Tag: Cristian Romero

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Bodo Glimt 0-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

It seems the Postecoglou era could be coming to an end – and possibly even with a trophy, egads! Relive the start of the Ange era with AANP’s latest book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, out now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99) – while Spurs’ Cult Heroes is also still available

1. The Strange Case of Spurs’ Europa League and Premier League Performances

AANP likes to pass the occasional hour reading the odd spot of make-believe don’t you know, and has previously cast the eye over a corking story in which a respectable chappie called Dr Jekyll – you know the literary sort, one of those fine, upstanding, pillars of the community – drinks one of those elixirs that only ever seems to pop up in works of fiction, and finds that it transforms him into a less savoury egg – more the murderous and rampaging type of soul – who’d be found in the electoral register under ‘Hyde’.

I mention this because each time I witness our heroes switch from Premier League mode to Europa League mode, and then revert back again, I am reminded of the old Jekyll-Hyde switcheroo, albeit with fewer mysterious elixirs splashing about the place. As with Dr J. and Mr H., the performances of our lot on Thursday nights and then at weekends would have Scotland Yard’s finest scratching heads and chewing pencils like nobody’s business.

Take last night. As in the away leg to Frankfurt, there seemed to be an executive decision, made at the top level and bought into unconditionally by all about the place, to shrug off the whole Dominating Possession lark. Week after week, our lot have hogged the ball and invited everyone on the pitch to don their attacking hats, but ultimately fouled up the op. Last night, however, the gist of things seemed loosely to be let the attackers do the bulk of the attacking, and have other members of the squadron take up their own, separate projects, in more cerebral manner.

And frankly, seeing that level of good sense and prudence from a Tottenham Hotspur team made me feel light-headed. It was all most peculiar. If four decades of supporting our lot have taught me anything, it is that success is not sensibly earned, but stumbled upon, by virtue of somehow emerging better off after 90 minutes of chaos. Call it the ‘All Action No Plot’ way, if you will.

For some reason, last night and in general when off on the European jollies, this decision not to try dominating possession became the crux of the whole thing. Rather than having everyone tear up the pitch, leaving the sole remaining defenders (typically two centre-backs and a hapless midfielder) manning the rear with a cheery “What’s the worst that can happen?”, when in Europe all concerned are invited to think deeply about the connotations of losing possession, and take all manner of precautions as a result.

Solanke charged off on the press like a bloodhound with a specified scent in his nostrils, and those nearest him dutifully followed his lead, but if that initial press failed then those stationed further south had the barricades up and planks of wood nailed across the doors for good measure. “If you want to score”, seemed to be the lilywhite chorus, “you’re going to have to work dashed hard to do so.”

Not that this was Jose-, Conte- or Nuno-era football that made the eyes bleed and had me begging to be put out of my misery. A tad more sensible, certainly; but gnaw-off-your-own-arm-because-of-the-dull-defensiveness-of-it-all this was not.

Last night, as against Frankfurt, the finest eyes and steadiest hands on the planet could not have created a better balance. In fact, the balance last night was decidedly better than at Frankfurt, when we rather lived on the edge in the final 15 or so. Last night we didn’t give Bodo a sniff, and what goalmouth chatter there was happened up at their end.

Why those gentle tweaks cannot be implemented in the Premier League hurly-burly does make one scratch the bean a bit, but 19 defeats later here we are. A case has been made that domestic opponents are rather less generous in their on-pitch approach to life than Europa teams. English teams, goes the narrative, will approach each innings in more rough-and-tumble style – aided by referees who prefer to live and let live – whereas on the continent both the conduct of opponents and those who oversee matters is all a tad more genteel, meaning that a more considered approach can be adopted.

Of course, the counter-argument here is that AANP might be spouting gubbins, and I’d have to admit that history at least sits pretty firmly in this camp. The whole thing does make me stare off thoughtfully into the mid-distance though.

2. The Curious Media Narrative Ahead of This One

Another punchy number to emerge last night was that Bodo’s much-vaunted home record went poof! and disappeared. Here, however, I’m not so much staggering about the place in a joyous daze, as wondering what the hell all the fuss was about in the first place.

It all started when we let in their goal at our place a week ago. The media narrative that accompanied that goal was so morbid that one would have thought the dissolution of the club had been announced. I suppose telly bods have to drum up a spot of excitement, so the chorus was parroted away with increasing urgency that a mere 3-1 lead was basically worthless because the Norwegians would crush us as soon as they set eyes upon us.

I wasn’t entirely convinced. If the narrative had been more along the lines of “It doesn’t matter who the opponents are or what the scoreline was – this is Spurs, we’re perfectly capable of making things go wrong on our own” I’d have bought into it with far more understanding. One didn’t really need to carp on about plastic pitches and Norwegian togetherness to bring out the pessimism in a Spurs fan – simply repeating the name of our club back to us, slowly and with a bit of meaning, would do the trick.

Instead, however, the crescendo built that this Bodo group were actually the second coming of Brazil 1970. They had, after all, beaten Lazio at home, so we would be well advised to regard them as the T-1000 of European football. AANP continued to raise the dubious eyebrow, wondering why, if they were so all-conquering, they weren’t in the Champions League, but as long as our lot didn’t stroll out with complacency coursing through the veins I supposed that all these prognostications of doom might not be so bad.

Anyway, whether the occasion got to them, or our lot set up with a little too much savvy and cunning, or they simply weren’t very good to start with, Bodo barely registered. They failed to lay a glove on us. Right at the death when Vicario pretty comfortably manoeuvred his frame behind the ball and gobbled it up, I wondered aloud if that was the first shot on goal they’d had all night. As with Frankfurt in the previous round, it turned out that a recent history of sparkling results isn’t much help if you’re just not good enough on the day.

3. Sum of the Parts and Whatnot

I’d normally by now have prattled on a fair bit about the various individual heroes who pottered about the place. And indeed, one could squarely make the case that Udogie judged to perfection when to go hurtling up the left to monstrous effect, whilst also maintaining his solemn oath to prioritise his defensive duties in all circumstances.

One could similarly point to a Romero performance heavy on well-judged interventions at appropriate times and places, whilst oddly light on the traditional mindless charge up the pitch and into the back of an opponent’s calves. (One probably ought also dreamily to recall how he hoisted himself to quite such a height in the atmosphere, in winning the header for our opener, and rattle off a spot of applause accordingly.)

