Tag: Dominic Solanke

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Spurs match reports

Liverpool 4-0 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. Dreadful Stuff

AANP has been under the weather, don’t you know? The immune system having adopted a Conte-style approach, of just sitting back under attack from all sides and muddling through, I had hoped that last night might provide some external relief. As it happened, there was a degree of consensus amongst my coterie of Spurs-supporting chums that we would concede three or four; the question was whether we would have our attacking onions sufficiently in order to make a fist of it.

Now AANP is generally a pretty forgiving sort. When, at the start of this season, our lot shoved all chips into attack, at Leicester and Newcastle amongst others, and somehow still stewed the operation, I waved the forgiving hand. Keep playing like that, went the line, and we’ll more often than not win in style, or else go down in a blaze of glory.

So by the time last night swung into view, my hopes of actually winning the tie might have been subdued, but I did at least look forward to a spot of entertainment in seeing our heroes go out swinging.  

Fair to say then that the garbage peddled last night was therefore an almighty let-down. The general sense was of a rabble who didn’t appreciate having their evening stroll in the North interrupted by such business as a football match, and they dashed well weren’t about to get involved in the finer details – accurate passes, and the winning of 50-50 challenges and so forth. Not last night’s crew. Simply registering their presence seemed sufficient, and if the other lot were going to best them in literally every aspect of the game, that was just one of the little inconveniences of life that would have to be accepted.

There was barely a hint of attacking intent throughout. Now one might generously excuse this, on the grounds that Liverpool can rather swallow up their opposition when on song and make it difficult to burst into possession-based patterns. However, there is no such clause exempting the cast members from flying into tackles like their lives depend on it.

On reflection, rather than one single causal factor, there were probably several different elements at play.

1.1: Tactics

This one lies with Our Glorious Leader. From kick-off the plan seemed to be to adopt the approach that had served pretty well against Brentford – and is currently being adopted at the AANP sick-bed – of sticking to the spot and absorbing everything flung their way.

The fiercest loyalists may argue that this approach was not without its merits, doing the trick for a half hour or so; a pretty swift rebuttal would be that it resulted in a goal conceded before half-time, and another not long after.

And while piping up on the subject, there was a fairly significant difference between the Brentford and Liverpool games, in that Brentford spent most of their afternoon swinging in crosses for our lot to head clear without too many alarms; whereas Liverpool’s approach was somewhat more nuanced, and a dashed sight more taxing for our heroes to handle.

Either way, the official party-line seemed to be that defending deep and grimly hanging on was the route to success. It rather gave the impression that an Ange directive of exercising a little caution was rather wildly misinterpreted by the players, who instead opted to write off the Liverpool half of the pitch as forbidden territory.

When Kulusevski went on the charge up the right, and skulked around the place for a good 5 or 10 seconds, surrounded by about half a dozen red shirts but with nary a lilywhite in sight, the walls of AANP Towers reverberated to a deep and troubled sigh. High-octane entertainment this was not.

1.2: The Mentality

If the tactical setup could be pinned on the Big Cheese, the lackadaisical approach to settling on-field disputes was firmly on the players. Out of possession in particular, Liverpool seemed to appreciate that few things in life are gained by simply turning up at the appointed hour and holding out an expectant hand. In order to win a semi-final, they seemed to tell each other, a rolling up of sleeves would be required, as well as a stretching of sinew and clobbering of tackle.

By contrast, our heroes seemed to baulk at the notion of devoting every last ounce to the cause. Token efforts were the order of the day, and if an opposing rotter happened to barge them out of the way then they would deliver a look of irritation, and possibly an audible tut, but little more.

It’s an attitude that has been absolutely ingrained in our lot for as long as I’ve been watching, and frankly makes one despair.

1.3: Injuries

I saw it expressed somewhere or other last night, that every time Kulusevski set off on a run he looked like he was dragging a car behind him. One understood the sentiment. This chap was our pride and joy in the opening months of the season, an absolute menace to all who encountered him, due to a handy combo of bulk and pace.

Apparently he’s featured one way or another in every one of our league games this season, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that record extended to all other competitions too. Little wonder then that he now chugs about the place like a hollowed out shell of a man, barely able to accelerate beyond third gear.

