybe point to a sizeable heap of the temporarily crippled, or a dominant display somehow ending in a head-scratching 1-0 defeat.

But when the collective trots out under your watch week after week, and simply ambles through the motions with the sullen reluctance of schoolboys being dragged about the place against their will, you really have to sit down in a quiet room with the man in charge, and ask in no uncertain terms what the devil he is doing. Or what the devil he is not doing, if you want to hit the nail on the head particularly cleverly.

Both performances and results have been of undiluted rot for an absolute age now, and while the players ought to hang their heads in shame, AANP is the sort who considers that the general attitude about a place starts with the fellow in charge. And Postecoglou seems utterly unable to get a tune out of his troops at present.

In some respects, of course, one sympathises. All four goals yesterday were the result of what one might call Individual Human Error, and one can only imagine the fruity Anglo-Saxon that would have escaped the Postecoglou lips as he watched Vicario and Romero and Bergvall bungle activities quite so spectacularly.

After all, when a man is down and in need of the troops to rally around and dig in for him, the last thing he wants is for those same troops to absent-mindedly point their weapons at their own feet and, forgetting where they are, tug on the trigger as their minds drift elsewhere. Such fat-headedness does not really serve the agenda. In need of some respite, Our Glorious Leader was instead treated to the sight of three of his most trusted lieutenants presenting gift-wrapped goals to the other lot, so he couldhave been excused the weary sigh.

Even in these circumstances, however, ultimately one can direct a stern look towards the leader of the pack, because the complacent, sloppy nature of yesterday’s mishaps leaves the whiff of a culture in which mistakes are shrugged off without too much recrimination. And if that’s the message being peddled by the Big Cheese, then it’s little wonder our heroes fail to rouse themselves to any great – or even middling – heights week after week.

Another huge frustration from afar is that just a few days ago our heroes demonstrated that when the urge grips them they are still fully capable of donning their Sunday best and belting out something decent. The draw against Frankfurt might not exactly have been a performance for the ages, but churn out that sort of produce every game and I imagine sentiment would turn back in Ange’s favour.

The win against Alkmaar a few weeks ago was of similar ilk, and where you might think that the fact that our lot can turn up the dials on certain, special occasions might soothe the aggravated soul, it in fact does quite the opposite, at least to this particular Tottenham-watcher. Seeing the crew-members unveil a bit of sparkle on Thursday nights in Europe simply pours petrol over the flames the following Sunday in the Premier League, when they make the collective decision to keep their A-games firmly under lock and key, and instead treat the whole 90-minute binge as one giant inconvenience.

All that said, there is still a pretty straightforward way for Our Glorious Leader to wriggle his way back into the good books. I’m not entirely convinced that even winning the Europa would do the trick at this stage, if League performances continue to freefall – but if he can cajole, bribe or in some other way convince the players to start playing like their lives depend on it in every game, it would be a jolly good start. Playing well and, ideally, winning on a weekly basis would, I fancy, do wonders. Goodwill may well have drained from most Spurs fans, but at this stage I simply want to trot up and enjoy the show.

As an interesting aside, for those amongst us who enjoy a statistical quirk, Postecoglou’s record at this stage (90 games, apparently) is superior to those of Messrs Burkinshaw and Venables. So all is not necessarily lost, but when both results and performances are this poor for this long, it is difficult to defend the chap; and conversely, an upturn in both would give at least some reason to persist.

2. Vicario

Part of the problem with being a goalkeeper, of course, is that when you make a fig of things, the consequence is rather severe. Whereas if Solanke, for example delivers a duff pass, or Ben Davies clatters his man, those nearby generally have an opportunity to regroup and correct things, and the error can generally be wiped from memory.

Not so the goalkeeper. Misplace a short pass when you’ve got 1 on your back, and the chances are you’ll be picking the ball out of the net within about 5 seconds, with various cameras zooming in on your features and replaying the moment from all angles, just to stick the knife in. So when Vicario had one of those days on which he randomly fixated on all the worst possible options, we paid for it rather dearly.

I actually thought all the criticism flung his way for that punch in the first minute was a bit thick. It was not the best punch, I agree. His conviction and aggression levels could certainly have been topped up. But neither was it the worst in the world – he at least made contact ahead of those around him, and shovelled it to the edge of the penalty area, which seems the minimum requirement in these situations.

