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Arsenal 2-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

Even Duo Lingo stuck the knife in after this one.

1. Kinsky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Older Heads

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

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

2.1 Son

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

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

2.2 Kulusevski

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

2.3 Porro

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

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

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

2.4 Johnson, Egads

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

2.5 Maddison

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The Younger Heads

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Fatigue? Tactics?

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

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

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

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

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

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Tamworth 0-3 Spurs: Two 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. Not Really A Triumph

A pretty solid day’s work for the Ange Out brigade, I’d have thought. It’s one thing to labour away against Fulham or Bournemouth or whomever, but a pretty different kettle of fish to give it the sideways-sideways-backwards against a fifth-tier team.

Nor was this one of those binges in which our lot hit the post four times, had a couple of disallowed by offside and another blocked on the line by an errant dog. For the most part we didn’t look remotely like scoring. Indeed, at times the whole thing resembled one of those training ground circuits in which the goals are removed completely and the purpose is just to pass the ball in any direction 20 consecutive times, and then have a breather and start again.

Our Glorious Leader opted to wear his ‘Couldn’t Care Less, We’re Through To The Next Round Mate’ hat in the post-match chinwag, but I do wonder if he were quite so shrug-of-the-shoulders about it all when the doors of the inner sanctum were locked and he could stare into the whites of the eyes of some of his millionaire troops.

The attitude de jour seemed to be to go through the motions and expect the other lot to lie down and have their tummies tickled. This was frustrating enough, but it also struck me that by simply dialling up the tempo a couple of notches the whole thing could have been wrapped up by half-time.

And for clarity, by ‘dialling up the tempo’ I mean releasing the ball as soon as received. One-touch football. Two-touch if absolutely, desperately required. But in general, an approach of jimmying things along as if an urgent appointment awaited, would have been the ticket. A spot of quick ping-pinging and Tamworth would have pretty quickly been either dragged out of position or been sufficiently tired out to make a few positional errors.

It’s a suggestion I offer, by the way, by virtue of moonlighting every other week as a commentator in the National League South (one step below Tamworth). An earnest bunch at that level, but to suggest that even at their most resilient and motivated they are impossible to ease apart is to overcook things pretty wildly .

Our second goal, featuring an inventive dart into space from Kulusevski and neat pass between defenders from Sonny, was pretty much the template that ought to have been unveiled from the off, or at least in the second half when one would have expected the gulf in fitness levels to bloom away.

Still, it’s done now, and I suppose if come May we’re treated to Sonny waving the shiny pot above his head we went give too many hoots about the mid-January near-bungling of things. To bang on about the unnecessary drama made of an FA Cup 3rd round win is a bit like grumbling about the pre-World Cup friendlies. Not really worth the fuss, ultimately.

2. Johnson

Maddison at least seemed to care; Bergvall again showed a pleasing willingness to run with the ball straight through the centre, from circa the halfway line to some coordinates within the final third; and Kinsky ticked the ‘Handles set-pieces when being treated to a buffeting’ box. However, as remarked, there was a general lethargy about our mob that made one want to remove oneself from one’s seat after 90 minutes, and forego any more of that rot.

He may have bagged a goal at the death, but I was particularly pricked by the contribution of young Johnson B. (and I use the term ‘contribution’ in one heck of a loose sense, make no mistake).

Mikey Moore, Johnson’s left-flanked equivalent, at least got the memo after half-time that he was allowed to run at his man. Timo Werner could maybe argue that he was only as good as the service he received, as the central striker. But if the general mood about our mob was to resent even being there at all, Johnson I thought took the lead.

Most weeks in the league I do slap a frustrated thigh at the chap for not simply doing more to involve himself. You know the sort of thing I mean. Making a run into space, or showing for a short one-two, or in some other way just generally wanting to leave a bit of a stamp on things.

Now his knack for arriving as an auxiliary striker at the far post, when attacks are emanating on the left, is pretty priceless stuff. Credit where due. If you want a far-post tap-in, Johnson is as often as not your man. A frightfully useful habit, that, especially when Solanke is busy with his hold-up stuff further south.

But Johnson really ought to be offering more in other respects, specifically by making himself a bit of a force down the right flank, the sort against whom your standard left-back would groan inwardly and mutter, “Crivens, I’m not looking forward to the next ninety-plus”.

Today, however, and not for the first team, I wanted to head to the stadium, leap the hoardings, grab the man and give him a good shake by the shoulders, and possibly a clip around the ear. Anything to convey the general message that he ought to buck up his ideas and start bossing matters.

He’s not the only one, of course. As mentioned, Maddison beavered, and Bissouma was generally neat and tidy, but the others further north (and both full-backs) all seemed to be singing from the dirge-like Johnson hymnsheet.

Still, having beaten Liverpool and drawn over 90 minutes against Tamworth, I suppose it would be rather like our heroes now to swerve to ‘Sublime’ once again at Woolwich in midweek.

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Spurs match reports

Rangers 1-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

OUT NOW! The new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is the perfect stocking-filler for any Spurs fan. Get yours now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. Werner and Ange’s Comments

An early vox pops suggest that AANP is in a minority on this one, but I raised an eyebrow at Our Glorious Leader’s post-match critique of Timo Werner.

A bit of admin is probably needed here in the first place, just so that everyone knows where they stand. For a start, there’s Ange’s own take on it. From the horse’s mouth:

“He wasn’t playing at anywhere near the level he should be. Timo’s first-half performance was not acceptable to me. I told Timo that he’s a German international, that I need everyone to be trying to give their best and this wasn’t an acceptable example. I expect a lot more from the senior guys.”

And if you want a sense of the tone in which he soliloquyed, think Angry Bear Tries To Use Looks Alone To Kill Press Conference Attendees.

Next up there’s AANP’s own take on Werner’s 45 minutes’ worth last night. For clarity, I’m hardly defending the chap’s performance. If you close your eyes, block out the background hubbub and try to imagine literally any Timo Werner performance in our colours over the last 12 months, you’ve probably hit the bullseye. It was that.

More specifically, his finishing was poor and his crossing was poor, but he seemed as willing a runner as ever. He tried, as he always does; and his output was exasperatingly off, as it always is. (He also embellished things, if that’s really the word I want, with one moment in which he miscontrolled a whopping pass from Fraser Forster, which would have had us off and away, so that made for a conspicuous lowlight – but it hardly seems fair to throw him down the pan for a single doltish moment.)

The point I’m getting at is that this just struck me as standard Werner fare. By which I suppose I mean it was actually pretty sub-standard, but still exactly what we’re used to.

