Tag: Destiny Udogie

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Spurs match reports

Leeds 1-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Vicario

AANP missed the real-time screening of this one, having popped out of town for a wedding, so found himself in that curious position that is occasionally thrust upon one, of being fully aware of the scoreline and general talking points by the time a chance arose to settle in and watch from start to finish.

As such, I was already aware of murmurs amongst various Tottenham folk that our resident backdoor-minder had not covered himself in glory. While it would be a stretch to say that my fingers therefore drummed away at the guillotine in anticipation of a few Vicario howlers, I did nevertheless brace myself.

It seemed that aside from the mundane to-ing and fro-ing, there were four eye-catching moments to his afternoon’s contributions. The first was that item early on when one Joe Rodon – formerly of the N17 parish – planted a back-post header against the post. It might get lost in ensuing debate that Destiny Udogie did just about enough whispering in the Rodon ear at that particular juncture to force the man a little off-balance, so congratulatory tap of the hat-rim is probably due, before we start dissecting the life and times of Vicario in the preliminary seconds.

Put bluntly, Vicario seemed completely to lose his bearings. As the cross was swung over, from the right, the curious young eel began wandering from his line without any clear purpose, looking rather like an abandoned puppy that had scented food in the mid-distance and was uncontrollably drawn towards it.

The ball sailed over him at the sort of height that Vicario-on-a-step-ladder might have had a job handling, but the problem was that once gripped by the urge to wade off into the masses, it was rather tricky for him to undo this. Indeed, even when struck by the error of his ways, he could do little more than shoot a vaguely horrified glance in the loose direction of where the ball was dropping, and perhaps give tongue to a muttered Ave Maria.

As mentioned, Rodon at the back post could do no more than steer the ball against the frame, the sort of outcome that presumably will spare Vicario too dedicated a media spotlight, but those of lilywhite persuasion have seemingly chalked it up as the latest blot in what is becoming an increasingly crowded copybook.

Vicario was less fortunate with the next eye-catching moment, the one that saw him repel a shot from inside the area, but somewhat gum up the following chapter, by spilling the thing into the path of a conveniently-placed Leeds sort. Here, I should point out that just as AANP giveth with one hand, AANP taketh with the other, for while Udogie was earlier to be praised for his alacrity in defence, for the Leeds goal he did switch off long enough to allow Okafor to poach away to his heart’s content.

It was, however, an untidy piece of work from Vicario that presented the opportunity so neatly. Having reacted to the initial, deflected shot pretty well, Vicario then – as is becoming something of a trademark – did not really pay sufficient care and attention to the geography of the occasion. This tendency of his to shovel the ball straight into the path of chappies lurking for scraps has proved his downfall before, and needs a spot of care and attention. The whole routine of saving close-range shots is negated if at the end of it all he is simply going to present a two-yard tap-in to the next fellow in the queue.

Hammering home the point, he made an excellent couple of stops deep in stoppage time – but the second of these resulted in the ball popping upwards and most fortunately into the path of that man Udogie once again, who was able to nod it behind for a corner, when a yard either side there would have been yet another tap-in for the waiting scavengers.

It does make one scratch the head somewhat in truth, as to precisely where Vicario should be depositing these incoming efforts. Conventional wisdom has it that they should not be padded straight out in front of goal, and by and large he avoids this. However, this is certainly not the first match in which, in attempting to shovel matters out wide he has succeeded in not only laying them into the path of an opponent, but seemingly shaving the power off them too, making them that much easier to reach. I wonder if he might divert them behind his goal instead, or push them wide but with a bit more force, so as to send them out of the area.

Either way, there seems something slightly rummy about the current approach, of teeing them up at a gentle dribble for a short-range tap-in from an angle.

2. Kudus

On a brighter note, one of the grumbles of recent weeks had been that the creative well seemed to have run pretty dry, and while it would be a stretch to say that shots now fly in from every angle, two of the attacking mob in particular seemed to bound about the place with heartening vim and zest.  

Kudus naturally grabs headlines on account of having struck oil, but even aside from his goal his general attacking play had much about it of the useful sort of pest. Not only does the fellow come across as the sort of chappie against whom one would rather not defend, but he does so across multiple formats.

By which I mean there is Kudus the Wide-Man – hugging the touchline and dipping multiple shoulders this way and that, with a view to whipping in a teasing cross, if not seeking out a chum better placed to do the same; then there is Kudus the Inside-Right, whose goal in life is not so much the whipping in of wicked crosses as the twinkle-toed foray infield, to cause mischief around the outside of the area – which may take the form of a shot, as demonstrated yesterday, or may take the form of link-up play with nearby comrades.

As has been remarked upon before, the earnest bean’s combination of strength, close control and low centre of gravity appears to make him a fiend of an opponent, and while he has clearly had the occasional quieter afternoon, when on song – as yesterday – he is quite the asset.

3. Simons

Further east, there were more glimpses of young Simons finding his range. Officially, I suppose, assigned the Number 10 role, Simons seemed pretty insistent about his coordinates, coming across as the sort of egg who, if not allowed to take up a specifically inside-left sort of spot, would simply fold his arms and refuse to engage. Luckily, those about him in black were all for it, and the young bean saw plenty of action.