If anything I was rather irritated that none of those around him thought to loiter on the edge of the area, in anticipation of precisely such an under-nourished clearance.

That said, I did not have any sympathy with Vicario for then bleating away about being hindered in the act of goalkeeping. If there were opponents in his way and jostling him – well, why shouldn’t they? That sort of give-and-take is all part of the bargain, and rather than chasing after the referee once the ball has flown past him, I’d rather he directed his energies towards blitzing everything in his path and dashed well making sure that the six-yard box is his domain and nobody else will get a sniff.

However, as evidenced by that ghastly second goal, the business of blitzing everything in his p. and making the six-yard box his d. is pretty foreign territory to Vicario.

Now admittedly the cross for that second goal caught a deflection and took on board a sizeable slice of spin. If I were addressing a distressed three year-old who had failed to gather in cleanly a heavily spinning ball, I might toss them a sweet and suggest they do not dwell on the incident.

Vicario, however, is an experienced, international goalkeeper. As such, I will not be tossing him a sweet for his efforts on that second goal. I have a good mind instead to pelt him with rotten fruit. His hesitation and general flapping was close to a sackable offence for a man paid a tidy sum to, essentially, catch a ball.

Sandwiched in between these was yet another of Vicario’s mind-boggling errors with ball at feet. Of course, AANP has long despaired of the business of passing out from the back, but it is here to stay so I can but suffer in silence on that one – as sure as night follows day, we insist on passing out from the back.

Normally the problems emerge when the ball reaches our defenders and they duly tie themselves up in knots; but on this occasion Vicario simplified things by removing defenders from the equation and simply passing the ball straight to the Wolves lot inside our own area. That they did not score says much about their finishing, but Vicario should hang his head in shame, and meanwhile AANP yearns for the day when goalkeepers simply return to blasting the ball up to halfway and letting everyone scrap it out from there.

3. Our Defending

Not that the errors yesterday were Vicario’s and Vicario’s alone. As mentioned, that second goal was immediately preceded by a cross from the left deflecting upwards and with a fair amount of spin, so an element of challenge was undoubtedly introduced.

For clarity, however, having been deflected upwards and received its generous helping of spin, the ball had not morphed into a bomb, mid-flight. It was still just a football, and any bright spark in Tottenham sky blue landing upon the bright idea of clearing it with a spot of heft as it fell back down to earth would have received no unpleasant surprises.

Such a course of action, however, was far beyond our lot. Ben Davies opted to stop and play for offside, a decision that Djed Spence, behind him, was having no part of. The result was that the Wolves chappie whom Davies had a moment earlier been monitoring was now free to stroll in unfettered fashion right up to our six-yard box, to have a poke around and see what mischief he might get into.

This was the genesis of the problem really, because while the forward rather pickled his header, his mere presence unnerved Vicario considerably, prompting his flap. Of Davies, however, there was no sign. He only re-emerged on the scene once the damage was done and the ball in the net, to appeal with some gusto for an offside flag, which rather put the seal on his ignominy.

There then followed, for the third Wolves goal, the most peculiar error from Romero. Seemingly in full control of things, with the ball under his stewardship and not too much danger in the atmosphere, Romero picked one heck of a moment to begin daydreaming and completely forget where he was and what he was doing. Despite staring straight at the ball, he seemed suddenly seized by the urge to take a few steps off in a different direction.

Well, one could have advised him beforehand that that would be a dubious move, and so it proved. Whichever Wolve it was stationed on his shoulder could not believe his luck, and scooped up the ball to take towards goal, leaving our World Cup-winning centre-back looking suspiciously like he was possessed of two left feet.

Depressingly, even the mighty Bergvall joined in with this lunacy in the later stages, attempting to cart the ball out of defence and instead pushing it obligingly to the opposition forwards. He at least can draw upon a whole stack of good deeds faithfully carried out this season – the most recent of which came five minutes after his arrival yesterday, with his forward burst for our first goal.

The rest of them, however, ought to blush in shame and go without food and water for a few days by way of penance. It’s hard enough for us when our midfield offers so little protection, but when the defenders and goalkeeper dance about the place with little clear concept of the basics of the role, one rather hangs the head and wonders what’s the point.