And precisely because it was all so normal, I’m slightly taken aback by Ange’s post-match sting. Not like him to single out a chappie and pour hot oil over them, what? If he’s going to indulge in a spot of Werner-bashing, why now? He’s had 25 appearances for our lot, most of which have been around the same level, after all.

On top of which, if he’s going to bash anyone, why Werner? Let’s face it, there have been no shortage of performances from various amongst our number that have stunk the place out over the past 18 months or so.

It might have been a carefully choreographed spiel, part of a wider plan to ensure that all squad members see a spot of public lashing and think to themselves, “Crikey, I’d better pull up my own socks”; or it might be that Ange’s patience with Werner’s constant butchering of his lines has finally run out. Either way, though, I gave the chin a bit of a stroke at that one.

2. Dragusin and Gray

It’s becoming a big day for AANP failing to read the mood in the room, for when I cheerily put it to my Spurs-supporting chum Dave that Dragusin was doing a bit better than normal (a low bar, admittedly, but let’s crack on), he hit back with some pretty scything patter, the gist of which seemed to be that last night was the straw that had broken the back of that particular camel, and that he had given up on the fellow.

Now I appreciate that Dragusin’s passing was somewhat errant. Indeed, he seemed to have decided to create his own entertainment for himself, in closing his eyes, picking a random direction and firing out the ball in said direction. Endless fun for him; a bit less thrilling for his teammates.

However, putting aside his curious distribution, when it came to the fundamentals of central defending, I chalked this up as one of his better days. There was none of the Romero-esque charges upfield to challenge for loose balls and thereby leave yawning gaps behind him. Instead, Dragusin adopted generally sensible positions, and did a solid enough job of blocking, intercepting and in some instances politely shoving.

Rangers at various periods gave us a bit of a hammering; Dragusin was generally there to help repel them.

And I thought that young Gray could be similarly marked, in terms of making a mess of things in possession (via the medium of dribbles from the back that were abruptly ended, rather than errant passing) but also putting in a pretty solid showing when it came to the basics of defending.

Gray probably merits a slightly extended wittering, being not only inexperienced as a player but completely new to the position. To be thrust into that sort of environment, in a role for which he has had precious little training over the years, and plough through the full 90 without any notable errors, merits a tip of the cap.

As mentioned, he did run into trouble pretty much every time he tried to bring the ball out of defence, but even there I’m inclined to turn him a kindly eye. If Romero, VDV, Dragusin etc peeled off that sort of thing I’d admittedly unleash both barrels. But, truth be told, I was actually rather impressed that Gray had the confidence to try carrying the ball forward from the back. He’ll perhaps need to learn when to finish sashaying and when to pass the thing; but he seems to have the ability to do it. All in all, a fairly impressive first stab in the role from the young imp.

3. Porro and the Same Old Goal

A few weeks ago some footage sprung up on the interweb of our lot conceding three or four different goals, in near-identical fashion. In each instance they were deliveries from the opposition right, which reached the far post, an area nominally the domain of one Pedro Porro – but the punchline here is that in each instance young P.P. was a long way off current events, and the relevant opposition bobbie was able to convert unopposed from a slightly-left-of-centre area.

Well of course, it happened again last night. One might point out that the detail around the edges was a little different – this one emanating from a cross from deep – but the principle dashed well remains. Whatever the hell goes on between the Porro ears, one can bet one’s mortgage on it not being anything about defending at the far post.

He might angrily wave a hand or two and complain that actually he was in the vicinity, closer than anyone else in fact. However, were he to do so, by way of riposte I’d remove a shoe, throw it at his head, and yell at him that being in the vicinity is no good at all if he’s going to let the opponent wander goal side of him, with a neat circumference around him of two or three yards that is exclusively his, in which to conduct himself as he pleases.

Porro, in common with most defenders in Ange-era Spurs, seems to consider that the principal role of a defender is to contribute to attacks, preferably by stationing himself north of halfway. It makes the forehead veins absolutely bulge to popping level to see him constantly five yards behind his opposing forward whenever they counter-attack.

This was all the more galling yesterday, given the considered efforts of Gray and Dragusin to put out fires more centrally. If Ange really did want to have a pop at those players gumming things up, he might have just as easily have picked on Porro.

4. Midfield Lack of Bite

As always seems to be the case, it felt that whichever team had the ball last night looked they would score within a pass or two.

When our lot purr they look capable of scoring against the best defences around, and our goal yesterday was lovely stuff – patience at the back before a few slick, one-touch passes to get us from A to B, and then a spot of smart decision-making around the edge of the area.

Equally, however, when having lost possession, alarm bells sound all over the place. And much of the reason for this is the wisp-like nature of our midfield. Slap bang on the five-minute mark, Bentancur was barged off the ball and into a different dimension by a Rangers sort (quite likely that Raskin chap, who made a habit of it all night), and it struck me as summing up not just the current Tottenham vintage but every Spurs side I’ve seen since first casting eyes upon them in the 80s.

Earnest beans like Johnson, Maddison, Son, Werner, Bentancur, Bergvall (who I thought gave his best performance so far last night, very Bentancur-esque) and so on will all bob about in the right places when we lose possession, and make a bit of a demonstration of trying to dip in an impeding foot, but it’s all pretty much decorative. They know, we know and the opposition know that our midfield really isn’t going to stop anything. The real business begins when the ball is shoved straight past them, and Forster and the back-four have to defend the penalty area.

Whether this is due to individuals just not winning their own personal duels, or something more structural, is beyond me. Whatever the reason, we remain alarmingly easy to attack, and end up simply rely upon scoring enough, rather than preventing the other lot.

Bissouma is the one chap upon whom much of the responsibility lies actually to prevent opposition attacks at source, and while he generally pops up two or three times per game with a useful enough tackle of some species, in general he’s not really demonstrated an ability to hold down the entire fort single-handedly.

So it’s a bit of a pickle, but that, I suppose, is why Our Glorious Leader is paid the fat envelope.

Credit to our lot nevertheless, for coming from behind, evidently not an easy thing to do in the circumstances. At full strength I’d have expected us to rock up and win against that lot, but given the current list of absentees, and the fact that we were second best for much of the night, a point represents pretty healthy stock. One hopes that those in the corridors of power are starting to take the hint, and will be dusting off their chequebooks this January.

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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 1-1 Fulham: Three Tottenham Talking Points

Need a Christmas stocking-filler for the Spurs fan in your life? Keep your eyes peeled, because AANP’s new book “All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season” will soon be appearing on this site.

1. Dragusin

Radu Dragusin reminds me a little of Eric Dier. Now I suppose if you’re a particularly kindly soul, you may clasp your hands together in joy, a beaming smile across your map, and murmur, “Oh, how charming!” or something similar.