One could give the usual doff of the cap to Mickey Van de Ven and his ability to whizz from A to B so rapidly that the opposing striker just gives up halfway through the chase and decides that the whole ‘Commendable Work-Rate’ angle is actually pretty pointless in these particular circumstances.

I also thought that Bissouma, for a third consecutive game, gave a bit of a throwback performance to his Brighton days. To remind, those were the times when he looked like he would be the answer to a hefty wad of our prayers, by virtue of his ability to snuff out opposition attacks before they’d really built a head of steam. Had he played like this week in and week out in lilywhite, he’d be amongst the first names on the teamsheet and the sort of chappie around whom one could sculpt the whole dashed operation. Instead, his is amongst those names being touted for a shove out the door and a half-decent transfer fee. Funny how life pans out, but if he can eke out one last tour de force in Bilbao, I’ll lob a garland around his neck as he empties his locker.

This, however, was one of those marvellous bashes in which one doesn’t really pinpoint any particular individuals, and waves away those who try, shouting them down if necessary by advising that that they’ve missed the point. This was more a triumph for all concerned keeping their heads down and carrying out their own specific instructions to the letter, so that when one stood back and drank it all in from afar, the collective effort turned out to be an absolute doozy.

It was rather like those sneaky mosaics one sometimes sees, in which hundreds of pictures of dogs or flowers or some such are shoved next to each other, and one finds it all nice enough but a bit meaningless, until one steps back and finds that actually they all combine to create a perfect likeness of B.A. Baracus, and one rather swoons accordingly. Last night, the whole was greater than the sum of its parts, as I once heard it put.

In a move calculated to go down well with the masses, I’ll also direct an unspoken but meaningful nod towards Our Glorious Leader. When operations fall apart at the seams he takes the projectiles, rightly enough, so when the plan comes together – and particularly when the tactical tinkerings are judged to perfection – it seems only fair to lob some good tidings his way.

But however one wants to appraise last night’s showing, there was no mistaking the wild fist-pump that accompanied the final whistle at AANP Towers. Another European Final, after everything that’s gone on this season. Golly. On we roll to Bilbao!

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Eintracht Frankfurt 0-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. An Actually Impressive, Disciplined Performance

I have to admit that prior to kick-off, the AANP who surveyed the scene and weighed up the odds was not a genial and bonhomous soul. Think Macbeth in the latter stages, when he’s a bit down on life with one thing and another, and starts a gloomy solo about his despair, and you’re pretty much up to speed.

It was those rotten league showings that did it (ignoring the Southampton win on the grounds of pointless mismatch). That Wolves defeat in particular sapped the will to live, and even though these recent Europa jollies have shown a more sunny interpretation of things, it’s dashed hard simply to swat aside the woeful league performances when they stack up on all sides, popping up, as they do, every couple of days.

So when the curtain went up and the whistle sounded, I took my place with a sense of duty rather than the slightest hint of optimism. “If it were done when ‘tis done then best get a wriggle on,” was the sentiment, continuing the Macbeth theme.

But lo, imagine if you will the AANP eyes gradually widening, as the outlook unfolded before me in increasingly upbeat fashion. Admittedly, that one early ball played straight over the top and down the middle, absolutely scything apart our defence, had an ominous quality to it, but that aside, for about 80 or so minutes this was as accomplished a defensive performance as I’d seen from our lot in the Postecoglou era.

It’s a low bar, admittedly. Historically, opponents have not exactly had to over-exert themselves to fashion chances against our heroes. Simply ambling up from halfway whenever the fancy takes them has generally proved sufficient. They may encounter some waving arms and stern looks from various retreating lilywhites, but nothing that will actually inconvenience them, let alone block their path. “Drop in whenever you like!” has generally been the rallying cry from the Tottenham defence.

Yesterday, however, events played out in pretty sharp contradistinction. For a start, our midfield three of Bentancur, Bergvall and Maddison seemed particularly attuned to the notion that intercepting passes in the midfield third would save a heck of a lot of trouble further down the line. Rather than simply watching short passes whizz about them, these three were on their toes and ready to spring into action, and as a result, transporting from Middle Third to Final Third wasn’t quite the procession that Frankfurt might have expected.

(As an aside, with these three evidently now the preferred midfield combo of Our Glorious Leader, I’m inclined to give them an approving nod. A pleasing balance, wouldn’t you say? What with Bentancur patrolling the rear; Bergvall either carrying the ball at a hot scurry or passing quickly; and Maddison – when the urge grabs – seeking out a creative pass.)

The key to the tightened defence, however, seemed to be Van de Ven. His presence, and specifically his pace, seemed to my uncouth eye to allow our lot to play a relatively high line for much of the game, rather than defending the edge of our own area, and also meant that midfield and defence were in close proximity. Having VDV in attendance also meant that when Udogie was gripped by the urge to motor forward, calamity did not immediately ensue if and when he lost possession.

In general, this seemed to be a day on which, mercifully enough, the entire back-four appreciated the merits of wearing proudly their defensive hats, rather than seeing themselves as attacking sorts whose main remit was to do exciting things in possession.

Another pretty critical element was that the whole business of playing out from the back was quietly eased off the agenda until, by the business end of the second half we dealt almost exclusively in long kicks from Vicario. Whether or not it was by coincidence, for about 75 minutes I’m not sure Frankfurt were allowed a clean shot at goal.

The final 15 was a little fraught, and while I suppose it could have gone horribly wrong, on balance of play and chances made over the two legs, our lot seemed jolly good value for the win. Not only was the defence oddly compact, but we still managed to pose enough threat to have Frankfurt scrambling – and without the need for any suicidal pouring forward of every man in lilywhite. Attackers attacked, defenders defended and in general the balance was pretty solid.

2. Romero

Van de Ven’s mere presence might have instilled some much-needed calm about the defence, but by golly Romero alongside him picked a smashing time to deliver one of his better performances.

Much like his midfield chums, his reading of things was good enough to enable multiple timely interceptions, and whenever that Ekitike chap unveiled his dancing feet and started sniffing out a shooting opportunity, Romero was on him like Mary’s little lamb, close enough to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, whilst avoiding what was presumably, given the Argentine’s history, an almighty urge to kick a few lumps out of him.

Indeed, even when Romero did break ranks and stride up the pitch, he had the good sense to stay on his feet rather than go lunging in. In a moment of realisation so unlikely it made me feel quite dizzy, it dawned on. Me in the second half that Romero’s side of the defence was pretty much under lock and key.