For clarity, I zoom in on Kulusevski in purely indicative fashion. The whole bally lot of them are by now exhausted. One could rattle off the names of those who have played twice a week, every week, for the past couple of months; or similarly one could list the absentees – the gist remains the same. And I therefore wonder to what extent the above failings – of poorly-judged defensive setup, and absence of fight – could be attributed to a general lack of puff amongst those on display.

2. The Newbies

If, as seemed to be reported, Mathys Tel spent much of last week letting ‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would’ regarding his move to N17 – he being the thoughtful sort apparently, who takes pretty seriously these life choices – I can only imagine he spent the journey home from Anfield immersed in contemplation and quite possibly regret.

The good news for him is that one would hardly expect most of his assignments in lilywhite to resemble last night’s. Starved of service and repeatedly required to have a pop at outmuscling Van Dijk on halfway, the poor gumball would have been forgiven for wishing he had chosen any other option except lilywhite.

From memory, he fashioned for himself one half-chance from a fairly tight angle out on the right, which earned a corner, and creditably so to be honest. It was nice to see a little spunk, even as the walls came crashing down around him. That aside though, he spent his evening chasing shadows and waving at teammates. However, with Messrs Solanke and Richarlison having various bandages applied, one would expect more opportunities for Tel as the focal point of attack in the coming weeks.

As for Danso, this was probably 6 out of 10 territory. Having spent the last month or so beseeching the board to bring in anyone fit and able to assist in defence, I’m simply grateful that we have an actual centre-back in situ. He’s no Van Dijk, but seemed willing enough to do the basics, and perhaps most eye-catchingly seemed rather taken with the notion of bring the ball out of defence and casting a beady eye about the place further north.

I suppose time will tell whether he’s up to much, but a serviceable centre-back is better than nothing.

3. Richarlison

These days a Spurs match is not credibly recognised as such unless one of our number withdraws with some species of malady, so not an eyelid was batted when Richarlison limped off before the midway point.

Richarlison in particular is proving himself to be quite the expert when it comes to going to ground with a wince, before limping off with a forlorn rub of some lower limb. The pattern into which he has comfortably settled since arriving in the corridors of N17 seems to have been to punctuate an absence of around three months with two or three substitute appearances. At this point, he goes to ground once more with another wince and the whole pattern starts again.

Now on a human level, one sympathises. It must drive the poor chap potty. I’m sure that from his perspective all he wants to do is lace up his boots and charge around the pitch like a rabid beast of the wilds, ploughing into opposing defenders and scowling away, without the inconvenience of various body parts going ‘twang’ every five minutes.

However, from the point of view of the long-suffering supporter, I do find myself rolling the eyes and thinking about the most polite ways to phrase some fairly brutal sentiments. Put another way, I think it’s about time we cashed in on the chap. Shake his hand, thank him for his efforts and send him elsewhere, shoving into the back-pocket however much the most willing bidder will offer.

At the best of times we can’t really accommodate a lad who seems to be made of biscuits; and even more so at the current juncture, when all the regulars are injured and poor old Solanke is being flogged into the ground until he collapses.

Richarlison will presumably stick around until the summer, but with Tel now on board there’s a good excuse to elbow him aside at the earliest convenience.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Newcastle: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Austin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Spence-Gray Partnership

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Porro

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

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

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

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

4. General Mood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Wolves: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A Return to Older Ways

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Solanke and Kulusevski

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

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

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

2. Son (and Werner)

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

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

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

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

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

3. Dragusin and Gray

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Reguilon

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

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

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

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

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Spurs 4-3 Man Utd: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Forster, Good Grief

To the neutral I suppose that 3-0, at home and after an hour, would qualify as just about a done deal. Sub off the key men, might have been the thinking. Conserve the energies.

We Tottenham folk, of course, knew better. That we would fail to see the thing out serenely and without alarms was one of those universal truths one hears about from time to time. Death and taxes are similarly regarded, so I understand. But here in N17 we pretty much sneer at those who suggest that a 3-0 lead with half an hour remaining guarantees safe passage.

All that said, mind, I have to confess that I did not anticipate Fraser Forster being the one to bungle things.