Intriguingly, his was an afternoon less of mazy dribbles, and more of furtive darts that were followed by the picking of some eye-of-needle passes, of the ilk intended to really carve open an opposition defence.

I was all for it. These weren’t your standard roll-the-thing-square-five-yards variety; rather, Simons was in the market for a diagonal that scythed open Leeds and took out three of their defenders in one swoop, while Udogie (him again) burst in from the depths. At one point Simons scooped a pass up, above and behind the Leeds back-line, for Porro to gallop onto, which really did whiff of a man starting to take a liking to life in his new surroundings.

An underlying concern to all of this was that it meant our lot were relying a little too heavily upon moments of individual ingenuity, rather than any obviously well-constructed patterns and build-up play involving the entire entourage – but one takes the wins, what? It was only a couple of days ago that I was grumbling about the lack of anything approaching creative content at all, so to boast not one but two of the forward line prancing about the place with attacking juices brimming was a pretty welcome sign.

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Spurs match reports

Europa League Final – Spurs 1-0 Man Utd: Four Tottenham Talking Points

It turns out that it’s not the easiest thing in the world to sit down and scribble a few hundred words when one has an ear-to-ear grin plastered across the face and is inclined to leap to one’s feet every thirty seconds and dance little jigs of joy about the place, but I’ll have a stab.

1. The Match Itself

The only thing better than winning a trophy with pure, glory glory, all-action-no-plot, unadulterated Angeball, is winning a trophy doing the exact opposite. Somehow, ending the 17 years of misery with one of the worst spectacles imaginable made it all the sweeter.

If anyone were in the market for a scrappy, nerve-riddled mess of a game, this was the place to be. Any hint of quality packed its bags and skipped out the door pretty much as soon as the opening toot sounded.

Ange set up the troops with the motto ringing in their ears “Just win the dashed thing, aesthetics be damned” – and AANP was all for it. After all, what good are second-placed finishes and semi-final exits, if we can’t ultimately enjoy moments such as Sonny lifting the glorious pot, as last night?  There is a time and a place to have the watching masses purr with satisfaction at whizzy, one-touch, irresistible football; but, crucially, there is also a time and a place not to. This was very much the latter.

From the off, our heroes made it clear that they would greet with a collective shrug of indifference any outraged squawks about the quality on show. Where previous iterations have reached a cup final and then frozen in the headlights, or gallantly attempted to outplay the opposition, or in some other way gloriously failed, last night’s vintage rolled up their sleeves, spat on their hands and set about winning the dashed thing by whatever means necessary – and with knowing nods and winks indicating that they were full cognizant of the fact that ‘whatever means necessary’ translated into the lowest-quality scrap imaginable.

If there were any hints of the thing being turned into a beauty contest, Bissouma or Romero or some other beast of a man would storm over and kick a lump out of someone before returning to their post. Players rolled on the ground, and called each other names, and racked up incalculable numbers of tackles and clearances without caring too much about their legality. Actual football was a long way down the agenda. It was the sort of stuff that would have protective parents shielding the eyes of their children.

And the whole thing worked out swimmingly. Our heroes scored a goal entirely in keeping with the quality of the evening, it involving miskicks and ricochets, various bodies stumbling in wrong directions, an inadvertent handball and ultimately the merest shaving of studs on ball. And thereafter, the drill was simply to use all means available to keep United at bay, although I rather fancy that bonus points were dished out on the basis that the uglier the intervention the better.

Oddly enough, on reflection United didn’t actually fashion anything too menacing, despite being allowed as much possession as their paws could manage. Fernandes missed the one clear chance they had, and Hojlund was rather gifted the headed opportunity that brought about the VDV clearance. That aside, however, this was an evening of countless crosses being swatted away, with all the necessary nerves one would expect, but actually without any real menace lurking.

2. The Goal

As mentioned, the goal that brought it home very evidently shared the DNA of the match that birthed it.

There is, however, a small asterisk to the above, because in the build-up to the goal, albeit slightly lost in the mists of the glory that comes with becoming European champions, our heroes did actually stumble upon possibly the only piece of top-quality football in the whole match. And just to slather an extra layer of absurdity upon it all, this moment of quality emanated from the clogs of Richarlison, an egg whose attracted his fair share of rotten fruit from this quarter.

Specifically, it was a neat diagonal pass from Mr R out on the left wing, infield and into the path of Bentancur, just outside the area. It would be rather stretching the truth to declare that this created the goal, for there followed a fair amount of admin, and ultimately it was Sarr who delivered the decisive cross, but if one were to assert that this little interplay occurred in the build-up to our goal, it would be as factually correct a statement as “I always win a trophy in my second season.”

Richarlison’s little input completed, as mentioned the ball was eventually relayed to Sarr, who wormed it into the area. This was the invitation for Brennan Johnson to join the pantheon of Cup-winning goalscorers, and rather splendidly, young Master J. was acutely aware that this invitation made no mention at all of the quality of strike required. Instead, clearly indicating himself to be a bit of a history buff, he took his cue from Grahm Roberts, Des Walker and Jonathan Woodgate, and reasoned that on these occasions one might as well write oneself into Tottenham Hotspur history with the scrappiest and least refined finish in the armoury.