In possession he was his usual eager self, happy to look for passes of a more progressive ilk when he deemed the occasion appropriate. Indeed, it was his flighted pass that resulted in Maddison having his head knocked off and our lot winning the penalty. However, as mentioned earlier, it was also a relief to see the realisation dawn upon the chap that he was there primarily to defend, and this he did almost flawlessly throughout.

I say ‘almost flawlessly’, because in the final knockings he could not really help himself, after a good 90 minutes of discipline. Some pent-up mindlessness eventually came flowing out when he went flying out of position and into a sliding challenge, that left his opponent spiralling off into the air, earned him a yellow and conceded an unnecessary free-kick in a dangerous spot. I understand that to err is human, but to abandon one’s senses and go hunting for blood seems a mite excessive. Romero ought to have known better; but by and large this was a humdinger of a performance from him.

3. A Quick Word on Maddison

There were cracking performances all round, in truth. Tel offered a threat throughout, and while he never actually delivered on it, one got the impression that the Frankfurt coves tasked with minding him did so with considerable caution. Brennan Johnson famously doesn’t really offer a great deal in possession, but for the second consecutive game he actually produced a spot of end-product to go with his pace, picking out a decent first half cross that Tel duly scuppered. Porro and Udogie found a pretty useful balance between defence and the occasional foray forward. Solanke only stopped running in order to pause before that expertly-despatched penalty. Kulusevski frankly did not look fit, but still gave a few pleasing reminders of how happy he is to assert a spot of upper bodyweight when the situation demands.

Maddison beavered away, in slightly peripheral fashion at times, not necessarily cutting to ribbons the Frankfurt back-line but not shirking the challenge either. However, where he really earned his corn was in that penalty incident, when, as alluded to, the goalkeeper well and truly mangled his timing, and rather mangled Maddison’s frame in so-doing.

Replays suggest that Maddison had enough of a peek, while the ball was airborne, to be fully up-to-date with current affairs, and well apprised of the circumstance that a great oak of a man was rapidly approaching from the north, to flatten him. And where some – and I name no names, but hint at our club captain – have regularly been spotted ducking out of any challenges with a hint of rough-and-tumble about them, Maddison was undeterred.

Having hatched a plan to deliver a pretty subtle header past the onrushing goalkeeper, he executed the first part as far as he was able, and for his troubles appeared to have every functioning part of him snapped in two. Little wonder that he wobbled off shortly after, but he earned the penalty, and frankly kept our season alive. If we do raise the shiny pot come late-May, look carefully and you’ll spot AANP giving him an understated but meaningful salute of appreciation.

4. Why The Hell Can’t We Play Like This Every Game, Eh?

Not wanting to take the sheen off things, but it was a sentiment that kept repeating in my mind as I watched last night unfold with ever-growing admiration.

I appreciate the mentality of wrapping VDV in cotton wool in between Europa dates, he being so critical to the whole operation, and without him the apparatus is arranged rather differently. Nevertheless, even sans VDV, approaching each league game with yesterday’s level of discipline and determination could not conceivably do anything other than bring about better league results. Wolves would not have stood a chance if we had unleashed last night’s fare upon them.

One would, of course, settle for winning the trophy – one would trade lesser-used limbs for it, in truth – but the nagging thought remains that we would be a dashed sight better off (and Ange a lot more secure in his post) if we mustered this level of performance every week.

Still, hats off to the lot of them. This was jolly impressive muck.

If you fancy a spot of Good Friday non-league football, AANP’s regular stint behind the mic takes in a relegation six-pointer at 3pm, between Enfield Town and St Albans City in the Vanarama National League South – feel free to listen in on https://mjl99.mixlr.com/

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Spurs match reports

Wolves 4-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. How Much Longer?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Our Defending

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Southampton: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. The Caveat

I vaguely recall that my valedictory note after the Chelsea defeat was along the lines that results would be the ultimate currency deciding the fate of Our Glorious Leader. Given that sentiment, you might have expected to find AANP engaging in rhythmic dances of celebration once the whistle brought an end to proceedings yesterday afternoon. After all, if one can tuck their bat under their arm and march off to the pavilion with ‘3-1’ against their name in the scorebook, the masses will pretty likely buy into it sooner or later.

Enter, however, The Caveat. A thankless line of work, caveating, adding as it does a layer of bureaucracy and quite often sucking the joy out of life while it’s there. And bang on cue, any revels can be pretty abruptly interrupted by the pointed reminder that this Southampton team barely knew in which direction to point.

I suppose we Spurs sorts ought not to take too much for granted, bearing in mind that no so long ago our heroes were making an almighty pickle of things against Tamworth for goodness sake – but nevertheless, anyone suggesting that one home win against Southampton represents a corner turned and a new beginning might want to consider a lie-down in a darkened room with just a choice bourbon for company.

So it’s generous pinches of salt all round, and the words ‘Don’t Get Too Carried Away’ stamped everywhere in sizeable font.  With that cleared up, it was nevertheless a rather pleasant surprise to sail through the first half in a serene manner I’d forgotten could exist at HQ.

Admittedly, Eintracht Frankfurt are unlikely to quake in their boots when poring over the footage, but if opponents are simply going to melt into the background one would expect our lot to make a few bundles of hay, and the produce wheeled out was suitably satisfactory, at least in the first half.

Spence once again served notice of that most peculiar phenomenon, that he is secretly happier at left-back than right-. The midfield triumvirate (of Maddison, Bentancur and Bergvall) actually gave the impression of knowing what the hell they were supposed to do, which I suppose when spelt out like that in plain English might seem painfully obvious, but which nevertheless has seemed to confuse the living daylights out of every combo trialled in those positions on a bi-weekly basis for approximately the last six months.

Even Sonny, although once again giving a sharp reminder of his dwindling powers in the pace department (with that opportunity in the second half), was able to make merry in the more restrained way becoming of elder statesmen, by combining with Maddison and Spence on the left to construct little triangular overloads that, from my vantage point, appeared to make the brains explode of the Southampton patrol stationed in that area.

Having seen everything go so swimmingly in that first half, I rather foolishly settled in for the second with a lick of the lips and a gleeful rub of the hands, fully expecting our heroes to carry out their duties with the professionalism of a team focused on putting Southampton to the sword, and grinding them down with goal upon ruthless goal.

 Well I suppose any old blighter could have told me that that was a howler of the ripest order. After all, the heady days of our lot dishing out goal upon goal are long gone – and when I stop and think about it, the days of them carrying out duties with professionalism and focus never really began.

