Tag: Djed Spence

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Spurs match reports

Bodo-Glimt 2-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. General Guff About “Character”

Now you can call me a massively ungrateful wretch who should be thankful for what he’s got – and you wouldn’t be the first – but when I hear the Big Cheese, and various other luminaries clad in official Team Hotspur training gear, banging on about the “character” shown last night, I do rather get the urge to pickle my own head.

The nub of my grievance is that we should not have to keep needing late, late rallies in order to salvage a point against teams that are decent but hardly world-beating. And a delicate nuance attached to that same nub is that banging on about character seems a little too conveniently to sweep aside the glaring issue de jour, with an innocent whistle and the hope that everyone forgets it ever happened at all.

So while I grudgingly offer a brief round of applause – one of those perfunctory numbers, utterly devoid of sincerity – it’s only a precursor to a spot of prime finger-jabbing.

The real issue I took back to AANP Towers last night is that we should not be two bally goals down to Bodo-Glimt in the first place, in any circumstance. Nor for that matter should we be two down to Brighton or trailing to Wolves at home in added time. Never mind that we manage to slink our way out of these scrapes – why the devil are we in them in the first place?

However, if there is one thing said about AANP it is that he is an absolute model of fairness, calm and sunny optimism, and as such I can rein in the vitriol for 20 seconds or so, and give our lot their dues. And in this spirit of acceptance I acknowledge that a Champions League draw is better than a Champions League defeat, and that many a previous vintage has simply accepted their fate with a resigned shrug when faced with a 2-0 deficit away from home. So well done Spurs, for drawing with a team worth £50m.

2. A Spot of Porro-Bashing

The niceties concluded, we can get down to brass tacks, and interrogate why our heroes were second best to that mob, almost throughout.

Consistently failing, to a man, to string 10-yard passes together was a pretty core element here; and out of possession, while there seemed a pretty firm understanding that packing seven or eight across our own area would help prevent unwanted intrusion, the tendency of our midfield simply to melt away rather played into Bodo’s hands.

This is one of those occasions on which I could jab a finger at just about any of the eleven and launch into a bit of a rant, so one ought not to read too much into the choice of Senor Porro for the initial blast of both barrels. Nevertheless, the thought does spring to mind, time and again, that for a defender he’s really not so hot in the defending department.

The chap’s tendency to dangle the most ineffective leg whenever an opponent attempts a cross has been well documented on these very pages previously. Last night he took that same principle of waggling a limb without the slightest conviction, and applied it when the opposition nib was lining up a shot.

I struggle to remember a time when Porro actually did block a shot. I certainly remember countless moments when he has dropped to one knee to create that cricket-style long-barrier approach. He does that every game, pretty regularly, and it looks terrifically neat and tidy, quite the feat of construction and aesthetics. Unfortunately, it’s useless.

The Bodo fellow wandered into the area for yesterday’s second goal, so Porro instinctively dropped to his knee, in response to which the Bodo f. promptly danced around him – as one would when presented with an inanimate and entirely superfluous object in one’s path – and lashed the thing in.

And this, lest we forget, followed the opener, in which Porro when faced with one attacker in possession plus his overlapping chum, wandered the way of the overlapping sort, neglecting to communicate any of this to the assisting Johnson, with the result that the attacker in possession did not even have to dip into his bag of tricks in order to find room for the shot. He simply wandered straight into the space vacated by Porro and BJ and let fly. The AANP mood darkened.

Porro, of course, played a critical role in our comeback, his absolutely gorgeous delivery presenting on a plate the goal for Micky van de Ven. A particular word of approbation to PP for striking the ball so sweetly when it had been rolled backwards to him, and as such would have been a strong contender for scooping upwards and off into the gods.

So no real complaints about the fellow’s attacking onions. But to repeat the intro line – he appears to be a defender who cannot defend, and as such is at least one of the causes of our lot needing to resort to “character” to do that skin-of-the-teeth routine at the death.

3. Danso. And Spence. And All The Rest If I Had Time.

AANP reserved a special eye or two for young Herr Danso for this one, this being his first start of the season and whatnot. While there has generally been a whiff of optimism accompanying the reports of my Spurs-supporting chums when opining on the fellow since his arrival last season, I’ve been a bit less convinced to date, still waiting for his big signature tune, if you know what I mean.