Unfortunately, if this were the case I’d have to step right in and cut you off mid-flow. The Dier-esque epithets I toss at Dragusin are hardly complimentary. Quite the opposite, in fact. This is not to suggest that Dragusin stank the place out from first bell to last. It’s more to suggest that so far in his lilywhite career he seems more brawn than brain, and specifically brawn of the slow-moving, slightly lumbering brand. Dier-esque, one might suggest.

And if you’re stroking the chin at that, I’d direct you towards yesterday’s offerings to ram home the point. In fact, I could direct you towards any one of Dragusin’s recent string of four or five games. Perhaps generously waving aside that Galatasaray game as an exceptionally off-night, his outputs have generally failed to inspire confidence. Admittedly he has, without fail, puffed out his chest, chewed his gum and certainly looked like one who considers himself master of all he surveys. But when it actually comes to the delivering as pledged, one does scrunch the face a little, and politely point out that he’s messing up some of the basics.

The early signs yesterday were promising enough, as his first major involvement was to shove out of possession some Fulham scamp who was trying to beat him for pace on the flank. In the appropriate context, Dragusin is clearly capable of applying some upper-body mass to lend force to an argument.

Not long afterwards, however, his Eric Dier Tribute Act really gathered momentum when he made a bit of a lunge around halfway. It was the sort of challenge which is fine in principle, but in practice does require a certain sharpness from the blocks. Dragusin, however, is not really the sort who can spring in lightning quick fashion from a standing start. I’m not sure he can spring in lightning quick fashion from a running start either, to be honest. Anyway, for whatever reason, the Fulham lad’s nipping away of the ball was carried out at a far quicker speed than Dragusin’s lunge, and Fulham were away.

I also noted that the two clear-cut chances Fulham made in the first half, were presented to the man who Dragusin, along with the ever-vacant Porro, was supposed to be monitoring.

So far, so Dier. What then emphasised the likeness in my eyes was a couple of his attempts to distribute the ball further north. These, quite simply, missed their target, gifting possession to Fulham around halfway and thereby prompting an about-turn from all in lilywhite.

Now it’s worth emphasising here that in criminally misdirecting passes of between 5 and 15 yards, Dragusin was by no means the sole culprit. It was indicative of a generally horrendous performance amongst the entire outfield mob that seemed utterly incapable of stringing a few basic passes together without the radar shutting down and the ball hitting a red shirt.

Nevertheless, this hardly excused Dragusin. Neither did it do much to instil confidence.

As mentioned above, this was not unadulterated filth from the chap throughout. He had good moments as well as bad, I simply noted a bit too much in the Debit column for my liking. He ended up with a big thick tick in the Credit column, however, with that stoppage-time clearance off the line after Ben Davies’ solid, retreating trundle saw him beaten for pace. As such, I suppose that as third or fourth-choice centre-back he’s competent enough. Moreover, it can take a good year or so for these foreign fellows to find their feet in the Premier League, so he might yet improve considerably. I just found myself shaking my head at him once too often yesterday, and recalling a former member of the parish.

2. Forster

AANP occasionally watches a spot of tennis to pass an idle hour, and one notion that occurred to me on seeing Andy Murray recently call time on his career, was that it was rotten luck for him to be born when he was. Not much he could have done about it of course. In my experience babies will often delay things for a week or two, for sport, but there’s not much scope for them to press pause for a whole decade. Not the done thing.

So Murray was stuck with the era in which popped up, and as such had to look on a little forlornly as three of the best players ever hoovered up most of the gongs. And in a roundabout way, having watched Fraser Forster pull off  a number of goal-worthy reflex saves that kept us in the game yesterday, the thought occurred that, in a different era, he too might have been feted one of the very best in the business.

Certainly his shot-stopping, in his couple of engagements so far, has been of the highest quality. In general too, being of sturdy construction and about fourteen feet tall, he deals with crosses in pretty dominant fashion. With such qualities to his name, had he sprung up in the 80s, 90s or 00s, for example, he might well have been regarded as one of the elite.

These days, however, the standard goalkeeper plucked from the street is expected first and foremost to pass from feet. From the back, and over short distances. Show composure and accuracy with the ball at your feet, seems to be the instruction, and the stuff with the hands can be tacked on later.

Gone are the days when the goalkeeper’s work was done upon having grasped the ball, and they could simply kick from their hands over halfway, and lean back against the goalpost for a snooze. If they can’t pass ten yards to their nearby colleagues, and occasionally bypass half the opposition with a 20-yarder through the lines, then they won’t get a look in.

When it comes to passing from feet, Forster actually competent enough, from what we see, but one wouldn’t really grade him any more highly than that. One or two of his passes yesterday did go a bit rogue and land at Fulham feet. I suppose one might argue that that can happen to the best of us from time to time, but the point is that he does not really come across as one whose greatest forte is as a ball-player.

To repeat, however, his saves won us a point yesterday. Due to a general air of incompetence from those around him, Fulham were allowed far too many efforts on goal, several of which were of the clear-cut variety, and at least two required Forster to churn out some point-blank stuff. And let’s face it, point-blank saves are as close as goalkeepers will get to scoring themselves.

3. Quite the Off-Day

Forster and his shot-stopping aside, it is difficult to muster up too much enthusiasm about any other individuals. Maddison beavered, and picked one or two passes that quickened the pulse, but one would only describe him as a constant menace, or something similar, if one had fingers crossed behind one’s back and a pretty guilty-looking expression etched across the face.

There some extenuating circumstances, for Solanke soldiers away like an absolute trooper when available – and one of those troopers who delights in getting covered with filth if it helps the collective – so his absence, and the unavailability of Richarlison, hamstrung us like nobody’s business. It might have been a day to start young Lankshear, but that’s not a grumble into which I’m going to put much lung-power. The lad still looks a tad undercooked.

Without a dominant focal point our lot were unable to hold up the ball, and generally seemed a bit lost as to what the point of the whole thing was once they gained possession. As front-threes go, it is difficult to imagine a more soft and delicate combo than Son, Werner and Johnson. One understands the decision to give Kulusevski a bit of a breather, but no Solanke or Richarlison about the place either, it left us frightfully lightweight in attack.

AANP has generally been pretty forgiving of Angeball and Our Glorious Leader. When we lose games having had 20 shots on goal, I’ll tend to shrug it off, on the grounds that, by and large, playing that way we’ll win (and handsomely so) more than we’ll lose/draw. Indeed, hearty batterings of various half-decent sides this season seem to bear that out.