So instead, we were treated to the sort of meandering second half that was perfect for those amongst us who like to pull out hats over our eyes on a sunny Sunday afternoon, slump back in our seat and take in 40-odd minutes of Nature’s sweet restorer. Our lot went through the motions, Southampton did likewise and for about half an hour one could not shake the suspicion that both sides were only still out there because contractually obliged to be.

Southampton then seemed to renege on whatever gentleman’s agreement had been shaken on over the half-time brew, by nabbing a late goal, and threatening to eke out a draw that I suspect might have prompted a riot to spill out onto the High Road.

Mercifully, they could not shake that From-the-Championship-they-came-and-to-the-Championship-they-shalt-return stuff, and it all ended well enough. Even in victory, however, our lot showed in that second half what a distance they remain from being the sort of top-tier side that grinds into the dust inferior opponents.

2. Romero’s Headers

However, as mentioned, all concerned were at least pretty bobbish in that first half, so a tip of the hat, and the two goals were rather pleasing on the eye; but if there were standout moments that made me pinch myself and give the eyes an ever-so-slightly disbelieving rub, it was the sight of two attacking headers that seemed to have been lifted from a bygone age.

The eighties, specifically. One simply doesn’t see the diving header these days. One barely sees a bona fide cross any more in truth, the modern winger seemingly more concerned with checking back infield, and posting on social media, and unveiling new body art.

AANP’s first footballing memory was that Keith Houchen perpendicular leap in the ’87 Cup Final against our lot, and if I trawl the mental archives the most recent I can recall was from the bonce of Christian Eriksen of all people, at Old Trafford about 10 years ago.

No doubt the mists of time have done their thing there, and a few fleet-fingered taps on the keyboard will presumably reveal a whole slew of more recent diving headers; but as far as AANP is concerned, the diving header is a dying art, so when I see one I dashed well note the time and date, and start contacting friends and family to share the good news.

To be dished up one of these morsels, therefore, I regarded as something of an event; to witness two within about 20 minutes of each other had me clutching at the nearest steadying object, and questioning the lucidity of my own senses.

The first came after around 10 minutes, from a Porro corner, which at first glance had little to recommend it beyond most other corners Porro takes. A bit of height, various elbows and whatnot, and ultimately the ball squirting off towards the sidelines in anti-climactic fashion – this was pretty much the size and shape of what I was expecting. And even when Porro’s delivery winged its way to the edge of the 6-yard box, earning a little salute of commendation from this onlooker, I would hardly have expected a moment for the annals to follow.

But Romero, in his infinite wisdom, opted against the conventional approach of ambling forward the necessary extra step or two that would have allowed him to head the thing from an upright berth. Instead, he hoisted himself until horizontal, some three or four feet of the floor, in the manner that I believe is popularized by magicians’ assistants who are about to have hoops passed over their bodies, or be fed to lions, or other such pursuits.

And having hoisted himself thus, Romero then made pretty punchy contact with the ball too. This, in a way, is part of the magic of a diving header, for in propelling oneself to the appropriate stance – horizontal – thereafter, if one does indeed make headed contact, one cannot help but propel the ball with the force of a bullet. Physics, I suppose.

Anyway, the scandalous handballing Ramsdale spoiled the fun by beating the ball away; but as far as AANP was concerned, the whole manoeuvre was a triumph. The outcome was a mere footnote.

2.1 Romero’s Second Header

And that, frankly, would have sufficed; but Romero was not done there. Evidently of the opinion that he was onto a good thing, on around the half hour mark he had another pop, in the manner of a small child who has been treated to a new toy and simply cannot get enough of it.

There are precious few sequels out there that match – or indeed better – the splendour of the original, but to such illustrious entries as Aliens and Terminator 2 can now be added ‘Cristian Romero’s second diving header against Southampton that time’, because that second was a doozy.

Impressively, it came from open play, albeit Pedro Porro again playing the role of Instigator-in-Chief with aplomb. Opting to impress the masses with a demonstration of what he could do with his weaker foot, Porro delivered with his left towards the back post, and if you had happened to remark to me that he’d overhit it, dash it, you may have caught me gently nodding in agreement.

However, motivated by the glories of 15 minute earlier, Romero lurked at the back post, and as all about him watched the ball sail over their heads, he sensed the moment to lurk no longer, but to unleash another diving header. I rather thought that the connoisseur of this sort of thing might look even more kindly upon his second effort, because it involved a bit more momentum, Romero taking a running start to get fully into the leap.

In terms of pure aesthetics, it belonged in a gallery, boasting as it did a fully-focused footballer sailing horizontally through the atmosphere and making sweeter contact than the average bystander could manage with his foot.

Irritatingly, the scandalous h-balling Ramsdale once again popped up to bat the thing away, but the AANP heartstrings had already been tugged. ‘Long live the diving header’, I may or may not have muttered out loud.

None of which is to say that Romero has suddenly transformed from ‘Hot-Headed Liability Upon Whom We Ought to Cash In’ to ‘Darling of AANP Towers’. Two absolute highlights of the modern era those headers may have been, but the Argentine can still be a prime chump when it comes to the meat and veg, as he demonstrated early in the second half, when needlessly charging 10 yards north from his post and flying feet first into a challenge he failed to win.

With the cornerstone of the back-four thus removed from the scene, and Southampton in possession, we were in the dickens of a spot, with poor old Porro – not a chap for whom defending is much of a delight – left in the awkward position of having to try to cover both his right-back spot and Romero’s vacated central berth.

A better team than Southampton would presumably have made more of the opportunity, but it’s that sort of lunacy, springing up out of the blue, that counteracts Romero’s impressive passing range (or indeed his heading). And at this stage of his career, he is hardly likely to experience any sort of road-to-Damascus conversion and suddenly opt to rein it all in.

However, as and when he does eventually wave his final goodbye to N17, this wide-eyed spectator will always remember those two diving headers.

3. Brennan Johnson

If there is an odder fish in our ranks than young Brennan Johnson I’m yet to cast eyes upon him. Enigmatic might be the word? He certainly is, in some unspecified way, perplexing. What I’m driving at is that, as right wingers go, the young cove seems to me to be pretty severely lacking in several crucial respects.

He’s been at the club two years now, and while I suppose still a bit of a pup in the grand scheme of things, one would hope that by now he might have seen fit to pack a few belongings and make the leap from ‘Potential’ to ‘Established’.

In the Credit column he does have a burst of pace that becomes well a winger. On top of which, I noted Our Glorious Leader croaking away last night that Johnson is one of the more positionally-disciplined amongst the troupe.