For what it’s worth, yesterday’s positives included a sprightly first half from Maddison; that rarest of sightings from the size nines of Brennan Johnson, in the form of a pretty decent cross; and a return to the pitch of Kulusevski, which suggests he will be involved in at least a temporary capacity on Thursday.

Really, however, this was yet another round of muck, from which neither players nor manager emerge with the slightest credit.

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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

Spurs 1-0 Man Utd: Five 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. Maddison

I suppose a casual observer, idly swinging by and popping his head in, might note the scoreline and scorer, possibly drink in a brief highlight of Vicario pawing away a Utd shot or two. Putting two and two together, that same c.o. might then surmise that the restoration of the experienced heads had done the trick, and then be off on their way.

Strictly speaking there isn’t actually a way to disprove this. A clean sheet and a goal from the restored Maddison amount to a weighty argument from the prosecution.

And credit where due, the evidence of the eyes did point to Maddison contributing worthily to the whole. Taking the headline act, and his goal might not have been the most rip-roaring of its ilk, involving as it did an unopposed toe-poking of the ball from about three yards out.

The finish itself, however, was not really the sort of masterpiece that ‘ll be hung in the galleries for a spot of public gawping. Where Maddison really earned the monthly envelope was in having the good sense to hover on the tips of his toes as Bergvall lined up his initial shot. While the United lot treated the whole event as if VIP audience-members, idly drinking it all in without involving themselves to any degree, Maddison was already plotting the quickest route towards goal, and was off and running before the initial save had been made.

Even aside from his goal, however, this was one of Maddison’s starrier nights. One curling pass from deep in particular, late in the first half, seemed to drip with a bit of goose fat, and merited a better outcome.

And aside from the highlights reel, Maddison’s all-round game brimmed with useful inputs. In general I’ve been inclined to fix him with a stare and jab the finger a bit, as he’s had a tendency to collect the ball, pivot a few times and then shove it off a distance of about 5 yards. All well and good, but not the brand of muck that will scythe apart the meanest defence.

And while the 5-yard passes remained a feature, a little irritatingly, this time they at least had the vastly more endearing quality of being biffed early. There was a lot less of his tendency to plant a foot atop the ball and turn this way and that, umpteen times. Yesterday’s Maddison was an iteration that tended to receive the ball and fairly promptly give it, waving away the option of standing on ceremony.

United admittedly could not have been more welcoming, theirs being a midfield that didn’t really seem to believe in hard yards and defensive shifts, but Maddison nevertheless seemed to swan about the place in high spirits.

2. Vicario

As mentioned above, yesterday’s win also coincided with the return of our resident back-door custodian, Signor Vicario. Again, while it would be a tad lazy to equate the two as directly and solely correlating, the fellow’s gatekeeping was top-notch whenever required.

The proof of the pudding was in the clean sheet, a rarely-spotted species around these parts, so any garland that lands around his neck is well deserved. Again, of the headline-grabbing stuff, Vicario’s cup flowed over. Various acrobatics could be sighted in both halves – nothing revolutionary, I suppose, but still important stuff.

The low second half save, down to his right and changing direction, was a particularly memorable little number, but in general it was the sort of recital you’d expect from your resident Number One. Young Kinsky, one imagines, would have dealt with each effort similarly.

Apparently, however, there is more to this goalkeeping rannygazoo than shot-stopping alone, and when it came to the smallprint – collecting crosses, and playing low-key passes from the back – Vicario seemed similarly up on current affairs, ticking off all boxes with minimal fuss.

Short-passing from goal-kicks admittedly might not sound like the sort of agenda point on which to spend too much time, but we may perhaps be advised to pause at this point and tour the recesses of the memory. For one only has to go back about a week to find the first in a whole catalogue of instances of a rather unsteady pass being shipped from goalkeeper towards defender, missing something in the delivery and as a result leaving the collective in a whole sea of danger.  

As such, the very fact that we simply did not notice Vicario rolling his short passes this way and that ought to count as a mighty feather in his berretto.

3. Spence

Another pretty dominant innings from young Spence, who continues to be master of all he surveys, and from wherever he’s asked to survey it too.