There was a fair amount of doom-mongering about the place when parts of the Vicario frame were revealed to have snapped in various critical places a few weeks back. A general opinion did the rounds, externally at least, that we might as well take to the pitch with just the ten outfield lumps and not bothering with the net-guardian, such was the esteem with which Forster was held.

Well, for six and two-third matches, Forster divided his time between rattling off a string of top-notch saves and shoving down the throat of his detractors their naysaying words. If there were a leaping, full-tilt save to be made, Forster was front of the queue. Admittedly some got past him, and admittedly his passing from feet did not necessarily scythe through the opposition press; but nor did he appear the sort of clumsy ass who regarded a football with suspicion rather than an object to be engaged with.

And on he tootled accordingly, until minute 62 last night, when all hell broke loose.

A minor digression here, because while Forster was unmistakeably the culprit, there is arguably a wider problem spreading its tentacles. It’s this business of playing out from the back.

I’ve wittered on about this enough times over the last couple of years, so no need to re-hash the whole thing. The salient points, lest you need them, are firstly that the percentages don’t really stack up. If the approach led to a guaranteed chance every time I’d be sold; and even if, more realistically, it got us only as far as halfway, say two thirds of the time, I’d probably give it the nod.

The reality, I’d suggest, is that we make it to halfway no more than 50% of the time, and even that feels a pretty generous take. Every constituent pass seems absolutely fraught with risk, so it only really needs one miscalculation or miscontrol, or some other species of pig’s ear, and the whole thing falls apart.

And the second problem with playing-out-from-the-back is that when it does implode, we don’t just start again on the centre-spot. When possession is conceded it tends to be within one short pass of our own penalty area, dash it. The net result seems to me that we’re as likely to concede a chance as to create one with this approach.

Last night, even before Forster lost his marbles, I was teetering a goodish amount on the edge of my seat as I drank it all in. Sometimes it worked; but, crucially, just as often it seemed not to work. Although Man Utd did not really take full advantage of this, their general mangling of chances was merely a bonus. We certainly did not earn those let-offs. By virtue of gumming up our side of things, we allowed them a good half-dozen opportunities to beetle towards our goal from within 30 yards.

Back to Forster, and the abysmal misplacement of his intended pass towards Dragusin was his fault and his alone. Some have half-heartedly jabbed a finger at Gray for passing the ball to Forster in the first place, but I’m waving that one aside without even bothering to put together an argument. This mistake was on Forster’s head, no doubt.

However, the doltish insistence on playing out the back stems more from the powers at work, in the corridors of N17. By which I mean Ange and his tactical chums. I don’t have too many axes to grind with Our Glorious Leader, but the play-out-from-the-back bobbins is right up there, make no mistake.

Forster of course, was not finished there. Perhaps selflessly attempting to deflect blame from his boss, or perhaps to convey the impression of a man unflustered by his previous error, he opted for the achingly casual approach five minutes later, promptly dropping Clanger Number Two. That serene seeing out of things went up in a puff of smoke.

One would like to say that having pickled things so massively on two occasions, he’ll gnaw off his own arm before trying any such thing again – but one can never be too sure. Put bluntly, that should really have already been the mindset after Clanger Number One, but the fact that he then went for Clanger Number Two rather than the arm-gnawing option speaks a few volumes.

2. Solanke

The cloud of disbelief that enveloped me last night and has carried on enveloping me all day today, rather obscured what had previously been a considerable thrill at seeing Dominic Solanke strike oil, at a point in the night in which things were still going swimmingly.

It has been a dashed shame for the blighter that so much of his good work this season has been carried out down in the dank basement, rather than up on the stage, if you get my gist. He drops deep, and wins possession, and protects the ball, and brings others into play – and generally takes the ethos of selflessness and team ethic to its absolute extreme.

In this context, it was an absolute delight to see him tuck away two goals that were both, in their own way, absolute corkers.

A joyless sort of critic might watch the first goals, sniff haughtily and suggest that Solanke was pretty unencumbered. It would be an almightily harsh take on events. For a start, the finish was delivered first-time, with a ball rebounding back towards him at a fair lick and with a bit of bobble in its constitution. Opportunities abounded for him to sky the thing, shin it or in some other way duff up his finish. That he connected so sweetly and hit the target is immensely to his credit.