Now this business of maintaining positional rigidity at any given point does make me sigh one of the gloomy sighs that you read about in 19th century British literature, when the heroine discovers her chap of choice has taken off with a neighbouring maid and poof goes her fortune. Positional rigidity seems to have sucked the spontaneity from football, and – if you pardon the digression – I cannot wait for the day when Pep removes himself from the scene and we can go back to a world of mazy dribbles and 40-yard shots.

However, be that as it may, young Johnson apparently is a bit of a whizz when it comes to following positional instructions to the letter, so well done him. Personally, I find that the first order of business when looking a winger up and down is to enquire whether he can deliver a decent cross or five each game; and here, Johnson comes up far too short for my liking. Every now and then he sends in a cross that beats the first man, but in general he does not fill me with much confidence.

I confess that I’ve yet to bend the ear of Dominic Solanke, but if I were privy to his mid-match reflections I suspect that if he looked up and saw young Johnson steaming off on the right, he might advance towards the penalty area and wave a hopeful hand, but inwardly let slip one of those gloomy 19th century sighs. Johnson is not a reliable source of delivery.

Of course, the unavoidable, and frankly massive, counter-argument to all of this is that Johnson scores goals. His second yesterday was an absolute peach, that delicate touch reminding me of Dele Alli in his pomp (I think specifically of the Cup goal he scored at the Emirates, when he, like Johnson yesterday, caught the ‘keeper by surprise by his shot first time as the ball dropped).

One understands Postecoglou’s praise of Johnson’s positional sense, because like or loathe the approach, he certainly gets the memo to arrive at the back-post when we attack down the left flank, and has reaped himself a rich old harvest as a result.

And, the argument continues, if Johnson is racking up the goals at a healthy lick by timing his arrival into the area as a supplementary forward, who the hell cares if all of his attempted crosses keep bouncing off opposing legs?

4. Bergvall

It’s almost taken for granted these days, but Bergvall struck me as the standout performer. Here’s a chap who takes seriously his responsibilities, and gives the impression that when he returns to Casa B., as day turns into night on matchday, he does not simply retire to bed, but pauses to reflect deeply on every facet of his performance.

Oh that our designated captain could lead with that sort of example, chasing down every loose ball as if his life depended on it.

Moreover, someone or other from Bergvall’s formative years deserves a back-slap for the instruction they bestowed, because the chap rarely messes about once he’s gained possession. None of this cheesing about taking umpteen touches and pondering the options. When he gets the ball, he uses it, and pronto. Either a pass is played quickly to a chum, or he’s off on a forward gallop and eating up the yards.

As an aside, I thought yesterday also demonstrated how effective Maddison can be when he channels his inner Bergvall and releases the ball quickly. The fellow has it in him to pick a gorgeous pass, but I suspect that every time he receives the thing he is overcome by the urge to pick precisely that, and consequently dithers far too long looking for that g.p., rather than biffing a pass simply but quickly.

To finish on Bergvall however, and, particularly in the absence of Kulusevski, if we are to have the slightest chance of progressing against Frankfurt, we’ll need him fit and bronzed.

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Spurs match reports

Chelsea 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Vicario

I suppose the purists amongst us might beeline towards the nearest champagne cork and get popping after Vicario’s latest offering, because when it came to the fundamentals of the art – viz. keeping the cherished cargo out of the net – our resident last-line of defence provided everything promised by the brochure.

Well, not quite everything, because he did concede the game’s only goal. However, at that point the stands were awash with forgiving lilywhite hands being waved towards him, because while glaring errors abounded amongst Romero, VDV, Bergvall (I think?), Spence, Udogie etc, even Vicario’s fiercest critic would struggle to lob any blame his way.

That aside, however, he by my reckoning had one critical save to make, and he made it an absolute corker. As seemed to happen whenever Chelsea were struck by the urge, they ambled up their right and swung in a cross without too much objection from any of our lot. Naturally enough, once the ball had bypassed the centre of the penalty area the various Tottenham folk stationed nearby simply clocked off, leaving those at the far post (in this instance both Cucurella and his hair, and that Sancho lad), to do as they pleased, and taking as long as they wished too.

When Sancho eventually got his shot away it was from close range and with the velocity of a missile, so one would have bestowed the sympathetic pat upon the upper portion of Vicario if the ball had bypassed him before he could blink.

To his immense credit, however, Vicario flung himself off to his left, extending the appropriate paw the appropriate length and – critically – at the appropriate speed. It is fair to say that that right arm of his shot out like a coiled spring upon release. The overall effect was an outstanding save, the ilk of which is the preserve of only the most accomplished in the field. Top marks, Vicario, one was tempted to murmur.

And as mentioned, that struck me as the critical element of the role. For what is a goalkeeper, one might ask, if not the nib tasked with making saves? Take that away and the whole concept, one might claim, shimmers gently out of existence.

Well evidently that last argument is pure gubbins, because the primary remit of the modern goalkeeper is apparently to stroke the ball hither and thither from within his six-yard box, like a particularly deep-lying Modric. And in this respect, Vicario bungled his performance like a court jester being handed a tidy sum to provide entertainment to the masses.

In the first half in particular, if there were a seemingly harmless, unencumbered pass of 5-10 yards to be played, Vicario seemed pretty determined to make a shambles of it. Had it happened once, one might have chortled with relief and swept it aside. ‘A lucky escape, what?’ might have been the refrain.

But by the third and fourth times, AANP was shooting troubled looks about the place like nobody’s business, and wondering aloud if the chap was beset by some sort of fever-induced hallucinations, causing him to beetle the ball off in any old direction and to any old passer-by, convinced it was all for the greater good.

That we survived unscathed suggested the kindly intercession of a higher power, but while the scoreline remained respectable enough, the broader impact on those involved was rather dubious.

Matters were already at a pretty low ebb in the defensive third, after that opening-minute farce involving the complete undoing of our fabled central defensive giants, via the medium of one hopeful ball lobbed straight down the middle, and given this, we might well have benefited from a steadying performance from the gloved one behind them – but it was not to be. Still, he did make that one cracking save.

2. Another Dreadful Showing

As mentioned, the foundations started to give way last night from Minute 1, and the tone having been set thusly, there wasn’t really much deviation thereafter (apart, of course, from the usual, rather infuriating salvo – in the final minute or two of added time, forsooth – when our heroes suddenly decided to roll up sleeves and inject some urgency).