Strictly speaking, he is employed as a defender, and when defending was required he seemed sufficiently alert and capable. United’s left-wing stomping was watched carefully enough, and for some added garnish at one point he flew across to the other side of the box to make the sort of sliding challenge that media bods are legally obliged to describe as ‘last-ditch’.

All well and good, and pretty necessary in any self-respecting left-back, but as ever it was the honest beaver’s northbound forays that caught the eye. It obviously helped that United set themselves up in a fashion so lop-sided it practically ushered forward any lilywhite who found themselves on the left. Nevertheless, it’s one thing to have the opposing lot step aside and wave you in, it’s another thing altogether to make the most of such invitations (just ask Sonny).

When Spence bounded forward he tended to do so to wholesome effect, alternating in pretty sophisticated fashion between the more conventional route along the left flank, and the achingly more progressive approach of cutting infield.

The more churlish observer might note that for all his studied build-up, his end-product never actually officially struck oil; but half the mission here was simply to land the United mob in a bit of a tizz, and this he seemed to do at every opportunity.

Outside reaction to his latest bravura display has not exactly been a model of restraint, with various choruses suggesting that he ought to be in the England squad, and others chiselling out Gareth Bale comparisons. No harm in basking in his successes I guess, but in the more immediate-term we do now have a very credible third full-back option, on other side.

4. Bergvall

A slightly less topical observation perhaps, but I thought young Bergvall pottered about the place impressively yesterday. With Maddison tasked with splashing creative juices about the place, and Bentancur more inclined to sit deep, whether in or out of possession, Bergvall provided the requisite firing pistons in midfield.

While I hesitate to compare the chap to one of the more esteemed former parishoners, Mousa Dembele – their respective physiques sitting at opposite ends of the spectrum after all – there were a couple of personality traits exuded by young Bergvall that made me tilt the head and wonder if I spotted a similarity.

Primarily, there was  the business of collecting the ball surrounded by a small swarm, and, keeping the thing well protected, wriggling from the aforementioned cul-de-sac of doom into a wide open midfield space. To the Bergvall jersey could also be pinned the quality of dipping a shoulder to side-step an opponent, and travelling with the ball over halfway and beyond.

They were features that I would categorise under ‘Glimpses’ rather than ‘Constant Directing of Affairs’, and as alluded to above, United’s midfield was hardly an impenetrable den. Nevertheless, in these little flashes Bergvall demonstrated some pretty useful value, generally helping to chivvy things along and contribute to the sense that, in midfield, our lot had the upper hand.

5. Game Management, Angeball Style

When all returns were in, it seemed reasonable enough to assert that our lot should have their noses in front. As mentioned, our midfield seemed slightly more familiar than the other lot with the basic concept of association football, and this marginal difference proved mightily useful, resulting as it did in their midfield wandering wherever took their fancy, while ours diligently ploughed through the gaps left accordingly.

With neither midfield remotely capable of providing any cover for those behind them, and neither defence especially watertight, the whole binge seemed to be decided by our lot having better and brighter ideas going forward.

Having eased into a lead, and neglected to build upon that, the final stages might have benefited from some considered strategy for controlling matters and ensuring that the win was kept under royal protection. ‘Game management’, I believe the boffins call it.

Of course, this being Angeball there was not a whiff of such a thing, and those final fifteen minutes or so instead unfolded like a particularly frantic children’s basketball jamboree, with both sides taking turns to pour forward every available man. Indeed, had that Zirkzee lad had a better grasp of aerodynamics then this tome might be aiming both barrels squarely at Ben Davies for picking a pretty ghastly moment to drift off and think of the valleys.

I suppose that from the moment he traipsed through the door, Our Glorious Leader’s approach to seeing out a game has been to score again and again, and the logic is, in a sense, irrefutable; but the failure to do so yesterday, coupled with the ease with which the other lot wandered up to our area, did cast a rather ominous shadow over things as we edged towards the end.

Still, our heroes hung on. Oddly enough, this is a second successive League win, which just goes to show that the right statistics can dolly up just about any breed of crisis. A rather messy route it might have taken, but with all manner of returnees now bundling their way through the door, in time for the European jolly, there are at least reasons for a cheerier outlook.