Where the mood darkens, however, is when a general insipidity washes over the collective from start to finish. The fact that Fulham can beetle up to our place and conjure up more shots on target,  and slope off feeling aggrieved not to have won, is pretty troubling. As mentioned, generally when we fail to win it’s just because a stream of shots failed to find the net; but yesterday (and against Palace a month or two ago), darker forces were at work.

Bizarrely, we remain only 5 points off second, but if anything this hammers home the frustration of having dropped more eminently winnable points.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Ipswich: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Neither Good Nor Dreadful

AANP is one of those peculiar coves who is happiest when things are put in their proper place. I always like to put a label on a thing, if possible. Just find it makes life a bit simpler. And armed with that inside info you may well imagine me brooding away like nobody’s business as I trudged my way up the White Hart Lane station steps yesterday, because this performance seemed neither one thing nor another.

Our finest hour it most definitely was not. No doubt on that front. A home defeat to the team bottom of the pile will automatically be classified as a clanger, no matter how much one dresses it up. Three points lost in the wind. (I’m rather astonished to note, if anyone needed a dash more salt rubbed into the wound, that victory would somehow have sent us up to third over the international break.)

However, as I pored over the performance minute by minute, I was hardly the exasperated ball of frustration that one can often be in these instances. This was not one of those afternoons the majority of which our heroes spent rather gormlessly switching play from left to right and back again, ad infinitum, pausing only to scratch their heads and shrug their shoulders. Admittedly this was not a procession of clear-cut opportunities either, but our lot did work their way into the area on a fairly regular basis.

In the first half this tended to take the form of overly intricate little one-twos, which, let’s face it, are always a bit of an ask. Solanke would eye-of-a-needle it through to Kulusevski, who duly tried to e-o-a-n it straight back to him, and all the while Ipswich legs appeared in every available space, making the whole thing play out like one of those zombie shows one sees on the tellybox, in which the undead crowd around in ever-increasing numbers until there’s nowhere left to turn and one finds oneself in quite the pickle.

Even so, with a bit more of the sniper’s eye we might have had some winnings, with Sonny setting up Johnson for a straightforward chance in the opening minutes, Sonny himself having a ping after having taken the mazy route, and then Solanke’s turn and shot drawing a save, all in that first half. Not clear-cut stuff by any means, but I was at least heartened that we were finding routes to goal by various means.

The main issue, particularly in that first half, seemed to be that the final pass was inadvertently bisecting the relevant souls in lilywhite – which, depending on your point of view was rotten luck or careless distribution – but either way, it suggested that the problem was not any particular lack of imagination.

And similarly in the second half, while there was still an imbalance in the old perspiration-inspiration ratio, I thought our lot nevertheless at least looked interested. One got the sense that if you were to wander onto the pitch and tap one of them on the shoulder, they would have waved you away with some irritation, perhaps calling out as they raced off, “Not now Rupert, or Helga, or whatever your name is, I’m trying to dig out a goal from somewhere.”

The point I’m driving at is that while I’ve certainly seem more lip-smacking fare peddled at the shiny new stadium, this at least was not one of those numbers in which everyone looked thoroughly bored and uninterested. This was not Palace away.

2. Dragusin

After his midweek heroics the AANP eye was inextricably drawn towards Radu Dragusin’s every move yesterday, a morbid fascination seizing me. And when he opened his account by losing his bearings in the opening minute, mistiming a header and then seeming to forget where he was or what he was supposed to be doing, I clenched every muscle and withheld breath.

Fortunately, however, thereafter he gave evidence that those around him had had a quiet word in the ear, because of his atrocious attempts to dribble out from defence there was not a whiff. “Just give a simple pass, Radu, and keep your head down,” was evidently the instruction hammered home to him non-stop since Thursday night. In terms of playing out from the back, he did at least avoid any seismic catastrophe.

One might even suggest that his was a performance worthy of a third-choice centre-back. He loosely adopted the correct coordinates, and did not go to ground or hack at a limb or make any other species of appalling and unnecessary defensive howler.

I’m even happy to exonerate him for the second goal, a routine that many of his detractors might have seized upon and gleefully labelled Exhibit A. As far as I can see Dragusin adopted a sensible enough position to block a square pass, and was just unfortunate that Vicario shoved the ball at him from a yard away. Not much any sizeable Romanian can do about that sort of circumstance. (If anything, I chide Romero, for having pulled his usual party-trick of abandoning his post to charge 5 yards upfield and try to win a tackle, leaving a gap behind him into which Ipswich duly trotted.)

Dragusin, however, was far from blameless throughout. For the opening goal he took a leaf out of the Romero book and went wandering off to the left flank. One dishes out a generous dollop of understanding here, as this was the little mini-passage of play into which he’d been sucked, so it made some sense for him to trust his colleagues to cover behind him while he tried to tie down an end.

However, as Ipswich then readied a cross from their right, it was Dragusin’s responsibility to block off this route, and here his efforts rather fell off a cliff. Instead of charging at the man lining up the cross, his gigantic frame extending in all directions, he merely stood where he was and half-turned his body. ‘Perfunctory’ might be the term to describe his input. A token gesture at best. Certainly not the action of a man whose life depends upon preventing a cross.

And lest he think onlookers consider this the only blot on his escutcheon, he has another think coming, because when Ipswich twice came within a whisker of taking the lead in the early stages, on both occasions one could grab the nearest spotlight and swivel it in Dragusin’s direction. The save Vicario had to make inside the first minute was prompted by a Dragusin mistake up by halfway on the left; and a few minutes later when one of their bimbos looped a header against the bar from a corner, he did so having shuffled far too easily goal-side of Dragusin.

Individual defensive ability is hardly the forte of any of our back-four, so one cannot exactly lock him in a cell and throw away the key; but equally he has done little so far to suggest that in him we have stumbled upon a rock-steady reserve.

3. Porro

A curious little blighter young Porro, if ever I saw one. I banged a drum on these pages a few weeks back (after the Brighton match, if memory serves) about how our defenders seem to be more concerned with – and adept at – attacking, rather than defending. Yesterday, Porro set about his business as if determined to take every going opportunity to reinforce that particular point.

Of his attacking prowess the examples were plentiful and strong. Most notably, he won the corner from which we scored, with a little burst that was a decent cocktail of enterprise and skill. He received the ball from a throw, which admittedly was not much to write home about, but then nutmegged his man, accelerated away from him to emphasise the point and then sent in the sort of cross for which any half-decent striker yearns, all pace and curl.

This raid was duly headed behind for a corner, but Porro then continued his good work by delivering this into a cracking spot, on the corner of the six-yard box at the near post, and with enough pace and height for Bentancur simply to have to angle his neck in order to score.