At the risk of subjecting myself to an ad hoc bombardment of rotten tomatoes and whatnot, from irate Spurs fans determined that their fury should be universally shared, I rustled up an extenuating circumstance for the latest debacle. The latest AANP wheeze, you see, is that given four or five games together, last night’s XI would probably click into gear and start purring about the place. One hesitates to add, “steamrolling all-comers with cavalier football from a bygone age”, but the gist remains.

In short, I thought our lot suffered last night for having been tossed together for the first time in months, and instructed to make merry from the off. There is, of course, a pretty robust train of thought that last night’s XI could have played together for another six months and failed to get anywhere. One would appreciate this point. We did make a frightful pig’s ear of just about every aspect of the game, after all. Nevertheless, I don’t think the novelty of the setup really helped in any way to chivvy things along.

Immediately prior to the international break, Our Glorious Leader received some criticism (which I suppose by this point is much like saying he breathed in and then breathed out), specifically around his decision to bin the XI that put Alkmaar to the sword a few days earlier, and instead rearrange every available deck-chair.

It did seem a deliberate sabotaging of some precious momentum, but at the same time, being a forgiving soul, AANP did sympathise. Ange made clear that with fit-again players appearing from every crevice he wanted to bring up to speed as many of them as possible.

A fairly noble sentiment, given the potential for twice-weekly matches, but it undoubtedly scuppered at birth any hope of a settled XI. Thus we ended up yesterday with an assortment who, to a man, never quite seemed abreast of current affairs.

3. Our Glorious Leader’s Fast-Approaching Last Hurrah

Never having been handed a death penalty myself I couldn’t say with any certainty, but I imagine that when pacing up and down the gloomy cell, those who find themselves in the aforementioned pickle, as they await news of any potential stay of execution, might well resemble in general demeanour Our Glorious Leader just about any time he appears on stage these days.

If Big Ange were wondering pre-match yesterday how he might torch one of the last remaining bridges between himself and the faithful, he hit upon an absolute doozy an hour into last night’s spread. One doesn’t need to be an expert in the field of ear-cupping to know that such a performance is not an act of cordial and bonhomous collaboration. It is anything but. In fact I’m not sure it could be further from c. and b. c.

It was spectacularly ill-judged stuff. Had he been coasting on the back of 20 consecutive wins it would have been ill-judged stuff; to uncork that moment when presiding over our worst vintage in decades would have had any self-respecting PR advisor diving head-first into the nearest woodchipper.

All that said, the Oddly Sensitive Man Ill-Advisedly Taunts Own Fanbase is hardly the line of dialogue that has a character fired from the show. What’s condemning the chap is that things just keep lurching downwards under the current regime, and the absence of barely a flicker of improvement makes it harder for the loyalists – amongst whom AANP has long numbered –  to stick up for the fellow.

I am inclined to maintain that with a squad fully of his making, and equipped for twice-weekly repartee, he might deliver at least one of swashbuckling performances or positive results – but with each passing week that argument takes the dickens of a pummelling. Whereas at the start of the season the bad results were delivered in s-buckling style, now the only recognisable stylistic chestunt is a complete absence of cogency, with or without the ball.

In fact, we seem to have reached the stage that even winning the shiny European pot is hardly a guarantee that he’ll be clearing his throat in the N17 corridors next season. One heck of an upturn in performances is in order, and at double-quick speed.

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Spurs match reports

Fulham 2-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Romero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Ben Davies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Broader Problems

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 AZ Alkmaar: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Son

I must confess to having rubbed the eyes a couple of times at seeing various esteemed Spurs-watchers opine along the lines that Sonny had put in a ‘captain’s performance’ (by which I presume they meant stroking some glorious cover drives on his way to a century, rather than honourably going down with a sinking ship).

Now credit where due, Son had a hand in all three goals, and this I acknowledge and applaud. There are some forwards who are praised to the rafters for popping up with a couple of goal contributions, when they’ve spent the remainder simply mooching around without any additional engagement at all. Chipping in with – or towards – goals ought not to be dismissed too airily, and especially not in order to bang on about deficiencies in other areas.  

However, watching events play in real-time, the white-hot AANP take was that once again, the Son on view last night was not the Son of yesteryear. Son 2.0 seemed not to have battery power of the previous incarnation.

Going into technical detail, when awaiting receipt of the ball, for example when Spence and VDV were busy trying to play out from the back, if Son were gripped by the urge to scamper into space in a frenzied fashion that would be hard for an opponent to keep up with, he hid it well. In fact, he hid this urge so well that he looked for all the world like he didn’t have any interest at all in scampering into space. “No scampering for me, tonight,” he seemed to be saying. His prerogative of course, but this struck me as not adding much bang to proceedings.

Similarly, when he did receive the ball, the punchline seemed rather off, particularly in the first half. Until the opening goal, in fact, he seemed to have little interest in attacking the AZ goal at all.

Here, I should point out, he was not alone, for the collective arrangement amongst our lot seemed to be that the urgent laying of siege to the AZ goal was a mug’s game, and what the evening really needed was a dirge-like procession of sideways and backwards passes. Only Bergvall showed any enthusiasm for actually addressing the deficit.

Back to Son, and at one point in that opening 25 minutes, a pretty firm difference of opinion was voiced between our captain and around 20,000 souls in the South Stand. Son, still firmly of the view that the road to Bilbao was paved with backwards passes, received the ball on around halfway, took in the sights – including a few progressive options further north – and then poked it backwards again. The South Stand, as one, voiced a bit of discontent, which is not unheard of these days, but what followed did make one buck up and take notice: for Son did not receive this critique too well, and responded with a wave of a pretty irritated arm back at them. It was not the exchange of a harmonious marriage. Trouble appeared to be brewing in paradise.

AANP doesn’t actually mind or even care too much for such lovers’ tiffs. Of more concern to me was the fact that even when Son finally did decide to run at the AZ defence, he seemed time and again to go carting off into dead ends – specifically by cutting inside onto his right foot every time, dash it.

The initial spadework was generally promising enough, in that he’d edge forward towards the AZ penalty area. Come the second part of the routine, however, Son seemed to fumble his lines pretty badly. This whole business of him cutting inside onto his right was about as predictable as night following day, and as such, when he tried then to finish things off by having a right-footed shot, it was no particular shock to discover that the AZ ramparts had already been constructed.

Another feature of Son’s night was repeatedly lapsing back into that most unbecoming habit of his, of slowing to a halt, standing over the ball and shimmying as if to move this way and that, without actually putting his foot on the pedal and going anywhere.