I must confess that I tempered my reactions on seeing it hit the net actually, having been convinced that Solanke had strayed a good few yards offside. It is therefore another giant tick against his name that he did no such thing. Timed his movement to perfection, in fact.

Where the entire United mob clocked off and contented themselves with simply watching events unfold, Solanke leapt into action, alert to any sequel that might follow the initial Porro shot. I was also rather enamoured of the cheeky shove he gave to his nearest marker, just to seal the deal and ensure that that chap at least would be nowhere near him when it came down to the business of gobbling up the scraps.

If Solanke’s first were a triumph for goal-poaching, his second seemed to scream that here was a man at the peak of his confidence. The pass from Spence that released him was a strong start, but Solanke still had plenty of hoops through to jump before doing that bow-and-arrow thing.

The initial sprint to get up on things was adequate, but hardly electric. When he then decided to drag the ball back, it may have helped bring the thing under control, but did also give a couple more United sorts a chance to trot back and man their stations. Events had progressed, but the balance of probability had remained where it was. The odds remained a little long.

At this point our man might have spotted that a couple of chums were arriving on his easterly wing, but whether he did or not was pretty moot. He seemed by now gripped with the notion that the floor was his and his alone, and accordingly he shimmied infield, taking out two defenders with a feint before cracking off his shot.

It was glorious stuff, near enough all his own work, and really deserved to be the headline that everyone prattled on about post-match.

3.1 Other Handy Showings: Bissouma

In paying a spot of well-earned deference in other corners of the pitch, I confess that I scratch the old bean and spend a bit more time than usual trying to scan the recesses to identify who did what. For this I once again blame Forster, for so seismic were his foul-ups that they have rather obscured everything else.

Nevertheless, I do recall at a pretty regular rate during the first half murmuring to myself an appreciative word on Master Bissouma. United had a bit too much joy for my liking, particularly when foregoing pleasantries and just cracking straight on with a ball over the top and into the space vacated by Porro. However, when they did try the more considered approach, of short passing through midfield, Bissouma was quite regularly to the fore, in the field of The Abrupt Ending of Things.

It was the sort of stuff I’d rather hoped, on his introduction a couple of years back, that he’d trot out like clockwork. For whatever reason, things haven’t really panned out that way on a weekly basis, but last night he was thrusting in a defensive foot like one of the boys. He racked up tackles and interceptions, and at one point also rolled out a Dembele-esque roll away from a meddlesome opponent.

3.2 Other Handy Showings: Gray

Young Gray was another who caught my eye. Both he and Dragusin generally worked their way through the 90 fairly inconspicuously, which is the sort of thing I like in my centre-backs. What travails they faced seemed due to the failings of those around them in midfield – or at right-back – rather than due to any fault of theirs. Moreover, between the pair of them they kept Hojlund quiet, on a night on which he looked pretty game.

I single out Gray from the pair principally because in that first half in particular, there were a few occasions when Fernandes from the United left curled some dangerous passes into awkward areas – the sort of spaces that forwards can attack and defenders rather gulp at, for fear of own-goaling or whatnot. Gray, to his credit did not gulp. Or if he did gulp, he did so subtly, and not in a manner that a casual observer would notice.

Instead, Gray rolled up his sleeves and dashed back towards the awkward areas being pinpointed. If a United forward were to arrive on the scene for a tap-in, they would have found that Gray had beaten them to it. This conscientious approach rather won me over.

It might not sound like much, but I feel like there’s been a bit of a diet at N17 over the years, of opposition strikers rocking up in our six-yard box to tap home unopposed, a Tottenham man straggling two or three yards back. Gray was allowing no such thing.

3.3 Other Handy Showings: Spence

And finally, young Spence. With each passing minute, the reasons for his previous lengthy absence become all the more baffling, but there we go. Solid enough defensively, chock-full of beans and spright going forward, and even alert enough to stay on his man at corners, Spence seemed to make all the right moves.