Porro was similarly sprightly in other offensive raids, either in swinging in crosses, playing through-balls or on one occasion volleying with pinpoint accuracy from right to left, to switch play with an almighty diagonal. Nothing but fat ticks against his name in an attacking sense, then.

However, inevitably, at the back Porro gave every impression of being the young cad who skipped class on Defence Lesson Day. Every time Ipswich sought to sally forward they were well-advised to target our right, because if anyone were in the market for crosses you could bet a tidy sum that Porro would do little to prevent them. For Porro, it seemed sufficient to run alongside his opposing winger, and if a little additional window dressing were required, he might even be persuaded to extend an unthreatening leg. That, however, was clearly his limit. Run alongside and stick out a purely symbolic leg, and thereafter he could clock off, and assume the role of spectator with the best seat in the house.

Neither has it escaped AANP’s attention quite how many goals we concede from blighters left to their own devices in what one might term the Porro area of the six-yard box, when a cross comes in from the other side. Yesterday was a case in point, other examples this season abound.

Johnson can be hauled in at this juncture for a bit of a lashing, he failing to prevent Ipswich’s opener with a timid reluctance to engage that was the most quintessentially Spurs-like challenge imaginable; but Porro rarely seems to offer much value in those scenarios. Not for the first time yesterday, one sunk one’s head into one’s hands and yearned for defenders who can actually defend.

4. Werner

In closing, a brief word on Herr Werner, for a cameo of which I had not thought him capable. His performances, and specifically his one-on-one misses, so far this season, have rather forcefully created the impression that here is a left-winger not quite fit for purpose. Hear the name Timo Werner, and the Pavlovian reaction has been to groan.

I’m full of willing for the chap to succeed of course, and dutifully gave him the polite hand when he wobbled on with 20 or so left yesterday, but to say the heart leapt at the sight of him would be embellishing things somewhat.

Werner, however, seemed to approach matters yesterday like a man if not quite transformed then certainly pretty invigorated. It helped, I suppose, that he was not presented with a straightforward chance and an age in which to convert it. Instead, his afternoon primarily consisted of wing play on the left, and in this respect he was pretty impressive just about every time he received the ball. I was mightily bucked by the whole thing.

Specifically, he seemed capable of beating his man for pace every time the urge gripped him; and these successes were typically followed up by a selection of pretty impressive crosses into the six-yard sort of vicinity. Pedro Porro no doubt looked on admiringly.

Moreover, Werner even had the gumption to cut infield and unleash a solid shot or two. These in particular had me rubbing the eyes, but I suppose it just goes to show what one neat and tidy goal against Man City will do to a man. Just a shame that he leant back and skied his big opportunity near the end, after linking up with Sonny on the left, but, perhaps because the bar of expectation was so low, his seemed a surprisingly positive contribution.

Of course, a few good crosses from Timo Werner does little to soften the broader blow. Not for the first time this season our heroes have followed a mightily impressive win with a pretty exasperating loss, the sum of which is a fair old amount of head-scratching, punctuated by some wistful looks at the league table.

AANP is a big fan of the notion that goal difference is a handy indicator of how a team plays, and by that metric our attacking, in general, is pretty hot stuff once we’re up and running. The simplicity with which we ship in goals at the other end, however, will have a frown etched over the dial for the coming weeks, make no mistake.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 4-1 Villa: Three(ish) Tottenham Talking Points

1. Some Lovely Goals

You’ll have to excuse AANP for adopting all the subtlety of a tabloid rag, but I’ll start the wittering today with the headline stuff. No doubt there are reams to be written about all the tactical minutiae and subtle dialogue that bubbled away beneath the surface for the first 45, but when one is treated to four goals as humdinging in their own special ways as ours were today, one has to pause and ask oneself, where else could one possibly start?

1.1 Our First Goal

Although Brennan Johnson deserves to have his hair ruffled for sneaking his way to the front of the queue while the doormen weren’t looking, and duly hoovering up from the platter in front of him (an act almost certainly designed to ram back down AANP’s throat the decision to expel him from my Fantasy Team), the real hero of our opening goal was Sonny.

Any cross from the flank is generally a means to an end, very much playing a supporting role in the great scheme of attacking things. Every once in a while, however, one is treated to a cross so dripping in quality that the eyes bulge from their moorings and a spontaneous soundtrack of gasps breaks out to accompany it. Sonny’s delivery for our first goal was of this ilk.

Oddly enough, it seemed to spring into existence from nowhere. I vaguely recall Son having received the ball out wide on the left on numerous occasions in the first half, without having really given any indication that a cross for the ages was on the cards. But in keeping with the general post-break uptick in intensity, in minute 49 he did not dwell too long on the potential implications, and instead, as soon as allowed a yard of space, put his head down and wrapped his foot around the ball.

As mentioned, that Johnson eventually scrawled his signature on the bottom of the thing to make it official was almost incidental. The quality of the inbound delivery, in this instance, was everything. Curl, pace, optimal height – whatever a striker of sound mind would add to their wish-list for a delivery from out wide, this cross had it. Not to have converted it would have been a travesty bordering on the criminal.

1.2 Our Second Goal

The highlight of our second goal was undoubtedly the finish. I had been muttering to my Spurs-supporting chum Ian that Solanke, as far as I can remember, has yet to have benefitted from a straightforward one-on-one during his time in lilywhite. He’s poked in a few close-range rebounds, and been crowded out while trying to fashion a chance from the edge of the area, but I can’t quite recall one of those Werner-esque opportunities when the striker eyeballs the goalkeeper, time stands still and it’s just the two of them locking horns.

Well thanks to some whizz-popping outside the area by Johnson and Kulusevski, Solanke had his big moment, and by golly the finish he produced was a doozy.

With the spotlight on Solanke, and a couple of games in his rear-view mirror in which he’d not had so much as a sniff of goal, when the ball broke for him inside the area one might have feared a lack of confidence. Not a bit of it. With AANP baying for him to lash the thing, Solanke unwrapped a manoeuvre that only those pumped to the gills with confidence can dare to attempt, and, allowing Martinez to spread himself about the place like a prime chump, dinked the ball over him to nestle almost nonchalantly in the net.

If Sonny’s earlier assist merited a commemorative mural somewhere off the High Road, then this finish from Solanke merits similar consideration. It doesn’t matter how they go in, I suppose, but that finish had me viewing the man with awe etched across my features for the remainder.

And within the generally approving din, one ought not to neglect the build-up to that goal. I’m not sure that Johnson necessarily intended his first-time pass to Kulusevski just outside the area, but there can be no doubt that Kulusevski meant the short diagonal pass that cut to ribbons the Villa back-line. Kulusevski’s pass practically tore in half the defender tasked with monitoring Solanke as he tried in vain to keep tabs both on the striker on his eastern wing and the ball rolling westwards.