In common with all around him, he improved in the second half. The Son-Spence Double Act, which had threatened to become one of the great missed opportunities of our time in that first half, finally clicked into gear in the second, not least through the well-timed overlapping runs of Spence. Son, to his credit, timed to perfection on repeated occasions the simple but devastatingly effective flick into the path of Spence, and it brought a rich old harvest, not least in that glorious third goal.

There was still time for Son to bungle an opportunity in the second half when he wormed his way through to the byline pretty effectively, but then completely lost all sense of geography, and gently dribbled the ball over the goal-line and out of play.  

As mentioned, he certainly contributed to all three goals, and when his head hit the pillow last night I imagine he’d have presumably reflected on his day’s work with some satisfaction, blissfuly unaware of the growing discontent at AANP Towers. I’ll be withholding the backslaps and bear-hugs though, and instead delivering a well-chosen word in his ear, should our paths cross before the next engagement.

2. Angeball When It Works

There were times in the second half when the stars aligned like the dickens, and our heroes produced football so dreamy one felt it ought to be accompanied by some angelic choir rattling off a bit of Bach in the background.

If our first goal owed much to Sonny going through the it’s-in-my-contract-so-I’ll-chase-down-this-laddie motions, our second and third had the grizzled features of Out Glorious Leader etched all over them.

It was the attack-minded content for which we’d be pining in the first half, and, indeed, first leg. And the last few months too, frankly.  But when it arrived, by golly it was like a few drops of celestial oil seeping through from the heavens.

I’d been giving Maddison a bit of lip for his pause-and-pivot-backwards routines of the first half, but in the build-up to our third, the manner in which he dipped the shoulder and rolled away from two flailing AZ types was positively Bergvall-esque – and praise doesn’t come much higher than that these days.

What was striking about both our first and second goals, and in such rich contrast to the first half garbage, was that in both instances our lot seemed oddly struck by the potential benefits of jimmying off in attack immediately, and at a rate of knots. Not a concept that had previously occurred, the difference made was considerable when they opted immediately to attack, either through The Swift Forward Pass, or the more individualistic art of Running With The Ball.

One acknowledges that the circumstances need to be right in order for any of this to work. No good trying the Running With The B. gambit, after all, when there’s a mass of congregated AZ bodies in one’s immediate path, hellbent on snuffing out whatever comes their way.

However, with the early second half goal, our lot seemed collectively to realise the manifold benefits to be had by unveiling a spot of top-notch Angeball. It felt like a glimpse of a ripping, if somewhat distant past – and potentially a glimpse into a brighter short-term future.

3. Van de Ven

Spiffing to have the old boy back, what? Seeing VDV rattle off his greatest hits – the covering, sliding tackle; the burst of pace to catch and dispossess an opposing forward who foolishly considered himself clean through on goal with nary a defender in sight; the bulldozing forward burst with ball at feet and not a cat in hell’s chance of anyone shrugging him off it – was enough to crack open smiles on even the maps of even the bitterest of Spurs fans.

Romero I can take or leave. Preferable to Dragusin of course, and he no doubt has a cunning forward pass in him, as evinced once or twice last night; but he also doesn’t mind fouling up operations by pinging the ball miles away from his own trusted allies and straight down opposition gullets. To say nothing of his defending, which while generally solid enough still leaves me clutching at the nearest bystander in alarm when his juices flow and he decides that the reckless lunges are the better part of valour.

Van de Ven on the other hand, could do no wrong in my eyes. I fancy I sleep more soundly at night, knowing that he is prowling the rear, engine revved and limbs poised for the sprint.

His withdrawal on the stroke of the hour-mark and not a moment later may have had a whiff of Cinderella about it, but that was fine by AANP. If the earnest squid is only just getting back to fitness then I’m all for yanking him out of harm’s way and treating him with the most delicate care until Sunday.

4. Odobert

For clarity, Bergvall was far and away the elite performer on parade from the AANP vantage point last night, but as I these days do him homage on a bi-weekly basis, a little variety might go down well, and last night young Odobert seemed to show signs of getting the gist.

I was rather taken by the fact that he operated from the right last night. Easily pleased, I suppose you might reasonably retort, but in a world in which Son and now potentially Tel already block the route of young Mikey Moore, the sight of Odobert putting in the willing dash from the right was a pleasant surprise.

He certainly adds a different certain something. Around 20 minutes in, when AANP was studiously tearing out clumps of hair at our lack of adventure, Odobert seemed unable to contain himself any longer, and set off on a mazy dribble infield that bought him four victims. It didn’t ultimately get very far, end-product lacking as I recall, but the very impudence involved in undertaking this act was a pretty welcome jolt to the senses.

While he did not quite hit such heights again, the AZ mob seemed to have got the memo, and accordingly reacted with a spot of concern each time Odobert got hold off the ball and surveyed his options thereafter.

One suspends full judgement, as I don’t remember him slinging in too many crosses, but with Porro in support I suppose last night there wasn’t too much need, from the right. However, simply for the capacity to take on and beat a man, I eye the chap with a frisson of excitement.

Moreover, he took his goals – and particularly the first – with a becoming assuredness, which is, of course, the whole point of the thing when you think about it. If his second were a triumph for popping up in the right place – itself a triumph for Angeball, which does rather rely upon one winger finishing off the crosses of the other winger – then his first was a welcome act of not messing around in front of goal.

As seems to be the case for a good half-dozen of our current vintage, a bright future seems to loom. More immediately, any suggestions of a resurgence still strike me as massively ahead of time, but there are at least a few shoots of recovery over which to goggle and chirrup.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Bournemouth: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. The Utter Rot That Is Playing Out From The Back Every Blasted Time, Dash It

Forgive me if you’ve heard this before, but insistently playing out from the back at every bally opportunity is so utterly bonkers that those in the streets around AANP Towers may imminently be treated to the unbecoming sight of a one-man riot.

Honestly, someone make it stop. To peddle a few well-worn lines: the exercise requires at least three – and typically five or six – passes to be delivered, faultlessly, from locations of considerable peril, else the opposition don’t just have possession but they have possession within one pass of our goal; and the return on this riskiest of investments is generally negligible, as on most of those times we do successfully play beyond the initial press we then simply duff the ball up aimlessly around halfway and lose it anyway.

While I can accept that if executed well it can lead to our heroes suddenly tearing off over halfway in some variation of a three-on-three scenario, the aforementioned conditional “if” is doing so much legwork in that statement that it ought really to sit down in the boss’s office and negotiate a pay-rise.