Udogie and Porro will presumably remain first choices, but Spence has shown enough on both sides of the defence to suggest that he’s pretty capable as a late sub, or a midweek starter to enable a spot of rest and rotation.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-4 Chelsea: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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1. “It’s All Ange’s Fault”

You don’t need grey matter bulging from every seam to spot that there’s a bit of a grumble ongoing in N17 about Our Glorious Leader, nor does it require an IQ off the scale to pick up on the principal sticking-point. There’s set-pieces of course, and variations on the theme of late substitutions and whatnot, but what’s really rattling the masses seems to be the sticking to the principle of Thou Shalt Attack, no matter the time, place or – critically – situation.

Even as a fully signed up apologist for the man, I do squint a bit at seeing every outfield player hopping from foot to foot, desperate to be let off the leash and fly upfield when we’re 2-0 up. One does pause for a moment and consider whether someone out there might hang back, to add a layer of security at the rear. Well, if you’re actually playing in the match you obviously don’t consider any such thing at all, and Ange sure as heck isn’t interested in such topics, but for most other onlookers it’s a suggestion that at least seems to merit a spot of back-and-forth at the next committee meeting.

However, the on-pitch drill is just to keep flinging forward every fit and able man, with the inevitable sequel that there are wide open spaces everywhere one looks whenever the opposition pilfer the ball and scoot off back at us.

The whole thing is embellished by those moments when, having survived such counter-attacks by the skin of our teeth and kindly intervention of the gods, we then attempt rather casually to play out from the back, treating the whole thing as if it were against a combination of mannequins and pre-schoolers rather than hardened internationals. The result, peeled off numerous times yesterday, is that we lose possession outside our own area and pulse-rates quicken once again.

A tad vexing for sure, and an accusation that could be laid pretty squarely at the door of A. Postecoglou Esq. And bafflingly, rather than draw himself up in court to make the case for the defence, Our Glorious Leader would presumably vault over the bench and position himself alongside the those making the accusation, agreeing whole-heartedly that attacking-no-matter-the-situation is indeed precisely his approach.

Personally, I consider that we’re just a minor adjustment or two away from a pretty ripping balance of fizzing attack and hearty common-sense, but Ange is all-in and there we remain. Two-goal leads will continue to be blown. It is, so goes the argument, essentially all his fault. A 51% win percentage does not scream unparalleled success.

2. “It’s Not All Ange’s Fault”

As mentioned, I do think everyone concerned might benefit from a little adjustment of the settings, but for various reasons AANP does not really subscribe to the ‘All Ange’s Fault’ argument.

For a start there’s squad depth. I wittered on about this one a few days ago, following the Bournemouth loss, so if you’re rolling your eyes and begging me to get on with it, you’re welcome to skip a paragraph or two, or boil a kettle, or in some other way amuse yourself.

For those who remain, the post-Bournemouth summary was threefold, viz.

  1. Quality on the pitch is dropping because lack of squad depth means we’re having to use reserves regularly;
  2. No-one is getting a rest and injuries are therefore mounting, because we’re having to use reserves regularly;
  3. No-one is getting a rest so they’re not running as hard each game, which Angeball requires in order to work

Somebody somewhere in the offices of power therefore needs a stern word, for the inexcusable offence of leaving the manager with a squad not fit for the purpose of outrunning the opposition twice a week. A reserve list of Dragusin, Davies and Gray to cover the entire back-four in three different competitions was always likely to have a dubious smell emanating from it. (Young Spence is presumably deemed not quite good enough, but even if he were used I’d still suggest we require an additional reserve or two of higher quality at the back – and that’s before we look higher up the pitch)

If the three points blathered on about above were indeed true (and it’s debatable), it means a critical problem will just continue to dance away independently at least until the January transfer window opens.

(Taking a step back, I do wonder if Grandmaster Levy has been convinced, by Poch’s over-achievements on a shoestring, that success can be pinched by paying well below-the-odds, through a little managerial alchemy. Sack Ange, and I’m not sure much will change until Levy’s spending habits do.)

However, even if true, all of this wouldn’t explain why Dragusin lost his man against Bournemouth, or why Bissouma and Sarr clattered their men for the penalties yesterday, or why no-one saw fit to stick to Sancho and prevent his shot yesterday, or why Porro did not fling his entire frame in the way of Enzo Fernandez’s shot yesterday. Or, to paraphrase, I’m not sure there’s much Ange (or indeed Levy) can do about handsomely-remunerated footballers making utterly block-headed decisions.