Johnson initially mistimed his shot. The first outcome of this was that he looked like he  was attempting to flick the ball in the opposite direction to the goal, which was a novel way to approach the problem. However, when basking in the glory of being newly-crowned European champions, one learns to give the benefit of the doubt. Thus it seems that this initial manoeuvre was all just part of the Brennan Johnson masterplan.

Making sagacious use of the unwitting arm of Luke Shaw, and of course drawing upon a comically despairing flap from Andre Onana, who it seems is always wheeled out for these big European nights for Spurs, Johnson’s mere presence seemed to be the decisive factor. By the time everyone had rearranged their limbs and surveyed the scene, after the initial collision, events had moved on a bit, and the ball had started bobbling, a little uncertainly, towards goal.

At this point, events in the Johnson mind seemed to crystallize. His name appeared in lights ahead of him. All that was required, he seemed to reason, was to give the ball a little encouragement on its way. Accordingly, his basest instincts took over, and he took a swing at the thing.

He might have expected at this point to send the ball bursting the net from its moorings. But this being The Scrappiest (And Simultaneously Most Glorious) Game Ever, such a neat and emphatic finish was not part of the plan. Gravity at this point dragging Johnson to terra firma, his powerful swing of the leg resulted in only the most delicate brushing of the ball with the tip of his studs.

And marvellously enough, this was sufficient. Helpfully, the passage of time had not diminished Onana’s memory of how to play his part in these things, and six years on from being caught in a Lucas Moura whirlwind, he found himself staggering off in the wrong direction, and unable to do any more than swing a few despairing arms, to no avail.

Appropriately enough, Johnson then made a bit of a mess of the knee-slide too, and the whole thing became a part of Tottenham folklore. Not that I drank it in with too much clarity at the time, lost as I was in a sea of lilywhite limbs, but that all added to the fun of the thing.

3. The Goal-Line Clearance

The record books will proclaim Johnson as the winning goalscorer, but I suspect I capture a fairly popular sentiment when I cross the fingers and hope that Micky Van de Ven’s goal-saving contribution is revered in years to come as Tony Parks’ 1984 endeavours are today.

Not to dampen celebrations with anything too pedantic, but if we get into the weeds of that particular episode then one can only raise an eyebrow at the little interjection from Vicario. Famously bonkers, Vicario had already given notice of his intention to approach this match in the manner of an irate frog locked inside a box, and accordingly did not miss an opportunity to sprinkle his night’s work with a little hyperactivity.

Having only just attached fingertips to a cross for which he had set out in the first half, shortly past the hour mark there seemed little threat in the offing when United lobbed a pass straight up the centre of the pitch and down his throat. In textbook style Vicario leapt into the air and adopted a welcoming pose with his arms. If he had already begun congratulating himself at this point for extinguishing yet another United attack without any harm accruing, one would have understood.

At this point, however, matters went pretty seriously off-kilter. Vicario picked this moment to completely lose sense of spatial awareness. What ought to have been a basic game of ‘Catch’, the stuff of thrills for a three year-old, turned into a situation of considerable alarm and urgency.

In short, Vicario missed the ball with his hands, and allowed it instead to bounce off his face.

Well, even one of those thrilled three year-olds could have advised that this was the wrong approach. And not just that, but when a football bounces off a face, it becomes mightily difficult to predict where the devil it will go next. If a football lands within gloved hands, a degree of certainty can reign regarding its whereabouts; but bounce off the human face, and all bets are off.

As it happened, the dashed thing looped kindly for Hojlund, and he did not mess around, looping it straight back whence it came, and looking for all the world like he had nabbed the equaliser.

At this point, however, Micky Van de Ven burst onto the scene, to deliver both a presence of mind for which I will be eternally grateful, but also, astonishingly, a litheness of frame of which I had simply not thought the young bean capable.

Dealing with these things in order, and that presence of mind did much to make us champions of Europe. I am ashamed to confess that when Hojlund’s header looped goalwards, I froze. No action or alacrity from AANP, I simply gawped in horror, and may have clutched at the arm of my Spurs-supporting chum Mark, but not much more.

Master VDV, however, is evidently possessed of tougher mental fibre. No sooner had the danger started to accrue than his cogs had begun whirring, and a decision was swiftly made. Get back to the goal-line, and use every available to means to rescue the situation, seemed to be the summary of his analysis.

And this was where that aforementioned litheness came into play, because it was one thing opting to clear the danger, but quite another putting the plan into effect. A critical challenge was the fact that VDV is famously made of biscuits. Prod him and he snaps. Stretch him, and he again snaps. In fact, do anything to him, or have him do anything, and there’s a fair chance that he will fall apart at the seams.

When it became clear, therefore, that the only saving action was for VDV to contort himself into some extraordinary amalgamation of splayed limbs, I’d have dismissed the chances of success as negligible. A circus acrobat would struggle to raise his foot above his head, one might conclude, let alone one of Nature’s most brittly constructed footballers.

And yet, there he leapt, and contorted, in glorious technicolour, one leg above his head, another behind his back, and all performed while a good three feet up in the atmosphere. It was a sensational moment, and one every bit as deserving of its place in Tottenham history as Johnson’s goal.