Put another way I can barely remember playing-out-from-the-back resulting in a goalscoring chance for our lot; by contrast within the first five minutes today it had resulted in three goalscoring chances for the other lot. The legs weaken, and the hand automatically reaches for the beaker of bourbon-based life-giver, simply at the recollection.

Now I don’t really know how the assembled geniuses make decisions about these things, but if they gather around a laptop and pore over the stats, then ‘3 chances conceded in the first 5 minutes’ ought to make for an eye-catching, dual-axis bar chart.

Alternatively, if they simply sit back and drink in the live action unfolding before them, a few undecided voters ought to have been swayed by the sight of Vicario saving at point-blank range straight from kick-off (and then making several more last-ditch saves, whilst also scrambling to clear a miscontrolled pass from off his own line – all of which sandwiched repeated instances of those in front of him bungling their passes on the edge of our own area); while at the other end our lot mustered barely a shot on goal in the first hour of play.

The dashed thing does not work! Scrunch it into a ball, bung it into the nearest bin and let’s just restart each episode by slapping the ball forward, to a distance that at least precludes the instant return of danger.

2. Urgency (Or Lack Thereof)

Naturally, this being Tottenham, the return of Romero as much-heralded saviour of our defensive ills immediately brought about calamity.

Of course, passing out from the back was prominent in this hideous unravelling, but what also arrested the attention was the care-free attitude with which Romero kept stuffing up his lines.

There’s a sense in which I rather admire the casual approach to life. Breezing through the daily routines, without allowing any crosses and burdens to weigh upon the shoulders, is probably right up there amongst the experts’ suggestions for making it to the late eighties and beyond, alongside a brisk daily walk and plenty of olive oil. So in one respect, Romero ought to be applauded. Four-score and ten beckon.

However, while sixty or so years hence I might look back and think the fellow made a winning choice, by around 2.10pm this afternoon the mood within the AANP breast was simmering towards volcanic levels. The sight of Romero pausing to light a cigar and reminisce on the good old days every time he received possession fired up the passions of the invested onlooker.

Our Glorious Leader spoke after The Alkmaar Disaster about the need for an improved mindset, and greater aggression. Whether he simply forgot to pass on such crucial nuggets to his players or wilfully misled in his press conference, there was nary a whiff of either of the above on show.

Instead, where Romero trod, all others in lilywhite followed. And when I say ‘lilywhite’ I include yellow, because in a touching show of loyalty towards his on-field captain, Vicario gave evidence of having similarly committed to taking an age over each of his in-game contributions.

They all did, in fact. Anyone who received the ball seemed alarmingly content to suck all life out of proceedings, dwelling in possession as if the very aim of the exercise were to run down the clock in the most nondescript and incident-free manner possible. The option of bursting into life and initiating thrusts at the Bournemouth defence seemed to have been shoved a long way down the agenda.

If this is the template for the Europa parley on Thursday then that bourbon-filled beaker might need generous re-charging, because on present form we are sleep-walking to our doom.

3. Bergvall and One or Two Others

In casually tarring the collective with the Romero-coated brush I actually did a considerable disservice to one or two of the principals.

As seems to be the case every time he laces his boots and bounds into view, young Bergvall rather arrested the senses and didn’t let them go. The bounder rasped about the place with energy and intent throughout, and if Romero and chums were not observing his attitude and taking copious notes then they should blush with shame.

If one wanted to know what urgency looked like, or were curious as to what Postecoglou’s much-vaunted ‘improved mindset’ would comprise, they need only have cast they eye over Bergvall for five minutes. Every time he received the ball, he either looked up and ahead for an immediate passing option, or – more impressively – called upon the ghost of Mousa Dembele and took to wriggling betwixt a pair of Bournemouth’s finest. AANP was, again, charmed. If the lad does not start on Thursday, someone in the corridors of power will need their brain pickled.

More controversially, I actually gave the approving nod to Bissouma on a couple of occasions. Now, to be clear, he was as guilty as anyone else of treating the whole affair like a gentle afternoon stroll, designed to work off a sizeable Sunday roast without actually rushing to get anywhere.

However, where I did pause and scribble a complimentary word was when the thought struck him that it would be rather good fun to inject a meaty tackle into proceedings. If you’ve sipped at this watering-hole before, you’ll know that once the AANP juices are flowing I like nothing more than to berate our lot for their complete absence of commitment to the lost art of The Tackle. Bissouma, at least, had the decency to take useful steps in this respect.

Another who escaped the AANP Naughty List was that Odobert bean. A tricky little ferret, what? Admittedly sometimes so wrapped up in his tricks that he forgot how many feet he had and got himself into a tangle, and at one point I think I saw him literally turn inside out; but by and large one got the impression that the opposing full-back was enjoying his duties less and less because of him.

Odobert caused numerous problems, and even when not causing problems the very concept of him seemed to alarm those in opposition. Crucially, as well as the aforementioned trickery, Odobert was also in the market for a spot of end-product. His crosses might not always have struck oil, but they were at least delivered, and I came away with the notion that here was a chap who might grow into his role.

Young Spence was the other who stood out amidst the dross. Ironically enough, he is a fish about whom it was regularly whispered that the lax attitude was too prevalent, back in the days when he was persona non grata.

Clearly all rot, as he demonstrated again today. While those in other areas of the pitch seemed content to go through the motions, not caring too much whether their passes hit their mark or not (Senor Porro, I look, scathingly, at you), Spence at least seemed to understand that attacks would not build themselves, and accordingly scurried hither and thither as appropriate.

A shame, then that he was amongst the chief culprits for the Bournemouth opener (alongside, of course, Master Porro), but that aside I thought he displayed a determination not to be bested when defending that actually reminded me of Benny Assou-Ekotto, once a cherished member of this parish. I refer to the sense that, irrespective of anything else, he took it as a personal slight upon his character if someone bested him in one-on-one combat.

Vicario, to give him his dues, made the standard handful of point-blanks saves that rescued us from humiliation, and I suppose one might point to the fact that we came back from a two-goal deficit and give their hands a gleeful clap or two; but AANP was not having any of it. This was another dire showing, and the sunny optimism that I had not so long ago radiated about our Europa prospects is fizzling into a state of considerable alarm.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Leicester: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Maddison

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Porro

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The Current Pickle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Newcastle: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Austin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Spence-Gray Partnership

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Porro

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

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

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

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

4. General Mood

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

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

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

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

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

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