And given the platform yesterday to stride out and blow us all away, I thought he spent his 90 minutes resembling a balloon from which air was slowly escaping throughout. His actual defending was fairly unremarkable – not quite Porro-esque levels of negligence, but neither did he come across as some heaving colossus towards whom opponents took one look and instinctively back off a yard or two to ask their commander if there were any alternative routes to goal. On spying Danso, one got the impression that the Bodo lot turned to one another and murmured “Sure, I’ll have a crack at this one.”

But what really irked the AANP soul was the sight of Danso on the front-foot, seemingly convinced that his inner Beckenbauer was ripe and ready for channelling. We all flung up our hands and yelled a choice curse or two at Bentancur for his runaway-plough routine that conceded the penalty, but Bodo had possession in the first place because Danso had gone galloping up the pitch, only to dwell too long and be robbed inside halfway.

This was an act he repeated a few times, either getting caught in possession or launching a flurry of the most aimless forward passes conceivable, the sort that rather apologetically slow down near the opposition corner flag, leaving even the opposition a little irritated at having to fetch the thing from no man’s land.

It was a tough gig for Danso, I suppose, being dropped into the frontline without any meaningful football behind him and on a plastic pitch and whatnot – but the above errors were nevertheless avoidable fare. We may have two pretty high calibre centre-backs in situ, but the first reserve does seem to represent a dip in quality. Covetous glances continue to be glanced in the direction of Selhurst Park.

And as mentioned, there are plenty others who deserve a fair amount of opprobrium for last night’s bilge. Spence might be an excellent one-on-one defender, and doubtless boasts a few tricks when on the forward march, but yesterday he was regularly to be spotted miles out of position while all around him retreated at breakneck speed back into position (or rather he was not spotted – if you get my drift).

On top of which, that lackadaisical air of his, which seems to lurk never too far from the surface, was on show again for the Bodo second, for which he rather carelessly miscontrolled on the corner of his own area to gift possession their way.

It was that sort of night, errant behaviour on show from those in natty black shirts everywhere one looked. Late comebacks are all well and good, but midfield creativity and general sharpness have been sorely lacking from our mob in recent games, and it’s one Our Glorious Leader will need to un-muddle pronto.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-1 Wolves: Three Tottenham Talking Points

(With apologies for recent radio silence – a lot going on at AANP Towers)

1. Misdirected First Half Optimism, Featuring Bergvall and Kudus

Hindsight, as a rather wise old egg once put it, is 20-20, so I suppose I look a bit of a chump admitting it now, but back in the first half of this binge there were one or two moments when I nestled in my seat rather smugly, a look of satisfaction etched across the map, as if to say “I’m rather enjoying watching our lot go at it.”

Back in that halcyon age, while it would be a stretch to say we were running riot and biffing the other lot from all angles with gay abandon, once settled in (i.e. after about a quarter of an hour or so), I did get the impression that the key question de jour was “When?” rather than “If?” if you get my gist.

And this sunny rationale was based largely upon the plans and deeds of Messrs Bergvall and Kudus, both of whom, in their own unique ways, seemed to be having rather a time of things. Indeed, for the disallowed goal they even crossed the streams, so to speak, interacting and exchanging pro tips on how to go about carving up an opposition back-line to pretty impressive effect.

Bergvall was very much on brand in that first half. If there were any beavering to be done, in an attacking sense in particular, he was generally at the front of the queue, both in and out of possession. Busily scurrying about the place, he had the air of a young man who looked ahead of him and saw nothing but opportunity. The chap has fast become an essential cog in the machine.

Kudus, of course, is a pretty different beast, being the robust sort of chappie who puts a bit more emphasis on meaty brawn and upper-body strength than young Bergvall. In his own way though, he’s equally effective, and having racked up that early header that was pushed onto the bar, as well as the disallowed goal, I was inclined to murmur a prognostication that when we did eventually take the lead, the fingerprints of Kudus would be all over the critical item.

And had that first half never ended, I’m still inclined to think that Kudus and Bergvall between them would have rustled up a goal or two from somewhere, and we’d have all swanned off down the High Road pipped to the gills with the night’s work.

2. The Oddly Lacklustre Second Half

Alas, all such sunny optimism rather went up in smoke as soon as the second half started, our lot becoming oddly reticent about the evening’s activities.