4. Tottenham Have Won A Trophy!

Not that this game was decided by VDV, Johnson and no others. By the time the credits rolled and everyone began jumping and hugging, one couldn’t lob a brick onto the pitch without hitting an absolute hero clad in lilywhite.

Romero managed the commendable feat of combining a defensive performance of supreme discipline with aggression channelled in precisely the appropriate fashion – viz. into the face of Harry Maguire at every opportunity.

Sarr, about whose deployment at the tip of the midfield three AANP had had considerable doubts, drew upon every last bubble of oxygen in tearing about the pitch for the cause.

Bissouma and Bentancur provided exactly the screen that the back-four required, while Richarlison not only provided an attacking outlet, particularly in the first half, but also emerged as one of the few amongst our number who effected a clean tackle on that pesky Amad – a lad whose nuisance value considerably diminished in the second half as Udogie gradually got the measure of him.

So it’s the shiniest gold stars all round for the players. For the manager, debate on his future can be had another day – last night he nailed his tactics, delivered on his promise and brought a European trophy back to N17.

AANP has spent every waking hour since full-time milking this occasion until it bleeds, and why not? Input from media types and those who support other teams is, of course, all part of life’s rich tapestry, but by golly it is nevertheless satisfying to ram a European trophy down those throats.

The whole business of just getting the job done and actually finding a way to win a trophy had become quite the issue. Legions of psychologists and whatnot would have scratched their heads and shrugged their shoulders, as one Tottenham team after another found ways to bungle the operation. The current vintage, however, ride off into the sunset with a shiny pot. As such they deserve all the plaudits that come their way – and one hopes that it serves as a prompt to further silverware, some time sooner than 17 years hence.   

Tottenham Hotspur, Europa League winners – absolutely marvellous stuff!

AANP’s 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, covering our previous European triumphs, is also still available

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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!

AANP tweets and Blueskies

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Bodo Glimt: 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. Richarlison

Well I think the first order of business is to park myself at the desk and start penning a few heartfelt apologies. There are a several in our number I’ve not missed an opportunity to stick the knife into over the course of this and previous seasons, and they were all queueing up last night to ram various choice words straight back down my throat.

Richarlison is a good case in point. One might delicately say that AANP has not always been entirely enamoured of the honest fellow’s outputs. “Least technically gifted Brazilian ever” springs to mind as a phrase I once tossed in his direction, and although we can playfully punch each other’s shoulders and talk about jokes amongst the boys, there’s no getting away from the fact that that one was meant to sting.

Yesterday however, the honest fellow took to the pitch like a Brazilian intent on letting remarks about his technique wash over him like water. In fact it would not be a stretch to say that he set the tone for the whole humdinging display. 

I don’t mind admitting that when I saw the teamsheet I reacted to his name with a pretty stunned silence. Truth be told, I hadn’t even considered him as an option on the left. Tel or Odobert seemed the obvious choices, Mikey Moore at a stretch. And if The Brains Trust really wanted to embrace their experimental selves, it seemed likelier that Kulusevski, Johnson or Maddison would pop up on the west flank to fill the Sonny-shaped hole. Richarlison simply didn’t cross my mind. 

But selected he was, and if Ange wanted to fix me with one of those inscrutable stares and croak something about hindsight proving it a tactical masterstroke, I’d probably hold up my hands and grant him that.

Having digested the news of his selection, I did spend a goodish while mulling away as to what Richarlison’s remit would be. Would he try to emulate the Son of yesteryear, by breaking at pace from halfway; or channel his inner Odobert, Tel of Mikey Moore, by throwing in stepovers and trickery until the full-back had twisted blood?

As it turns out, Richarlison gave evidence that in his younger days he may have been a boy scout or something similar, because he went about his business with the motto “Just be yourself” clearly ringing in his ears. Rather than trying to throw in an impression of Sonny or Odobert, he set about the task by asking himself “What would Richarlison do?”, and being better placed than most to answer this, he rolled up his sleeves and immediately started providing real-time answers.

Within about ten seconds of kick-off, he flung in an aerial cross from the left, and a dashed effective one it was too. Rarely-sighted beasts these days, aerial crosses from the left. Porro on t’other side occasionally dabbles, but generally whomever is stationed on the left tends more often to be in the market for lower deliveries that fizz across the area for Brennan Johnson to tap in at the far post. I can barely remember us flinging in a left-footed, aerial cross from the left, and inviting those assembled to make of it what they will.

Richarlison, however, seemed of the opinion that there was no better way to start the day than to do precisely that, and a gratifying degree of bedlam it caused too. The forehead of Dominic Solanke has been criminally underused this season, but his eyes lit up at that cross, and with Johnson lurking at the far post as Johnson does, we were surprisingly well-stocked for takers. The cross may have been scrambled clear, but a vigorous nod of approval from AANP was in the mail.

Richarlison demonstrated a further commendable trait moments later, when the ball was recycled and Porro delivered one of his aforementioned aerial crosses from the right. This being aimed towards the back post, Richarlison was again in business – and again, it struck me that he was adding an element to our game that none of Son, Tel or Odobert can really provide, viz. the back-post header.