1.3 Our Third Goal

No doubt about it, a quizzical ripple echoed around N17 when, in the aftermath of our equaliser, Our Glorious Leader decided that Sonny’s race was run. And the volume on that ripple was turned up a notch or two, at least at AANP Towers, when the cunning plan to fill the Son-shaped hole was revealed to constitute one primed and ready Richarlison, as Mikey Moorer and Timo Werner no doubt exchanged quizzical looks on the bench.

Big Ange, to his credit, has made some reasonably sound mid-game switches in recent weeks, the replacement of Maddison with Sarr vs West Ham being the most notable; and moreover I consider myself one of the most loyal supporters of the man; but every now and then there comes a time in one’s life when one’s only course of action is to survey events and unleash a deeply disturbed sigh. When Richarlison replaced Son that is precisely the severe course of action I undertook.

For a few minutes it seemed that Ange might have bungled things somewhat, Richarlison certainly bounding about enthusiastically in his defensive duties, but not really fulfilling the attacking terms of the contract.

However, if Ange wanted to direct a look of vindication towards me in the immediate aftermath of the third goal he’d have had my blessing, because Richarlison absolutely nailed his big moment. Released by Sarr and within sight of goal, he (and big Dom Solanke to his right) would not doubt have been unsurprised to have heard the now familiar sound of AANP baying at him to lash the thing. It is to his enormous credit therefore that he waved away this option, and instead somehow located through an absolute forest of legs the onrushing Solanke for a tap-in (rich reward for another afternoon of non-stop running on his part).

So, reading left to right, credit was duly bestowed upon Richarlison, Solanke and Postecoglou, the only blot on the landscape being that Richarlison is made of biscuits, and as such, managed to do himself a mischief in the act of gently delivering a six-yard pass.

1.4 Our Fourth Goal

We Spurs-supporting folk have been rather starved of goals from free-kicks over the years. Kieran Trippier twanged in a couple in his time, Harry Kane leathered them everywhere but the goal and Christian Eriksen may have struck oil once or twice, but in the post-Bale era it feels like these were very much the exceptions rather than the norms.

The sight of Maddison delivering one into the top corner was therefore a rare old treat. Moreover, there is something particularly becoming about a well-executed free-kick. It has a certain flawless quality to it, don’t you think? No deflections, or scrambles amongst the riff-raff, just a single, honest strike, and an unfettered pathway from turf to net.

By that point it was turning into a hot day for murals on the little side-roads, as this was yet another of those goals that oozed good, wholesome aesthetic value. It had the additional benefit of finally allowing those of us of a more nervous disposition when watching Spurs, finally to exhale. 3-1 going into ten additional minutes felt fraught with risk; 4-1 with three minutes to go felt just about secure.

2. Sarr

In detailing our second and third goals I rather ignored the starters and nibbles, and in each case ploughed straight into the main course. With some reason, for as mentioned, Solanke’s finish and Richarlison’s presence of mind, had about them much to commend.

But the notable omission in each case was the healthy shift put in by Pape Sarr, and while it is a little tedious simply to direct the spotlight on goal involvements and ignore everything else, in this instance it seems acceptable enough, as Sarr’s contribution to those two goals neatly encapsulated so much that was good about him today.

While I thought he was busy without necessarily stamping authority upon proceedings in the first half (Bentancur arguably outshining him in central midfield, with a neat combo of tidy passing and forthright tackling), Sarr’s ability to keep charging about the place, while all others run out of puff and wheezily pause for breath, motored us along in the second session.

In the build-up to our second goal it was Sarr who collected the scraps won by Davies, and then played the ball forward for Johnson and Kulusevski to begin treading the measure together, before sliding in Solanke. Admittedly there was plenty of legwork still to do after Sarr’s contribution – I hardly present the case that Sarr and Sarr alone created the goal, and as noted above Kulusevski and then Solanke were the standout performers in that little scene.

But that Sarr should have collected the ball in the first place said much about his spirit of defensive willing, in having tracked back. Moreover, while it might not seem particularly momentous that he then walked the ball forward fifteen yards and drilled it forward another ten, it was precisely what the situation demanded, and, at 1-1, it was the sort of signal of positive intent that I suspect would have been rejected by such recent N17 luminaries as Hojbjerg, Skipp et al.

If Sarr’s contribution to our second was adequate enough, his input into our third was vastly more significant. It began with him pouncing on a loose pass from a Villa cheese, which in itself merited the approving nod, it demonstrating a sprightly awareness of current affairs and the energy levels required to make Angeball tick.

Having intervened thusly in the centre circle, however, there was still plenty of honest toil through which to plough. The situation was promising no doubt, Sarr receiving assistance from three on his right and one on his left, but a few key tasks required ticking off before the collective roar of approval sounded. The odds were beginning to favour Sarr, particularly as he worked up a head of steam and headed towards the area, but some clear thinking would imminently be required.

He played his part to perfection. Having taken receipt of the ball on the white of the centre circle, he dragged it with him at a healthy lick until 20 yards from goal. At this point, with options to his right and even the potential for a shot, he wisely identified that Richarlison, to his left, as the most profitable route, and for added value he rolled the ball such that no break of stride was required. As detailed above, Richarlison then played his part, and Solanke his.

For Sarr, these contributions captured in two microcosms much of what was good about his performance – indefatigable energy, married with intelligent and attack-minded decision-making.

3. What Romero Might Learn From Ben Davies

I suspect not even the wildest optimists amongst us would have hoped for this scoreline when wiping the Sunday roast from our lips an hour or two earlier, so it was just a shame that the triumph was not achieved without casualties.

Richarlison, as mentioned, is cursed with a constitution that dictates that nature will simply find a way to hobble him before the night is out; but Romero’s latest mishap appeared to be entirely self-afflicted, and brought about by yet another demonstration of a yawning vacancy between his ears.

I can understand that there are some for whom a meaty challenge is the pinnacle of an afternoon’s on-pitch entertainment, and if well-timed and properly executed I suppose I’m accepting enough of such things. I’d always be inclined to have a think about the immediate fallout myself – where the ball lands, who is covering the prone defender, and so forth – but if the idea is simply to shut down an attack, shovel the ball out of play and make sure the attacker is felled like an oak, then I can lend my vote. Bentancur ticked all of the above boxes in one such episode in the first half, and AANP was happy enough to chip in with some polite applause.

But when Romero decided to wipe out his man midway through the second half, the reaction over here was markedly less sunny. One learns to curb the tongue, of course, but if I had thickened the air with the foulest discourse it would have been with some justification.