With the stunning insight that marks out AANP as a fan rather than a coach, I struggle to put my finger on what exactly went wrong, but the symptoms were fairly clearly demarked. Every loose ball seemed to be won by Wolves, and when they took possession of the thing they seemed oddly to have an extra man on the field, everywhere one looked. Had this happened against PSG back in August, one might have waved the forgiving hand; but to find ourselves comprehensively bested in one duel after another against the mob that sit bottom of the pile, and boasting a record of five defeats from five, was bothersome to say the very least. Had

It was not so much that there was a lack of effort from our heroes. They seemed sufficiently motivated. They just ended up being second-best in almost every matter that required on-pitch thrashing out – as was particularly neatly encapsulated by the Wolves goal.

I suppose one or two of our number can probably be excused – Palhinha seems convinced that the point of a football match is to flatten as many opponents as possible; and Romero’s adoption of the captain’s armband continues to translate into him charging about the pitch like a man possessed.

But seeing the more featherweight sorts – Tel, Odobert et al – hare towards the ball only to reach it a moment too late, or find themselves bouncing off a lusty opponent, left me harumphing discontentedly in my seat, and occasionally flinging a frustrated arm into the air, like nobody’s business.

Coming as this did, not too long after the dreadful, toothless production against Bournemouth, this served as another sharp poke in the Thomas Frank ribs, to urge him to find ongoing ways to get the best out of his charges.

3. Vicario’s Role in the Goal (With A Wary Eye on Spence)

Now AANP can hardly claim to have canvassed opinion of all sixty-odd thousand in the shiny bowl last night, much less the watching millions drinking it all in from their sofas, but nevertheless a murmur of discontent did reach my ears regarding the conduct of our resident last-line-of-defence, in particular regarding his handling of the goal we conceded.

The charge, as I understand, is that in saving the initial header directed towards him he might have invested in a longer-term solution than simply shoving it straight into a bundle of waiting limbs to his right, the result of which action was a ricochet that fell kindly to the Wolves shyster S. Bueno.

Well. Here I really do I have to draw myself up to my full height and clear my throat with a bit of meaning. Now I’ve historically been as happy as the next man to lay it on a bit thick towards Vicario at the appropriate moment – a flap at a corner, or knuckle-headed distribution, or whatever – but in this instance I stand shoulder to shoulder with the chap. As far as I could make out, Vicario pretty much ticked the essential boxes with that save.

In the first place, he got there. Full stretch, and levering himself off the ground, it was one I suppose you’d expect an international goalkeeper to pull off, but nevertheless, it required a spot of the basic mechanics, and he did that well enough – particularly given that the principal protagonist, Bueno S, was swinging a boot at the ball from a yard away.

Having reached the ball, where Vicario seems to have attracted opprobrium was in then shovelling it to his right, and into the legs of Palhinha. Here again, however, I side with the case for the defence. Vicario’s second objective, having already stopped the ball from hitting the net, would have been to push it away from the centre of the goal – and this he did. That there was an onrushing Wolves sort arriving at a rate of knots stage right was slightly rotten luck, and an element that ought to have been the responsibility of one of the outfield mob, rather than Vicario. (Although I repeat, the ball actually bounced of Palhinha rather than the incoming Wolve).

Either way, I thought Vicario did all that could reasonably have been expected of him in that particular chapter. If I were to point an accusing finger and yell a spot of invective, it would be directed at young Djed Spence. This might seem a tad leftfield to the casual bystander, but look again, closely, at the details, and you’ll note that as the corner was initially delivered, Spence’s defensive responsibility consisted of chaperoning the Wolves number 4 – one Santiago Bueno.

Spence, however, seemed to shrug off this responsibility as soon as the corner was taken, immediately losing sight of his quarry and instead becoming distracted by the prospect of a header. He lost both the header and Bueno, allowing the latter to swing an initial boot at the ball as Vicario made his save, and then to poke in the rebound as it fell neatly into his path.

This level of defending drives me absolutely mad. It should not be so difficult to keep tabs on an opponent at a corner. One understands if a run is blocked off or a spot of wrestling ensues – but none of the above applied to Spence in this instance. He simply forgot his raison d’etre, and let Bueno have the freedom of the 6-yard box, forsooth.

Not that the two dropped points were the sole responsibility of Spence, of course, but those scowling and muttering about Vicario’s antics might adjust their aim.