Son seems literally scared of the ball if it leaves the ground, and the either two are a bit too happy to excuse themselves from consideration on the grounds of height or build or some such. Richarlison though was pretty game. I think he fancies himself as a bit of a one when it comes the airborne muck. He might not have been able to direct it towards goal himself, but the option he chose was comfortably as effective, looping the thing over to the unmarked Johnson (who to his credit made his finish look very straightforward, when such things are easy to pickle).

This all occurred within the first 40 seconds or so, but for the remainder of the half Richarlison continued to run a pretty good race. He beavered in midfield, linked up play, delivered a good variety of short and slightly longer passes, and kept the opposing full-back on his toes. No huge surprise that he was hooked after 45, given his lack of match-practice and the general puffing and panting he put into that first half, but as remarked at the outset, something of an apology is due from this quarter. Quite the innings.

2. Bissouma

Another who wormed his way back into the AANP good books most unexpectedly was Bissouma. If one wanted to ignore all the positives and mope about the place professing gloom and disaster, one might moan that the fellow ought to play like that every bally game.

There would be a degree of validity to such a point, I suppose. He was brought into the fold precisely on the basis of performances like that in his former life at Brighton – all discipline and energy. But frankly one glosses over the fact that his two or three seasons in lilywhite have been more miss than hit, because last night, when it mattered more than usual, he delivered of his best.

Frankly, the goal aside, Bodo Glimt had nary a sniff, and while the collective takes credit, Bissouma’s repeated Seek-and-Destroy routines played a huge part. It was all the more impressive given the absence of Bergvall, news of which I must confess froze me in my tracks and prompted the skipping of a heartbeat or two that I’ll never get back.

But Bissouma filled the void like a trooper. One appreciates the farcical nature of praising a seasoned international for deputising for a newly-hatched teen who’s only been a few months in the Starting XI, but it was still a vital role to play, and Bissouma played it with a few plombs.

3. Solanke and the Concern Around His Absence

Words of commendation too for Destiny Udogie and James Maddison. In fact, one could take a deep breath and spew out words of commendation for the entire regiment, this being one of those performances in which all in lilywhite burst to the seams with their A-games. Even in this context, however, I thought that both Udogie and Maddison were particularly impressive.

Much of what was good about our play emanated from the size nines of Udogie, they being employed for the dual purposes of snuffling possession from the other lot, and then immediately redirecting operations to Attack Mode.

Maddison too was at the heart of a lot of our better moments. Having spent much of his evening in the role of string-puller-in-chief, it was rather impressive to see him pop up in goalscoring peep-holes too – and not for the first time on the big occasion.

The manner in which he took his goal was Dele-esque, boasting as it did exquisite control in the first place. I was particularly taken by the little hesitation he then inserted – pausing to travel another yard rather than shooting immediately, a manoeuvre that was pretty subtle to the naked eye but had the most satisfactory effect of dragging the goalkeeper from his moorings and depositing him on the floor, when really he wanted to be leaping full length. Marvellous stuff.

However, if absence makes the heart grow fonder, it struck me that Solanke’s might have been the really critical contribution. A slightly controversial take amongst the masses, I’m sure. If you were to goggle a bit, and re-read the sentence with a narrow eye, I can’t say I’d blame you.

In fact, while he was on the pitch, I thought Solanke was mucking in well, as they all were, but not necessarily any better than his nearby chums.

However, once he hobbled off stage left, I started to appreciate a bit more the wholesome content he brought to proceedings. Put simply, we rather lost our attacking edge once he went off. None of the reserve lieutenants seem able to lead the line – and, specifically, the press – quite like he does. Nor do they put in the off-the-ball graft in the less fashionable areas, or provide a beacon towards which to aim at the top end of the pitch; but it was the abandonment of the press after his removal that rather nagged over here.

As such, the medical bods ought to work every available hour to patch him up and glue him back together in time for next week. Listening back after the event, the chatter I heard after we’d conceded seemed rather over-the-top in truth. The telly sorts gave the impression that we’d taken a 5-0 drubbing and were so doomed in the second leg that it was barely worth our turning up; but while I fancy our European alter egos to do what’s necessary next week, the task will be infinitely harder minus Solanke.

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Spurs match reports

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

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

Man City 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Vicario

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

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

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

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

3. Bergvall (In The First Half At Least)

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Ipswich 1-4 Spurs: 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 Midfield and That Opening Five Or So Minutes

A rummy old set-to, this one. Take the scoreline, for starters. Flattered our lot, no doubt – but then one might point out that there have been plenty of games this season in which we’ve given opposing mobs a bit of a battering, only to trudge off at the end credits with a decidedly underwhelming harvest.

One might also make the case that the scoreline was actually a triumph for the art of clinical finishing, arguably the most important aspect of the game. In this respect, our heroes have rarely been sharper.

Brennan Johnson may attract a fair amount of hand-wringing and naysaying for his all-round game, but as demonstrated in spadefuls yesterday he puts himself in the right position to score, time after time; while Kulusevski delivered a finish that became his signature move in the first months of his N17 career, but has been rarely sighted since.

However, the aspect of the game that indelibly inked itself over here was that ghastly opening five minutes or so. During that period Ipswich might realistically have scored thrice, if they’d finished with the sort of dead-eyed accuracy that our heroes were later to deploy. While the header that hit the woodwork from a set-piece was, I suppose, the sort of plot-twist that could occur at any point during a 90-minute binge, the fact that twice from open play they absolutely scythed through our midfield and defence does focus the mind rather.