Put squarely, there was just no need. Villa were piecing together the beginnings of an attack, of that there can be no doubt, but this was no goal-saving moment. They were on halfway, for goodness’ sake. The Villa scally had just ridden two other challenges, and Pedro Porro was hoving into view to keep him company during his upfield progression – all of which suggested that the attacker could simply have been monitored as he advanced, and escorted off towards the side of the pitch if necessary. In short, Romero could have stayed on his feet.

By flying in on halfway, Romero was effectively removing himself from the defensive line-up in the immediate aftermath – at a point in the game at which the score was 1-1, close enough to require the avoidance of oaf-like defensive risks. Why he could not simply have stayed on his feet and kept abreast of things at a gallop is beyond me. The clueless berk seems obsessed with the notion that full-stretch diving challenges in the middle of the pitch constitute good defending.

Not only did he pick up a pretty obvious yellow card for his troubles, he also inflicted sufficient damage upon his own frame to require his removal – at a time when we are already shorn of Micky Van de Ven. The thoughtlessness of the whole episode was maddening.

Clearly in need of a spot of instruction on the basics, Romero would have done well to have observed from the treatment room the conduct of Ben Davies fifteen minutes later, in what turned out to be the build-up to our second goal. I mentioned previously that Sarr picked up the scraps to set in motion events for this goal; those aforementioned scraps were earned by Davies.

Villa had nabbed possession on the edge of their own area, and played the ball up to halfway, and with Watkins in possession might have been away on the counter with one deft touch. Enter Davies, who rather than channelling his inner Romero and lunging in horizontally, instead stayed on his feet to extend a single well-judged leg. This was comfortably sufficient to win the ball (and, as events transpired, turned into the pass from which Sarr created our goal), but also had the useful side-effect of keeping Davies upright and able to deal with any untoward consequences. Not a yellow card, or self-inflicted injury, in sight.

For all Romero’s handy passing from the back, his approach to defending strikes me each week as absolutely laden with unnecessary risk and error.

The consequences of all that might be felt in the coming weeks; but for tonight at least, this was quite the win. It seems that all too often we stream home at the conclusion chuntering away about an inability to take chances, and how we really ought to have scored at least four and wrapped up the thing – so one is entitled to dance a pretty satisfied jig after having done exactly that, on the back of plenty of good, honest endeavour, and against one of the division’s tougher nuts.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-1 Man City: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. A Tip of the Cap Towards the Team Selection

You may be surprised to know that prior to this one AANP was feeling pretty sanguine about our prospects. Those who encountered me pre-kick-off would have gasped at the air of quiet confidence that I radiated. Not so much on account of anything going on at N17, mind, as much as being due to the previous declaration from Pep that he considered the Carabao Cup beneath him and was only going to sit through it because contractually obliged. I paraphrase somewhat, but that’s the gist, and as such I went into this one thinking we might oil our way through in credit.

And we did precisely that, which is pretty ripping. The fact that our heroes, to a man, saw fit to input every last drop of perspiration was simultaneously warming and mildly depressing. Warming, for obvious reasons. One wants to win. One wants to beat Man City. One wants some dashed silverware in one’s mitts. Working off one’s socks helps bring to fruition such heady projects.

The depressing aspect was that all this honest industry was so conspicuously absent on Sunday. Far be it from me to cast aspersions, but it was almost as if our lot were infinitely more motivated for a match against the reigning champions of the land than against some winless mob in the relegation zone. Slanderous stuff I know, but I’d be deceiving my public if I swore that such a thought had not crossed my mind.

However, experience has taught me that nobody likes the chap who punctuates a merry shindig with a gloomy anecdote or two about life’s ills, so I’ll let that particular topic lie. The hot topic of discussion is that last night we triumphed, and thanks in no small part to the ceaseless endeavour of all involved.

One striking aspect was that this was one of those rarely-spotted binges in which our lot were largely starved of possession. Not by design, I’d suggest, Our Glorious Leader never knowingly advocating an approach of surrendering the ball and sitting deep, but such was the ability of the City mob that from about the half-hour mark onwards, Mother Nature seemed to shrug her shoulders and decide that that was how life was to be.

So a different sort of assignment for our heroes, but in this respect I rather thought that Ange nailed his team selection. Game by game I imagine he does a spot of the old inner monologuing on the topic of James Maddison, and in this instance the decision to leave him in the pews and start with more defensive-minded crows about the place was a sound one. Pretty obvious, granted, but sound nevertheless.

I also liked the idea of Johnson, Kulusevski and Werner being unsheathed for battle from the off. I possibly pay Ange too much credit here again, for I’m not sure there was a massive abundance of alternatives, but the pace of these two – rather than, for example, the gentler bobbing of Richarlison – seemed another of those moves that one greets with a sage tap of the nose. For if this were indeed to be a game in which we were to be forced deep and starved somewhat of possession, then pairs of legs as quick as the wind itself were a pretty essential piece of kit to pack.

And thus it transpired. Angeball is not traditionally a system designed for counter-attacks, but when need arises Messrs J., K. and W. can whizz away up the pitch like the best of them, and that opening goal was a triumph for all disciples of the art. There should have been a couple more in the second half too, the strategy of soaking up pressure and then haring away like the wind proving a dolly of a scheme. 

While we rode our luck at times at the back, both the setup and the attitude were spot-on, and if there were a few self-satisfied back-pats and smirks in the changing room afterwards then they’d have had the AANP blessing.

2. Timo Werner

To describe Timo Werner as ‘Much-maligned’ is to undercook things so severely one risks a salmonella outbreak. The honest fellow remains admirably backed by manager, players and fans, but the groans that accompany each duffed finish are pretty audible, as is the exasperated chatter in the immediate aftermath, as the dust settles and we all vent to our neighbour.

And in that context, Werner’s performance in general, and goal in particular, gave the insides a pretty warming glow. One would have needed to possess a particularly stony heart not to have wanted to serve oneself a generous splash and toasted his moment of success.

Starting with his goal, there has been not so much a mere train of thought as one of those lightning quick contraptions that whizzes through Japan, suggesting that part of Werner’s problem is that he has too much time to think in front of goal. And here AANP empathises. Click the fingers at AANP and ask him to pick A or B, and it’s a done deal, lickety-split; suggest to AANP that he can take a second or two to mull it over and he’ll crack open a spreadsheet and overthink like the dickens.

Werner’s recent history of goalscoring opportunities is choc-full of examples of him sticking data in spreadsheets rather than simply making a choice and pulling the trigger. Yesterday’s opportunity, however, seemed almost to straddle the line between the two scenarios.