A draw is, of course, vastly preferable to a defeat, but AANP is in no doubt that these are two dropped points that we’ll look back upon with regret come May. I’m not entirely sure that Palhinha read the mood in the camp either, whipping off his shirt and flying off in a frenzy after an equaliser against Wolves of all teams, when the drill was surely to return to stations and search for a winner, but I suppose for now we should simply be grateful for what we salvaged.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-0 Burnley: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Exuberance of Youth

Young people, eh? A pretty unfathomable species at the best of times, the evidence of Saturday also did much to confirm that they are blessed with absolutely boundless energy.

Being a pessimistic sort when it comes to all matters lilywhite, I’d have pursed a brooding lip or two if our newest Glorious Leader had run by me pre-match his plan to stock our line-up to the gills with youthful sorts. A midfield of Sarr, Gray and Bergvall struck me as a little too green behind the ears.

Not for the first time already in his nascent reign however, Herre Frank proved himself a dashed sight more knowledgeable about these things than AANP, for the Sarr-Gray-Bergvall arrangement proved most effective, and chief amongst its attributes was a pretty eye-watering indefatigability amongst the protagonists.

One could probably sum up their contributions by noting that if the final whistle had not sounded around 5pm on Saturday they’d probably still be scampering about the pitch now.

Sarr had spent much of pre-season getting to know the sights and sounds of the upper end of the pitch, having been slightly curiously deployed as a Number 10; but on Saturday it was the more familiar environs of the middle third, and a general instruction to hover busily on the lookout for any loose balls carelessly deposited about the place.

He proved something of a master of the art. There was a long-ish period before half-time when our overall play stagnated somewhat, as we tried and failed repeatedly to pass from the back over halfway, but that aside, and when we were a little mor front-footed, Sarr was exactly the right man for the role of tidying up behind his more illustrious colleagues.

As an added bonus, he also delivered a doozy of a pass for our third.  AANP does love a perfectly-weighted pass inside a full-back, and Sarr’s offering on Saturday was one I’ll happily replay in the mind’s eye in the coming weeks.

As for Gray, it would be no dramatic stretch to suggest that this was his finest afternoon in central midfield in our colours. Now the caveat here is sizeable, for there is barely any competition in the field. Gray’s previous excursions in central midfield, at least in our colours, have been fairly calamitous, the sort of rot from which rabbits in headlights could learn a few things.

On Saturday, however, he seemed vastly more at ease. He offered positional discipline, if you don’t mind a spot of technical jargon, holding his positionally centrally and at the base of midfield and popping up to offer a spot of disagreement whenever Burnley looked to push forward, as well as providing an option for whichever of our lot were in possession. The second coming of Dave Mackay he might not quite have been, but he played his part.

And further forward, seemingly with a bit of licence to go haring off in whichever direction he happened to be facing, was Bergvall. The curious young egg seemed to have adopted that mindset that if the ball was in play he might as well tear off after it, followed by the sub-heading that if he then happened to get hold of the thing he would simply continue scuttling about, bringing the ball with him.

Within 20 seconds of kick-off he had popped up in the 6-yard box to force a save from the Burnley goalkeeper, and one imagines that the Burnley mob in general would have been sick of the sight of him by the time the credits rolled.

For my part, having soaked in an hour and a half of the midfield three racing around like small children on a diet of fizzy drinks and sweets, I rather fancied a quiet sit-down in a darkened room, with just a bourbon for company. Simply watching the young people was tiring enough for me. Marvellous work though.

An honourable mention too for young Spence. At 25 he is a few years the senior of the midfield three, but I’ll bung him into the same bracket, primarily on the grounds that he too was a bundle of energy throughout.

Technically, I suppose as this was a 4-2-3-1 sort of setup, one might have labelled Spence as an orthodox right-back, but he seemed to treat any such suggestion with a care-free shrug, and simply cracked right on with that business of scooting off into the opposition penalty area whenever the situation demanded, looking every inch a wing-back.

2. Richarlison

I’m not quite sure at what point isolated statistical occurrences become a trend, but it’s now two pretty dashing Richarlison performances in a row, and the regulars are starting to whisper excitedly.

After peddling some rousing fare in midweek against the other champions of Europe, Richarlison’s newest trick on Saturday was to dispense with any attempts to control the ball, and instead simply leather the thing first time. It was a stroke of genius. Seasoned Richarlison-watchers will be well aware that while hardly lacking willing, he can occasionally be stymied in his performances when it comes to some of the operational basics – such as being able to control the football.