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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

Everton 3-2 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. The New Formation’s Perks

With the infirmary tent now bursting at the seams, Our Glorious Leader had what by his standards was a fully-fledged breakdown, and tweaked his tactics. Out went the 4-3-3, and in came an intriguing get-up that had a 3-4-2-1 sort of look to it.

On paper it actually made perfect sense. Square pegs and whatnot, don’t you know?

Ben Davies has spent half his life on the left of three centre-backs. Any self-respecting taxonomist would take one look at Spence and Porro and classify the pair as wing-backs. Kulusevski and Maddison are both, in theory, the sorts of beans who are happiest honing their sights on the opposition goal. Dragusin has many, many defensive weaknesses and precious few strengths, so why not surround him with as much defensive-minded assistance as possible? And so on.

And actually, if you don’t mind me punctuating the doom and gloom with a spot of sunny, glass-half-full cheer, in an attacking sense it wasn’t too shabby at all. Sonny was presented on a silver platter with a couple of the more straightforward chances we’ve had all season – tips of the cap here to Davies and Porro, for the rather dapper long passes that set these up.

We also might reasonably enough have had a penalty. While AANP, as ever, accepts the referee’s decision with a stiffened upper lip and some stoical resolve, next time I need to submit a video application for the award of a foul, I may well use the clip of Sonny being unceremoniously bundled to terra firma inside the area by that Everton nib. It did appear at first – and indeed second, third and various further glances – to be a fairly straightforward little number.

So on the front-foot, whilst hardly the best we’ve played all season, there was enough in the first half-hour to suggest that the new formation had some shiny attacking components.

2. The New Formation’s Woes

Further back, however, it’s fair to say that our lot fashioned quite the pig’s ear. If you’ve ever drunk at this particular cabinet before you’ll know that the tactical side of things is not really the AANP forte, so take the following with a generous pinch of salt, or splash of bourbon, or just let the mind fog over for a few paragraphs; but it struck me that each of Gray, Dragusin and Sarr were playing their own individual matches, with nary a concern for the roles of those around them. Communications and teamwork was at a minimum.

Take the second goal conceded, for example. Everton were biffing the thing around inside their own half, as was their prerogative. Young Gray, seeing this and not taking too kindly to it, opted to leave his right-of-the-back-three post, and make a few brusque enquiries. Reasonable enough, one might have noted. One of the delights of a back-three, of course, is that any given member of it, at any given time, has the licence to stretch his legs further north, safe in the knowledge that the defensive cupboard will remain well-stocked behind him.

So off Gray toddled; but trouble began to brew when, alongside him, Sarr seemed gripped with a similar idea. Identical in fact. Actually, the pair came close to tinkering with the fabric of the universe by very nearly occupying exactly the same space at exactly the same time.

One could have advised that this would not end well. With Gray having rushed 20 or so yards out of position, our lot really needed someone to drop into the spot he had vacated, or at the very least station themselves within 10 yards of him, to mop up the mess.

The most obvious candidate would have been Sarr – but Sarr, as mentioned, had been gripped by precisely the same idea as Gray. Poor old Dragusin was the next to whom we all looked for a spot of useful input, but he was so far behind play one struggled to pick him out with the naked eye.

The Everton laddie set off around halfway and kept going, utterly unopposed. In fact he made it all the way to the penalty area, and even then young Dragusin was not really in the market for decisive interventions. He hovered in the vicinity, lost his bearings and I think almost fell over, but by then the Everton chap was already unveiling his celebration.

From what I could make out, the underlying problem here was absence of a basic level of communication between the protagonists. Idle chit-chat. Even just a pointed look, and knowing nod. Either way, the constituent members of the back-three seemed not to let each other know what they’d be doing.

3. Bergvall

With three goals having been shipped and Dragusin having been clouted about the loaf, one hardly batted an eyelid when Our Glorious Leader reverted to 4-3-3 type for the second half. One may have wanted to clear the throat and politely mention something about horses bolting, but nevertheless the switch back to the familiar seemed judicious.

Whether it was the formation, the fact that Everton already had three goals in the bag and eased up a tad or any other reason, our lot at least had the decency to look like they cared in the final 20 or so.