(Interestingly, it was pointed out to me by my Spurs-supporting chum Ian that, having joined the action only after the opening five minutes or so had elapsed, he soaked up matters from a rather different perspective, finding our lot instead to have been largely dominant, bar a general wobbling of the apparatus at 2-1.)

While credit is due to our lot for riding the early storm – and their luck – and then acting with the decisive hand as soon as chances did present themselves, the circumstances of that opening spell linger uncomfortably, much like a bad taste in the mouth. The ease with which Ipswich danced around the flimsy swiping legs of Kulusevski, Bergvall and Bentancur troubles me deeply.

It happened again by the way, later in the half, in a move that came to precisely naught because Ipswich having bypassed our midfield then rather dull-headedly played the ball straight out of play, but the point remains. No matter the personnel, and frankly no matter the era, it’s far too easy for opponents to pick their way through our midfield and, set about sharpening their knives for a bash at our defence.

As it happens, Bentancur and Bergvall have rarely played better in our colours. More on Bergvall later, but Bentancur flitted about the place with the energy of a small child in a playground. He also had the good sense to read the room, as it were, judging well when to let matters unfold on their own and when to roll up his sleeves and wade in. His was an afternoon decorated with meaningful inputs into conversation – interceptions rather than tackles, but no less important for it. I still fancy he is a lot more useful as a Creator in possession, than as a Destroyer out of possession, but he did a useful job yesterday.

Nevertheless, even with both he and Bergvall playing as well as I’ve seen, the midfield was hardly a no access area restricted by high fences and barbed wire. As and when Ipswich wanted to wander through, they generally did so. While this was never more obvious than in the opening five or ten minutes, it still remained a running theme throughout.

2. Bergvall

As mentioned, Bergvall earned his beans yesterday, winning the coveted gong for being AANP’s Standout Performer and leaving no blade of grass untrod by his luminous boots.

Dancing away from opponents like a troublesome child stealing sweets from a shop in 1950s Brooklyn was the order of the day, as Bergvall gaily danced this way and that, to what I suspect was the growing irritation of the various Ipswich opponents, many of whom would have presumably shaken a fist at him and promised to bestow a good thrashing if they ever caught him.

But they never did, such was the twinkle-toed nature of his offering. In fact, at one point in the second half, he briefly morphed into Maradona, embarking on a dribble of the mazy variety, that very nearly led to a hat-trick for Johnson B.

Bergvall, like Bentancur, also peddled a solid line in well-timed nicking-of-the-ball-from-opponents’-feet, which was contributed usefully to the overall operation. It did not stop AANP grumbling that what we really needed in the centre was an aggressive ball-winner the very sight of whom would prompt opponents to gulp and think twice about venturing in that direction; but Bergvall made a decent fist of his defensive duties, given the tools at his disposal.

This rich praise being liberally scattered over the young chap might prompt a double-take from those of you who remember the AANP reaction to his first outings, on these very pages. If I recall correctly they were Europa affairs, and Bergvall’s most prominent contribution tended to be the capacity to be shoved firmly off ball and out of frame by the nearest opponent.

Not much meat on the Bergvall bones, was the damning AANP take, and if you had politely suggested to me that six months down the line this same stripling of a lad would be bossing midfield matters in the Premier League I may well have told you to go boil your head; and yet here we are.

3. Son

Our Esteemed Captain has come in for some jip from these parts in recent weeks (and I readily accept that the term “recent” is doing some heavy lifting in that sentence, the furrowed brow having been unleashed upon the fellow non-stop since the start of the season).

However, whether having benefited from a couple of midweek rests, or having been pitched against one of the Premier League’s less illustrious right-backs, Sonny got to enjoy himself again yesterday.

I would be deceiving my public if I climbed upon a soap-box and announced that he had returned to his eye-boggling best. That burst of pace upon which he rather built his reputation, and which would leave scorch marks from halfway line to penalty area, still isn’t really in evidence.

However, the buzzy approach, and dizzying stepovers, were back in evidence yesterday, and unfurled to most pleasing and useful effect. Son created both our opening two goals (drinks bought, by the way, for both Messrs Gray and Bentancur for the dreamy passes that released Son in these instances), applying stepovers, shoulder-dips and various other party tricks with the elan of a man who’d played exactly this role a few times before.

Aided by the welcome sight of a burly and restored Udogie charging about the place wherever the mood took him, our left flank caused Ipswich a succession of headaches, and by the time decisive action was taken at half-time to remedy things, by tossing their right-back to the scrapheap and shoving in some other johnnie, the damage was already done.

4. Tel

A couple of weeks ago, in the Cup game at Villa, the lilywhite world was treated, in one fleeting glimpse, to the best of young Monsieur Tel, when he briefly inhabited the ghost of Lineker and poached a finish that sat a long way up the difficulty scale. All contortions and awkward angles, he demonstrated that if a loose ball is flung into the area, he’s the sort of cheese who will dashed well worm his way to the front of the queue. AANP nodded an approving head.