However, at the weekend, he hit upon the idea of skipping from step 1 to step 3, as it were, and dispensing with the troublesome middle part. When Kudus crossed invitingly, any suggestions of trapping the precious cargo were dismissed from Richarlison’s mind. Instead, in a sequence that seemed to sit with him far more comfortably, he took to contorting his limbs at all manner of acrobatic angles, and thumping the ball into whichever corner of the net took his fancy.

It was a trick I remember him unveiling with similar aplomb at the last World Cup, since which occasion I have pretty regularly chuntered along the lines that he never produces such fare in lilywhite.

Well that particular wait is over. That second goal was a humdinger, attracting admiring noises from the gathered masses each time it was replayed on the stadium screens.

Frankly, after a pair of goals of that quality, Richarlison could have spent the rest of the afternoon quietly leaning against a nearby pillar watching everyone else work up a sweat, and he’d still have been feted from all corners. As it happened, he trotted out another pretty impressive all-round display, doing all the necessary running and shielding and buffeting one would hope for from a fine, upstanding centre-forward.

All of which does make one return to the original question with a pensive stroke of the chin – are these two isolated statistical occurrences, or have we stumbled upon a better, stronger, faster version of Richarlison?

3. Kudus

However, for all the merry chatter about the bright young things, and the reborn striker at the apex, it was Kudus once again who came across as the headline act.

The fellow’s sheer strength continues to make one goggle a bit, and will take some getting used to. Indeed, my Spurs-supporting chum Ian let pass from his lips the name Mousa Dembele when remarking upon Kudus’ brawn, and one takes the point, for the former was similarly possessed of a robust frame off which opponents simply bounced.

As well as which, young Master K. has all the party tricks to attract the wide-eyed admirers, coming replete with stepovers, feints, close control and whatnot. The moment in the second half when he controlled the ball with his left foot tucked behind his right standing leg certainly attracted the sorts of gasps and applause that would not have been out of place a magic show, but it was the neat shoulder-dip and burst from a standing start, to create Richarlison’s second, which earned him the decisive AANP stamp of approval. Trickery is all well and good for a social media post, but ultimately we’ll need Kudus to create and score goals. The chap seems fully to understand the remit.  

As an aside, the potential prospect of both Kudus and Eze in the same line-up would prompt a smacking of the lips, but AANP has learned to frame these transfer rumours with caution, ever since the days of Rivaldo. For now I’m simply grateful that Kudus is a fully paid-up member of the gang.

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Spurs match reports

PSG 2-2 Spurs: Six Tottenham Talking Points

1. Formation

Trophy-winners though we might these days be, AANP was still steeped to the gills in the old, familiar dread before kick-off, and I’m not sure the teamsheet did much to soothe the frayed nerves.

Our newest Glorious Leader had unveiled what appeared on first glance to be a goalkeeper and eight defensive sorts for this one, and while one tries of course to be reasonable about these things, I must confess to reacting with a widening of the eyes, a murmured “What the dickens..?” and a few wildly quizzical looks.

More fool AANP. Fast forward 90 or so minutes and the 3-5-2 turned out to be a tactical masterpiece. “Balance” was the word I heard bandied on the telly-box, and while those commentary sorts can spout all manner of gibberish when they’ve got a mic thrust in front of them, on this occasion the chappie in question had stumbled upon the mot juste.

With a back-three in situ, one never really felt that our lot were outnumbered and straining every sinew to put out fires at the back. Gone was that sense of desperate last-ditch life-saving, and the frantic haphazard retreats that had become a bit of a hallmark in recent years.  

With this 3-5-2, we were, defensively a different beast. Which is to say that we were a beast with a few more bodies at the back. If, say, a Danso were turned and outpaced, a Romero could be relied upon to appear stage left and uproot a tree or two in clearing the danger. Should Doue or whomever start unfurling stepovers on the right, the reassuring sight of at least two in lilywhite would materialise to suffocate him.

PSG had it in them to one-touch our lot to death – and in such circumstances one accepts with a gracious shrug that that’s the way of things – but our lot were not be found wanting for numbers at the back, and this in itself was rather reassuring.