Young Bergvall, however, did not seem to mind which formation he was dropped into. He just set about doing one decent thing after another. It’s taken a couple of months, but the chap seems to have found his feet, and by my reckoning was amongst our best-performing squirts yesterday.

There was one fine sliding tackle early on in the piece, the sort that tends to prompt a nostalgic sigh as well as a nod of approval from this quarter; and halfway through the second half he pinged a dreamy 50-yard pass, up the right flank and perfectly weighted inside the full-back, to an onrushing winger.

And beyond these little highlights his overall contribution was neat and tidy as a minimum. Here is a chap fully aware of his responsibilities in chugging back to help out around his own penalty area, whilst also needing not too many invitations to pick up the ball and go wandering beyond halfway to see the sights.

4. Spence, Kinsky, Moore

As mentioned above, Spence was quite the attacking threat. As with Bergvall, one can imagine him impatiently waving away any instruction about formations and the like, preferring instead just to get his head down and gambol forward.

I’d suggest that he did not have his greatest day defensively, although plenty others also wore that particular badge yesterday. Going forward, however, Spence seemed to develop something of an obsession with the concept of weaving his way into the Everton penalty area and making merry.

A slight shame that his delivery for Sonny early on was not quite into the latter’s path, but if one can survey the entirety and conclude that we did not massively miss Udogie’s forward contributions, then there’s a feather for the Spence cap.

Young Kinsky once again did what could reasonably have been expected of him. Experts in the field might suggest that he went to ground a little early for the second goal, but that aside he produced more than his fair share of full-stretch, leaping saves.

This business of insisting on short passing from every goal-kick does, of course, drive to distraction most right-minded lilywhites, but it is presumably a tactic that is here to stay, and on instruction from above. Kinsky did foul up his record book with one particularly ghastly pass from the back, early in the second hlf, but by and large he seemed comfortable enough with the ball at his feet.

Nor is he a cove who sees the ball up beyond halfway and takes the opportunity to indulge in forty winks. Nice and alert throughout, he had to race from his post once or twice, to extinguish a couple of threats caused by those in front of him.

And in the latter stages we were treated to a cheery little cameo from young Mikey Moore. It’s a low bar, but he seemed to cram more into his 20 minutes than Sonny has produced in his last half-dozen games out on the left.

My Spurs-supporting chum Ian did note that Moore’s presence might actually have stifled Spence somewhat, the pair seeming to occupy the same lane if you get my drift, but on a day on which we made Everton look like Barcelona I’m hardly about to chide Moore for that.

He shows a directness of intent that is complemented by the trickery in his size eights, and as he demonstrated at the death, is well capable of delivering a cross of the delicious, convert-me variety.

5. Midfield Bite (Or Lack Thereof)

One can bang on until blue in face and coarse in voice about injuries and fatigue of course. One can find a way in which to voice the sentiment, preferably in a catchy, rhyming verse, that the manager ought to be removed.

However, the AANP gripe de jour is about our midfield. It’s actually a gripe that has bubbled away beneath the surface for a while now, but shot to prominence again yesterday as I observed various Everton bods amble unopposed from midway to our penalty area.

Expressed in the most basic Anglo-Saxon, our midfield desperately lacks a spot of back-door security. This could take the form of a tough tackler, although I’m not convinced we even need to make tackles. Someone who races around harassing and intercepting would suffice. Just to stop opponents waltzing straight through us, you understand.

Now credit where due, it seems that whichever lilywhites are picked in midfield will scurry urgently enough from Player A to Player B. No shortage of willing. The issue is that it’s all to no effect. Opponents simply pass around us and escape, without too many beads of perspiration spraying about the place.

By contrast, when, for example, Maddison takes possession for us, more often than not the opposition will close down the space and force him backwards. When I see such an episode play out, I do shoot a rather covetous glance at the opposition. That sort of thing would help our defence in spades. If our midfield can’t make tackles – and it’s always seemed a big ask at N17 – could they not at least prevent opponents advancing, and force them to pause and go backwards?

Each of Bergvall, Sarr, Maddison and Bentancur have their merits, but none seem particularly well sculpted for the aforementioned defensive roles, and I’m not sure it’s something that Bissouma on his own can carry out. It does seem to need a spot of collective effort.