Since then – and indeed, prior to then – those poachworthy opportunities have been at a premium. Which is to say, there haven’t been any at all. Instead, the poor chump has had to spend his afternoons and evenings being asked to reel off his best Dom Solanke impressions. Essentially, and rather unkindly, he’s being asked repeatedly and solely to collect the ball with back to goal and hold off burly defenders climbing all over his back, until an obliging teammate ambles into view.

Now AANP can call spades spades with the best of them, when the need arises. So it is that I suggest that Tel is not really a centre-forward in the Solanke mould. Not remotely in fact. Different species altogether.

And this is by no means a criticism of the young oeuf. AANP himself, after all, is a man of a handful of talents; but if, say, I were asked by the boss to try my hand at lion-taming, I suspect I’d be in a pickle. Onlookers with experience in the field would no doubt turn to one another with disapproving looks, and murmur, “Unconvincing. No lion-tamer, he.” It would hardly be my fault, never having dabbled, but one cannot ignore the evidence of the eyes.

And so it is with Tel. When clearing the ball up the middle third and asking him to perform a role for which neither Nature nor Nurture has particularly fitted him, he’ll put in the effort and work up a sweat, but ultimately will just end up on a heap on the floor, waving his arms in a bit of a huff as Ipswich players collect the ball and get on with their day.

All sorts of mitigating circumstances rain in from all angles here. The lad is new to the team; inexperienced; and perhaps most pertinently has yet to feature in a Tottenham side that really plays to his strengths. One suspects that if passes are rolled along the turf ahead of him and into space towards which he might charge, and we’ll see a different beast.

It is also extremely welcome simply to have in the ranks a bona fide striker with a few goals to his name, able to come in and cover for injuries, and ensure that we aren’t left scrabbling to square-peg Sonny into that lead role and so on.

Nevertheless, the contrast with that lad Delap on the other side, was pretty eye-catching. Delap made himself a nuisance from the opening toot, charging about the place like a bull in a china shop – and of those thoughtful bulls, who will not limit itself to disrupting the china but take a swipe at pretty much anything else in its eyeline. A physical presence for sure, but blessed also with a pretty graceful pair of size nines. If Levy and chums were to break the bank in order to bring him in as competition for Solanke, AANP would throw its full support behind such a move.

That, however, is for another day. The triumph yesterday was, as much as anything else, an indication of the benefits brought by having fit and healthy players and an imposing roster of reserves chomping at their respective bits on the bench.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-0 Liverpool: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Kinsky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Bergvall

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Spence

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

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

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

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

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

4. Ange Postecoglou, Tactical Genius

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Wolves: 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. A Return to Older Ways

There was something vaguely nostalgic about seeing our lot have the better of things throughout, gum up multiple opportunities and then let the opposition snatch a point in fairly routine fashion. Not that it made things any more palatable, but the scene that played out was certainly a familiar one.

In decades to come, the nation’s great orators might paint this as one of those larks dominated start to finish by the mob in lilywhite; the truth, however, is that we did the decent thing only in fits and starts. Our heroes were certainly the more capable of the two gangs out there, and generally had the better of things. At the same time it wasn’t quite Tottenham at their fluent best.

Out of puff, is the expert AANP take. The sprightly, fighting-fit specimens of late-August and September have been replaced by wheezing, weathered versions. The spirit is as willing as ever, but the flesh is flagging like the dickens.

That said, when they clicked, our troops did so pretty dreamily, and but for a selection of errant finishes we might have regaled one another over new year’s eve with tales of Goal of the Season contenders. But there’s the rub: errant finishes. Chief amongst them, I suppose, was the penalty, but other highlights on show included a couple of first half moments of slapstick gold, in which various players wavered between stepping aside for each other and all trying to connect simultaneously, as well as various more conventional misses.

As mentioned, when operations came together Wolves didn’t stand much chance. They just trotted around in appropriate spots and hoped for the best. However, these moments were fairly intermittent. For every smooth combo on show there was at least one instance of a move falling apart at the construction stage. Again, it struck me, most of those out on show would benefit from a lazy day or two watching Christmas reruns on the telly-box, and with the feet up and no energy expended.

Good to see that they can still carve open defences like the best of them; but to concede after the only five-minute spell of pressure faced in the whole match does rather knock the stuffing. Another two points we can wistfully mourn come May.

2. Solanke and Kulusevski

Foremost amongst those fighting the good fight were Solanke and Kulusevski, who well and truly took to heart the instruction to beaver away like the dickens. If there were a forward pass of some loose degree of promise being shunted around halfway, one of these two were upon it in a trice.

Their fine and worthy inputs did not end there. Solanke in particular demonstrated a hitherto rarely-seen ability to twinkle-toe his way around desperate, retreating Wolves legs. Too selfless by half, the upshot of much of his good work was that by the time the moment arrived for the trigger to be pulled, Solanke was often still a good 10 yards south of the action, meaning that it was left to his various chums to try their luck.

Kulusevski meanwhile demonstrated yet again that while he has something to offer out wide on the right, his talents are best showcased when he pops up slap bang in the middle of things, with licence to go where the mood takes him. Admittedly the mood as often as not takes him veering off slightly to the right anyway, but I nevertheless prefer him in that Number 10 slot, and each passing game merely reaffirms this notion.