And in fact, much the same could be said of the midfield, where a triumvirate was deployed to similarly successful effect. Now Paulinha, ironically enough for a laddie who appears to AANP to be precisely what the doctor ordered, appears pretty desperately undercooked at present. Not his fault, he having barely laced a boot over the last 12 months by all accounts, and to repeat, I see him in time metamorphosing into an absolute pitbull in front of our defence.

Last night, however, the chap did appear to wheeze and puff his way through things somewhat. But lo, once again the use of a three-man construction came to our rescue, for that midfield also featured Messrs Sarr and Bentancur, both of whom came across as specimens at their absolute physical peak. (As an aside, it warmed the heart to observe Bentancur strutting about with fitness levels off the charts, following the near constant stream of batterings and bruises he’s collected over the past two years).

The presence of Sarr and Bentancur, essentially doing all the running so that Paulinha didn’t have to, meant that in midfield as in defence, we rarely looked outnumbered, and frequently showed sufficient appetite to snaffle possession from PSG and dance off over halfway.

Of course, any 3-5-2 lives and dies on the quality of its wing-backs, and here we really are blessed. One can only imagine the disbelieving glee with which Porro would have rubbed his eyes in the changing room beforehand when informed of his role. After two years of inverting and drifting infield, he didn’t need asking twice to bomb up the flank, and within about 30 seconds of kick-off could be spotted patrolling the corner of the PSG area with a glint in his eye.

Both he and Spence out on the other side gave fair indication of having not only received the memo, but taken to heart its contents, adopting the principles of top-notch wing-backery as their mantra for 90 minutes. The pair managed to tick boxes in both directions – and it was little surprise that when they (along with everyone else) ran out of steam in the final 20 or so, and they stopped advancing up the pitch, segueing from wing-backs to deep full-backs, our strategy rather fell apart at the seams.

So the 3-5-2 received a big fat tick at AANP Towers. I’m not sure that the same level of caution will be required for the next meeting with Tamworth – or even Burnley at home – but for a first innings of the season, against probably the best team in the world, and with a side shorn of its key attacking pipkins, 3-5-2 turned out to be just the ticket.

2. Richarlison

In rattling through the roll of honour of those who made the 3-5-2 work it is only right that I add to the Hall of Fame young Richarlison. For someone long established in the AANP rankings as the least technically gifted Brazilian to have kicked a ball, he delivered one heck of a tap-dance.

Drinking in this performance with some astonishment, I was reminded of a chappie I knew at the old almer mater, who one term returned after the summer hols with a new blonde haircut, a complete change in attire and announcing himself to the fairer sex as “Surfy”. In short, the curious fish had for some reason reinvented himself, and so it seemed with Richarlison last night.

Gone was the moody wretch possessed of two left feet and half-hearted chasing of lost causes, to be replaced sharpness of touch and a stirring line in winning possession on or around halfway.

One of the fellow’s first touches of the ball was a first-time effort from a good 20 yards out, by which this absolute interloper seemed to be saying “Forget what you thought you knew, for I am now Richarlison, doer of the impossible (or at least attempter of the improbable”).

With Kudus happy to buzz around alongside him, it all made for a most useful apex to the 3-5-2.

I suppose the question now is whether the transformation can last. That self-styled ‘Surfy’ chap from university binned the new image after a few weeks, so one treats these episodes with some caution; and moreover, if Solanke is fully fit – and the indications are he’s on course for it – then a pretty clear hierarchy emerges.

So call me a cynic, but given that last night’s shindig will have been watched by a near global audience with little better to do, I’m inclined to suggest that this is the optimum time to slap a hefty price-tag on R9 and shove him into the arms of the highest bidder.

3. Kudus

AANP is not one of that breed who spends his leisure hours studying footage of West Ham United, and as such I couldn’t have told you too much about Mohammed Kudus beyond his Fantasy League stats before he pitched up at N17. But by golly, if last night taught me anything it was that here was a fellow who knew how to make a first impression.

Specifically, that first impression seemed to consist of displaying the strength of about a dozen oxen. Of course, it is a prerequisite for the modern-day footballer to display a physique like one of those sculpted marble statues of the Greek gods, but even allowing for that I would not have cast the eye upon Kudus and immediately placed him as a 12-round heavyweight.

And yet, in glorious technicolour last night we were treated to the sight of a PSG sort clambering all over Kudus and pretty much bouncing off him, then to be joined by a second PSG sort, and sometimes even a third – but with their combined mights having minimal impact upon the chap.