I’m not suggesting that we lost purely because several idiots did idiotic things. One could reasonably suggest that the team’s mentality, which stems from the manager, of trying relentlessly to continue playing high-risk football, hindered rather than helped the cause yesterday.

Nevertheless, pulling aside the opposition players to dish out a few freebies, at critical points in the match, does make the head slowly droop into the hands, and prompt one to wonder what’s the bally point of it all.

Apparently a few weeks ago, young Kulusevski mentioned in an interview his frustration that our heroes do not behave like champions on the training pitch. This is all second-hand info, so I apologise if I give his actual words a mangling, but I understand he hammered home that our lot need to train like champions, talk like champions, walk around the premises like champions and so on, if standards are to rise the requisite number of notches come kick-off. Winning sentiments, if you ask me. Our lot sure as heck don’t conduct themselves like champions at present.

3. Romero, Van de Ven and the Injuries

Football being what it is, I suppose we all took the same traumatic journey from the pre-match high of seeing both Romero and VDV restored to the pitch, to the sudden punch to the gut after 20 or so, of seeing Romero hobble off. The mood obviously blackened further with VDV’s enforced removal, although the mutterings since at least suggest that his is just a flesh-wound.

A bit of yammering has naturally ensued about whether either, or both, were fit to start inb the first place, given that neither finished. On the one hand, one might argue that Romero was absent with one injury and departed yesterday with another, and as such the two events are unrelated and the whole is just dashed bad luck.

On the other hand, however, one might rather sniffily point out that had he been given more time to condition himself, he wouldn’t have picked up his fresh injury yesterday. And if one were to keep shoving that point towards its logical conclusion, one might swing the spotlight right back onto the manager, for making such a risk-laden call.

It’s difficult to opine really, and AANP not having an ounce of medical knowledge in his frame is steering well clear of that argument. Instead I’ll put my energies into general lamentation, about the fact that we were 2-0 up when Romero exited, and proceeded to concede four goals in the hour that followed.

4. Solanke

If you’re in the market for a silver lining, however, it was nice to see young Solanke get a brief moment in the spotlight. By virtue of doing all the donkey-work in deeper positions, and not really banging them away like a six-yard poacher might, the chap seems to be occasionally a little under-appreciated, by the wider public at least. Speak to the N17 regulars and they’ll give him a generous hand, but cast the net a little further and the inclination is generally to query whether he bangs them in like Haaland, and dismiss him if he doesn’t.

As it happened, his goal yesterday was an absolute triumph of six-yard poaching. It was a masterclass in directing a run in one direction, and appearing to disappear behind the back of the defender; before, at the vital moment, diverting off at an angle and reappearing in front of the defender, who by this time was pretty flummoxed in the matter of his whereabouts.

The reward, richly earned, was an opportunity to get to the ball first and poke it towards goal – a goal that, by this point, had been completely vacated by the goalkeeper, he also seemingly thrown by Solanke’s movement and not for one moment expecting a shot.

Solanke’s hard work continued, in a string of first-half dialogues with the burly Chelsea defender minding him, and that we were able to create – and miss – various presentable chances across the remainder of the match owed much to his behind-the-scenes beavering. So when Big Ange surveys the ever-mounting Inbox, he can at least allow his day to brighten with the cheery news that Solanke is still fighting the good fight pretty bobbishly.

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Spurs match reports Uncategorized

Spurs 1-1 Fulham: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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1. Dragusin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Forster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Quite the Off-Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Man City 0-4 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Kulusevski

If you ever spot Dejan Kulusevski sloping about the place, and you notice he looks a bit down on himself – gloomy expression, dragging his feet, that sort of thing – it turns out there is one thing absolutely guaranteed to buck him right up and set him skipping gaily down the street. You simply have to tell him that his next opponent will be Man City, and watch him burst into life like a firework that’s just been lit.

Quite what it is about that mob that puts the joys of spring into him is anyone’s guess. They’re one of the last teams I’d want to spend 90 minutes chasing around a field, but there we go. Once Kuluseski clocked whom it was he was up against, he went into absolute overdrive.