Just another one for the Postecoglou in-tray I suppose, but this is an issue that has existed throughout his time around these parts, and frankly for most of the decades I’ve been watching our lot. Hoffenheim, Leicester and Elfsborg now become pretty seismic fixtures, which dulls the sense like you wouldn’t believe, but there we go.

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Spurs Books Uncategorized

New Spurs Book Out Now – “All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season”

“One could hardly suggest that when Son crept into view the coast was clear. The coast was crowded, and in fact fast becoming something of a claustrophobe’s nightmare. Bodies were advancing upon the poor lad like vultures getting right down to it for their daily spot of carcass.”

All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season is based loosely on the weekly chronicles of the Tottenham Hotspur blog All Action, No Plot, during 2023-24. That season will live long in the memory, as the beginning of an extraordinary, exhilarating new era under Ange Postecoglou – and no writer captured the madness as wittily as the AANP blogger, Michael Lacquiere. His combination of eloquent prose and ludicrous humour made for matchday reflections as compelling as the games themselves.

From the heady success of Postecoglou’s opening months in charge, which saw Spurs’ relentless attacking style take them to the top of the Premier League and dreaming of glory, to the turning-point of the season in an incredible nine-man defeat in November, through to a finale in which European qualification was secured while fans cheered on a home defeat, no team in the country was as entertaining as Tottenham. Relive Ange’s wild first season at Spurs with this match-by-match account from the pen of one of English football’s finest comic writers.

Out now for just £7.99, order your paperbook copy now from Amazon, in time for Christmas (ebook from £6.99).

All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season – the perfect stocking-filler for any Spurs fan.

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Spurs match reports Uncategorized

Bournemouth 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

Need a Christmas stocking-filler for the Spurs fan in your life? From Monday, AANP’s new book “All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season” will be available to buy for just £7.99!

1. Absences

AANP is pretty sharp, so when I saw travelling fans yelling at Our Glorious Leader, noted online forums filled with anti-Ange sentiment and received a slew of message from Spurs-supporting chums declaring the end of their patience with the man, it didn’t take me long to spot that something might be up.

And it couldn’t have been much more than 12 hours later that the penny dropped. Spurs fans across the land are starting to sprinkle their usual sunny outlooks with a few choice murmurs. Natives are growing restless. Die-hard Postecoglou fans are beginning to scrunch up their faces. The point here is that the pressure is mounting like nobody’s business upon The Big Cheese, to change things for the better.

If you want a stick with which to beat the man they come in all shapes and sizes at the moment. Take set-pieces, for example, an area on which I heard Ange moaning that we’ve only conceded three goals this season, but which appeared pretty obviously to be a fatal flaw last night. Then there’s the chap’s tactics, which since Day One have tended to stipulate, from top to bottom and inclusive of all detail, ‘Attack’, with seemingly minimal scope for just about any other nuance that might stiffen things up a tad at the rear.

I could go on a fair bit, but one gets the picture. All is not well. The occasional rampant wins of recent months don’t seem to count for much when the team is outplayed by both Fulham and Bournemouth within the space of five days.

Personally, while I’m not touring the local guillotine stores just yet, I won’t deny that the mood has darkened somewhat over the last week. It’s the absence of performances of swash and buckle that is putting the bird on me. I could put up with the odd bobbins of a result here and there, if we were still swarming all over the opposition throughout the 90, but on Sunday and then again last night, our heroes were pretty alarmingly off the pace.

Rather than demand a pound of Aussie flesh however, I’m more inclined to point to squad depth – or lack thereof – as the issue that has me bristling at present. Now one may well roll the eyes, fling a blunt object at my head and point out that set-pieces and bonkers tactics have been glaring concerns since long before the squad was decimated, and will continue to be GCs long after the invalids are all restored to full health. And that would be a pretty compelling point.

One might also point out that every club in every division has their fair share of injury-induced sob stories, so our heroes might as well stiffen the upper lips, slap on a bandage and get back out there.

Here, however, I would raise a disagreeing finger. While all teams no doubt do have injuries, I’d suggest that few are without both centre-backs and goalkeepers for any length of time. Indeed, were such a fate to befall your average Premier League team, one could well imagine a slightly shonky run of results kicking in.