2. Son (and Werner)

If Solanke and Kulusevski were at the bright and breezy end of the Juices Floweth spectrum, poor old Sonny was still trudging along at the other. Putting to one side his penalty miss, he seemed to spend his hour getting bogged down in a mass of confused ideas as to what to do with the ball when it arrived at his feet. The result generally seemed to be that he ground to a halt, malfunctioned slightly and either pickled his end-product or ran into a cul-de-sac.

There was a whiff of the old errand-of-mercy about his substitution on 60 or so minutes. While Timo Werner is no world-beater it struck me that there was a pretty marked change in levels of vim and spark on the left, when the German arrived.

If any amongst the readership are inclined to leap into action first, give things a moment’s thought at some later date and live their life by the motto ‘Consequences be damned’ then the notion of dumping Sonny on the bench for the foreseeable probably strikes you as a winner.

I’m inclined to be a tad more circumspect myself, and while a game or two on the bench might be no bad thing, the chap still ought to have plenty to contribute in the coming five or so months. A shame that neither Mikey Moore nor that Odobert beak are fit and ready to step in, but I’m all for Herr Werner stretching his legs in the coming days, as an immediate-term running repair.

More broadly, at 32 we can probably assume that a creature whose game is as burst-of-pace-dependent as Son’s will, sooner or later, start to wind down, so a spot of forward-planning would not go amiss. The hot take is that although his contract runs out this summer, itchy fingers abound in N17, ready to trigger a one-year extension. This makes sense to AANP, and once Odobert and Mikey Moore are fit, suitable replacements will present themselves for a gentle handover.

3. Dragusin and Gray

As mentioned, to concede at the first sniff of pressure exerted by the other lot was a blow to the lower regions. Giving the beady eye to replays of that second goal, neither centre-back really covered themselves in glory.

A case could be made for Archie Gray to wear the principal bell of shame about his neck, which is almightily unfortunate, because if the goal were his fault I make that just about the first errant act of his, in four or five outings at centre-back. Aside from the goal, yesterday and in all previous jaunts at centre-back he was near-flawless, making sensible choices defensively, showing awareness of current events buzzing around him and also proving most competent in possession.

Alas, that business of keeping up with current events hit a minor blip yesterday, and it proved costly. In the build-up to the Wolves equaliser, when things were still at the Harmless stage, Gray’s duties appeared to include the babysitting of that Strand Larsen egg. This he managed well enough, until the moment when the crucial pass was played into the area.

At this point, S-L simply toddled his way in front of Gray, and that was that. It was all very pleasant and courteous, so no alarms on that front; but the real issue here was that Gray not only allowed the chap to go where he pleased without making much effort to prevent him, he also made no attempt then to catch the blighter as he latched onto the ball.

It may have been that Gray expected Dragusin to pick up the baton once S-L made his move, but if this were the case it was optimistic at best. Dragusin, for a start, has at the back of his head a peculiar accumulation of hair, and half a shaved scalp, but decidedly and absolutely no eyes. And lacking eyes in the back of his head, nor bothering to give a glance over his shoulder to see what menace might have been lurking, he sure as heck wasn’t about to lend a helping hand to Gray.

The net result was just that. S-L did not hang around, but slapped the thing into the net, and those various missed chances came home to roost.

As mentioned, a shame that Gray’s copybook was blotted thusly, because he seems a most competent young thing when it comes to elite-level centre-backery.

Dragusin is a slightly more curious bird, showing himself yesterday pretty capable at various of the defensive elements of the role, before hitting a steady stream of passes to opposition players.

He did punctuate all of these with one absolute doozy of a pass, out to the right in the first half. It was one that reminded me of the little video compilations one pored over when he was about to sign, and which had various amongst us chattering excitedly about how good a passer he no doubt was. Safe to say that he certainly fancies himself as a ball-sprayer of some zip; but a ratio of one in five or so does make me raise a concerned eyebrow.

4. Reguilon

Before signing off, a mention of young Senor Reguilon. And having introduced the topic so dramatically, with the public no doubt awaiting, with baited breath, the meat of the story, I’m not quite sure how to elaborate. Frankly, as I’m not privy to the inner workings of the Postecoglou mind, the best you’ll get from me is an apologetic shrug, and gentle rehash of existing ideas.

From what I gather, poor old Reguilon has been persona non grata all this time because he’s been fashioned by nature as one of those more conventional full-backs, who sticks to the touchline as a well-trusted vicinity, and is happy to swing crosses into the penalty area. And indeed, these traits were on show during his 40-odd yesterday.

Where Reguilon struggles, according to the narrative, is in inverting, and this is why he spends most of his hours gazing on longingly from afar, the disappointment of being excluded week after week barely compensated for by the enormous envelope he pockets each month. In short, he’s not a Postecolglou sort.

It says much about the state of the sick-bay, then, that even Reguilon was dusted down and shoved on for the best part of the second half yesterday. With Spence’s suspension now served, he will presumably come straight back in at left-back, at the weekend, but the dubious state of Udogie’s hamstrings suggests that there may yet be another cameo or two from Reguilon before he’s bundled out the door. If nothing else, I suppose, it hammers home the point that we need a signing or two come the new year.