On the one hand it could be argued that he did not have time to take more than one touch. The ball arrived, a defender hove into view – if an orchestra had been present they’d have skipped the gentle build-up and gone straight to the roaring crescendo. In such circumstances, the decisions were largely made for Werner, and he cracked the thing home with aplomb.

On the other hand, though, the delivery from Kulusevski took just about long enough to reach Werner that the latter did have time for a few disturbing scenarios to flit to mind and torment him a bit. There was just sufficient time for him to have considered shooting at the near post, or even to have considered taking an additional touch to see what new adventure would follow.

In short, this was not entirely in the realm of the instinctive tap-in. Werner had his opportunity to overthink things, and it is to his credit that he used that time rather more productively – specifically to adjust his body-shape – before finishing like a consummate professional.

And thereafter, for his remaining hour or so, I thought he did a decent enough job of things. The chance he missed in the second half, when he sprinted from halfway, was only a couple of inches off target, although admittedly he also put another one a lot further wide, and stuck one down the ‘keeper’s gullet in the first half.

But in other respects he pootled about handily, putting some height and whip on his crosses, making good use of his pace and certainly indicating some smart thinking when it came to linking up with colleagues, even if his execution was at times slightly off.

Man of the match stuff it was not, but within a counter-attacking unit this was pretty solid fare, and arguably more than Johnson offered on the right. One hopes that the goal might settle him down a tad for any similar upcoming scenarios, and given that that particular demon has for now been exorcised one also rather hopes that his injury is nothing too severe, not least with Sonny and Odobert similarly bandaged up.

3. Archie Gray

Another midweek game, another viewing of the Archie-Gray-at-Right-Back experiment, and, not wanting to be too damning, I’m struggling to see where this is all leading. The most useful conclusion I could draw was that the medical gang ought to give Djed Spence a couple of extra rehab sessions each week to get him back up and running, because whatever commendations one showers upon young Gray, “Masterful right-back” is unlikely to be amongst them.

The left-winger against whom Gray was pitting his wits was known in the registry office as Matheus Nunes, and while apparently not in the running for the recent Ballon d’Or, he was nevertheless evidently the sort of chump who knew his beans. A good test for any aspiring right-back, one would suggest. I dare say that even Pedro Porro would have had a task on his hands keeping the blighter under wraps, so in many ways this was the perfect way to check up on the nous of young Gray in this position.

Alas, for the most part, Nunes had Gray on toast. No aspersions whatsoever cast upon young Gray for effort, the lad hitting a solid 10 on that front. And there were occasional, fleeting moments in possession, particularly in the second half, when he demonstrated the sound touch and technique that have marked him out as a bit of a one for the central midfield positions.

But on this day of all days young Gray needed to be on his mettle defensively, and even with Brennan Johnson dutifully doubling up, that Nunes creature seemed to have the measure of the left wing, happy to waltz through and get up to mischief whenever the whim seized him.

I’m not sure which of Gray and Johnson deserves the Jabbing Finger of Blame for the goal conceded, but even aside from that, this was pretty inauspicious stuff from the former. Staple it together with the recent Europa displays, and the body of evidence begins to take a bit of shape, like a liquid metal terminator going through its reforming motions. Something begins to emerge, and early indications are that it’s not overwhelmingly encouraging.

I suppose for the purposes of early-stage Cup jousts we can probably get away with the ultimate Square Peg at right-back, but if this is the option to consider in the eventuality of a significant Pedro Porro injury, then I fancy I’ll emit a pretty audible gulp and start looking frantically about the place for alternatives.

4. Richarlison

I probably ought to pay a little tribute to Kulusevski for his incessant beavering; or tip the cap towards Bentancur for a display as useful as it was busy; or use far more words than are necessary to make the point that Dragusin has yet to convince me as first reserve at centre-back; or note that Johnson’s flick in the build-up to the opening goal was exquisite, but that that aside his distribution was pretty unremarkable – but I won’t.

And in large part the reason is that no matter how hard I tried to concentrate on matters elsewhere, the gaze was repeatedly drawn back to Richarlison.

I should emphasise that, in a pretty thrilling turn of events, I come to praise Mr R., not to bury him. Well, ‘praise’ might be a bit heavy, as it’s difficult to get past that late miss of his, but when I mentioned I was not here to bury him I spoke sooth. I suppose my sentiment towards him last night was one of fascination. I couldn’t quite make up my mind about him.

For a start, I’m not sure left wing is really the role for which he was knitted while forming in the womb; but then when one sees the calamitous mess he makes of finishing, one is hardly inclined to advocate he patrols the centre-forward position.

However, all that said, he actually took to the task of being representative of the left side of attack with surprisingly good humour last night. At one point he produced a trick of the feet of which I would not have believed him capable in a thousand years of trying, to skip past an opponent and set us on the counter – and nor was this an isolated incident, he turning into quite the useful conduit for transforming defence into attack out on the left, as well as taking every opportunity to muck in with the lads at the back, chasing down City players like a canine who’d spotted a particularly enticing stick.

All of which might sound pretty encouraging stuff to the uninitiated, but rather irritatingly several of Richarlison’s best-laid plans slightly nose-dived when it came to the end-product, he more than once spotting the perfect pass but then failing to execute just so.

Ad then there was the miss, from the opportunity gifted to him by a most errant throw from City. With the goalkeeper as taken aback as everyone else in the arena, and therefore a little slow to dash from his line, it’s not too great an exaggeration to suggest that the entire goal was gaping. Left and Right seemed the key options, looming large ahead of Richarlison. They appeared to be the safe zones. Either of those rough ball-parks, and the ‘keeper was out of the game. Basically, the only thing to avoid doing, to guarantee a goal and safe passage to the next round, was to jab the ball straight at the goalkeeper.

So of course, Richarlison, being Richarlison, ignored all of the above, snatched at the chance and struck the ball at the feet of the goalkeeper like a cricketer shying at the stumps. It should not detract completely from the fact that his was a bright and breezy cameo, contributing in defence as well as attack, but nevertheless. When you’re a forward, and in the dying moments you have presented to you on a platter a chance to win the game and be the hero, conventional wisdom dictates that you don’t mess around.

Merrily, it did not cost, and nor did any of the other misses scattered about the place. This whole business of failing to bury eminently presentable chances is an absolute nuisance – and may ultimately end up as the epitaph on the managerial gravestone of Ange – but in a pleasing break from tradition, this time at least, it did not rob us of the win.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 4-1 West Ham: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Kulusevski

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. All Hail The Great Half-Time Tactical Switch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Porro (In The First Half)

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Sonny

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Brentford: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Maddison and Kulusevski

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Angeball

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

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

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

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

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

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

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