Given his nomination for Strongest Man Alive one would have understood if, upon then emerging from the ruck with the ball at his feet, Kudus then displayed the touch of a malcoordinated donkey – but it turns out that on top of everything else he also skips about the place like a lissom cage footballer, turning his opposing full-backs inside out and painting pretty patterns with his feet.

I suppose if one were to be hyper-critical one might suggest that he could put in a few more hours in the back garden working on his weaker foot, but that’s one for another day. It’s unsurprising that in just about every pre-season game so far the primary tactic has been “Give It To Kudus” because in just about any circumstance he can not only shield the ball to afford everyone else a puff of the cheeks, but he’ll also then embark on one of those mazy ones and create a spot of mischief.

4. Sarr

With Kudus deployed yesterday in a role that was nominally supporting striker, but often morphed into right winger, young Sarr was accordingly re-jigged into a slightly more traditional midfield role. In case you missed the last few weeks, he has spent much of pre-season operating behind the front man, in the ‘Number 10’ role. Not one I’d have pencilled him in for, I must admit, but our new Head Honcho seems to think that his run-and-chase routine has value up the top of the pitch, so one sees the logic.

Anyway, back to last night, and Sarr’s remit had decidedly less glitz and glamour. “Mop up the loose ends”, was about the gist of it. And frankly, if he had reacted to this instruction with a darkening of the brow and a moody stare, one would have had a degree of sympathy. Chasing shadows against a team that has dished out a 5-0 tonking in the Champions League final of all games, is hardly the stuff of dreams.

Sarr, however, responded to the call like an absolute champion. If there were a loose ball to be seen just about anywhere inside our own half, he was onto it with the alacrity of one of those sizeable wild cats in the nature programmes leaping onto its prey.

It made sense, as he’s always been one of those beans so energetic that one feels rather exhausted just watching him, but his presence added a most welcome layer of security at the back as well as in midfield. Sarr regularly hurtled across the penalty area to stick out a well-timed limb if PSG threatened to find a yard of space, and by the time he was withdrawn I was pretty clear in my mind that there stood the game’s outstanding performer.

5. Spence

On the topic of outstanding performers, however, an honourable mention to young Spence. It remains most perplexing to me that this chap, ordained by nature as right-footed, should so regularly appear vastly more accomplished as a left-back than as right-back, but nature does occasionally throw up these quirks I suppose.

And last night, Spence rather hammered home the point that left wing-back is the life for him. Going forward he was a nuisance, providing an attacking outlet all the way into the PSG area, and as such doing a fair bit to nullify the threat of Hakimi.

Had this impressive front-foot display been to the detriment of his defending we might well have exchanged knowing looks and clicked the tongue a bit – but as it happened, he covered all of his defensive duties in watchful manner throughout.

It was rather a shame that the PSG equaliser emanated from a cross from his side, because for most of the game Spence had his defensive area under lock and key. Udogie will presumably consider himself the first choice in the role, but Spence comes across as a chap who clearly knows his onions.

6. Defeat

Having feared a hammering (particularly in the wake of the Bayern debacle) I was most pleasantly surprised at the general to-ing and fro-ing on offer last night. PSG were seemingly not at the peak of their powers, but our lot did not seem inclined to pause and debate this, and instead just got on with matters. A dashed good fist they made of things too.

However, while no points were lost, all manner of positives were snaffled and the consensus was that we deserved a little better, I reserved the right to head for the exits with a spot of chuntering on my lips.

The bone of contention was that our lot need to find ways to win shiny pots. We did it in Bilbao, and I was pretty miffed that we failed to do it last night. The whole attitude of puffing out the chest and saying we were jolly good sports is not enough. It grates. Our lot should not be content with making it to finals, and from 2-0 up after 85 minutes we ought to have seen the thing through. There was a trophy of sorts on offer, and a cracking opportunity to turn that sort of thing into a habit.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 0-2 Palace: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. More Garbage, and a Binary Choice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Kinsky

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The Rollcall of Ignominy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

West Ham 1-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A 90-Minute Shrug of Indifference

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

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

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

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

2. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Bissouma, and Various Other Appreciative Nods

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Liverpool 5-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A New The Same Old Low

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Brief Light of Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. A Musing or Two on Archie Gray

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Wolves 4-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. How Much Longer?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Our Defending

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
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.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Bournemouth: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Urgency (Or Lack Thereof)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Bergvall and One or Two Others

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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