In particular, I cast the mind back to the fuss made over the absence of but one player at Man City, and consider that our lot – and our manager – are probably due a bit of breathing space. Similarly, when Woolwich lost the principal cog in their machine, the absence of that single player sent them off into a brief freefall.

What I’m getting at is that absences of key players are a bit of a pain, and a good bet to disrupt even the hardiest outfits.

The troubling nature of it all is ramped up a few notches when one throws in a fixture-list that is pretty solidly twice-a-week stuff from now until the new year, meaning that even the reserves are now being relied upon constantly. As well as the dip in quality that this brings, it also means that none of those involved, be they regulars or reserves, are allowed much chance to have a night off, put their feet up and catch their breath.

Skipping to the sorry conclusion of all this, it means that our lot simply are not as energetic as they should be for a system such as Angeball, since they’re constantly being called upon. And to hammer home the sorry state of things, as well as not playing particularly well when every last ounce of energy is being ground out of them, they are also more likely to crumple in some heap and point to an offending hamstring or groin or whatever, as demonstrated by Ben Davies last night.

Clearly, then, the solution is to skip back in time a few months and prop up the squad with a few more signings in critical areas (if you think things are bad now sans Vicario, Romero and VDV, just wait until Porro and Udogie limp off in the coming weeks).

I suppose one might also suggest that nibs like Spence, Bergvall and Lankshear could be used a bit more to spread the load, but the informed response to that would presumably be that these chaps are simply not yet good enough. One might also suggest that given the non-stop galloping required of this system, at least one member of The Brains Trust ought to have foreseen that injuries would ravage the place at some point, and stocked the cupboard accordingly, but there we are. From AANP Towers, all remaining personnel look utterly spent.

2. Archie Gray

As for the match itself, and the cast list who performed it, there wasn’t too much to whistle cheerily about. Archie Gray at least looked a mite more comfortable – which is to say he looked a mite less uncomfortable – at right-back than he had previously done in European jollies in that position.

He still is pretty obviously a midfielder being asked to make up in youth and willing what he massively lacks in know-how at full-back. However, when we were in possession and he was granted licence to sniff around in the opposition half, he seemed rather game. In fact, whacky though it sounds, I’d rather like to see him get a start in central midfield some time, for he seems keen to bob about on the ball and seek out short passes.

Not much chance of that happening, of course, with centre-back seemingly his next destination, which ought to be an adventure. He gave it 20 or so there last night, and did about as well as one might expect I suppose. In truth, the basics of defending seem still to confuse him at times, but it’s hardly surprising.

3. Forster

If you woke up this morning with the bright idea of trying neatly to categorise Fraser Forster’s evening, I offer you one of those sympathetic shoulder-pats. Bit of a mixed bag from the great hulking tree trunk of a man.

On the one hand there was another string of pretty top-notch saves – all close-range, instinctive stuff, the type it’s easy to take for granted, but which on reflection does make you give a little nod of approval.

On the other hand, however, there was the calamitous pass that led to Bournemouth’s disallowed goal. Actually rather a shame in my book, because it seems to me that these tales of Forster’s gross inability with his feet are vastly overcooked. He’s no Luka Modric when it comes to picking a pass, admittedly, but by and large he seems to complete the task reasonably enough each time.

Until he doesn’t, I suppose, and the pass to the Bournemouth chappie was absolutely dripping in risk, as well as being a few notches off the mark. Forster at least had the decency to redeem himself with another of those mightily impressive saves of his, but one could hardly just focus on the save and bat off its disastrous prequel.

It’s a little difficult therefore to stamp an 8 out of 10 on his performance. One cannot really gloss over the misplaced passes that bring about the downfall of the collective – in much the same way as one can hardly ignore Dragusin’s ill-timed walkabout for the Bournemouth goal, and just claim that he was fairly neat and tidy throughout. These things matter. We can’t have our clan-members scattering around mistakes that end up with the ball in our net, and shrugging it off as part of the deal.

Frankly though, this defeat owed more to collective failings than any individual error – and as I yammered about earlier, the rapidly dropping energy levels about the place strike me as having a lot to do with this.