There have been times this season when one has speculated that the only thing that might stop Kulusevski in full flow is if he himself decides to stop. Certainly the opposition don’t get much say in it. Yesterday was an absolute prime case in point. If Kulusevski decided to put his head down and barrel his way across half the City team, they were powerless to intervene. Essentially, they were reduced to the role of decorative ornaments, scattered about the place for him to dance around.

Take that first goal. Dragusin began things by lofting a pass in his general direction, and there was not a great deal about it to arrest the attention. Nothing particularly wrong with it, mind. It was perfectly acceptable stuff. Neither, however, did it seem to be of much consequence. City had hardly been carved open. It was essentially a waft. Kulusevski, upon gathering the thing in, one suspected, would have to put in some elbow-grease if he wanted to generate any mileage from it.

But in the blink of an eye, this season’s new, supercharged iteration of the Swede had not just generated mileage, he’d set up an opportunity for Maddison that, if not quite on a plate, was about nine-tenths of the way there. In the first place he niftily turned infield, and then gave that Gvardiol fellow a friendly shove to clear the paths.

That might not sound like much, but if you’ve ever had the honour of drinking in the full dimensions of Gvardiol from close quarters, you’ll be aware that his physique has much about it of a sturdy tree trunk. To illustrate the point, if I were to try similarly attempt to hand off Gvardiol, I’d wager that I’d quite likely sprain a wrist, and possibly also bounce off him and over the advertising hoardings.  Kulusevski however, shoved him aside, and aside he remained. And this highlights one of the principal merits of the fellow: he’s a meaty young blighter.

We then benefited from a timely dart from Pedro Porro, up the right flank. While Kulusevski deemed this offer of assistance beneath him, that Gvardiol lump was sufficiently distracted to take a step or two to track the run. Kulusevski did not stop to enquire how that detour was treating him, but instead beavered infield into the vacant space.

At this point, one might report that he swung in a cross, and such an observation would, I suppose, hold up in court. Factually correct, I mean to say. Not a syllable of untruth contained therein.

And yet, simply to say this and no more would be to understate the thing like the dickens. It would be like stating that Van Gogh painted flowers. No denying it, but by golly you’d shoot an enquiring look and wonder when the juicy detail would kick in. So it was with Kulusevski’s cross, for it was a specimen of the highest order. One ought really to cart it at the next awards ceremony and give a short speech in its honour.

To give it its due acclaim, all the key mechanical elements could be ticked off for a start. That is to say it was of the appropriate height, and weight, and so forth. Layered upon all these, though, were what you might call the standout features. The cross was flighted perfectly over the head of the patrolling central defender, for example, removing from him the option of simply standing and heading clear, or even of leaping a foot or two and heading clear. It was one of those crosses that to all intents and purposes wiped the p.c.d. briefly from existence.

And having had requisite height to do what might be termed Part One of the operation, the cross then similarly ticked off Part Two, by dipping sufficiently so as to allow Maddison to meet it with a well-timed foot. Not too high, not bouncing awkwardly, not too far in front of him; but weighted just so.

On top of which, this was one of that eye-catching class of crosses that does not simply drop to someone’s feet, but is whipped into a vacant space. Now while further applause can be directed Kulusevski’s way, this aspect also requires a partner in the operation, who is tuned into the same wavelength, and is willing to gallop into the vacant space. And this was where Maddison chimed in so sensibly.

All these elements neatly flowed together, both Maddison and Kulusevski timing thing as if they’d been rehearsing for weeks. As will be expanded upon below, Maddison deserves top marks for his role in the drama, but the genesis of the goal, and frankly the whole victory, was brought by Kulusevski.

Thereafter, the chap simply would not be silenced. It was an odd sort of game, in that we could hardly be said to have had control of things, particularly in the first half and particularly when out of possession. We largely relied upon City to mangle their opportunities, rather than preventing them from having any. However, similarly, when we were in possession, we led City a pretty merry dance, and Kulusevski was at hub of most of our incisive work.

The third goal was another example of this. It should be emphasised that the goals lend themselves as rather obvious illustrations of his evening’s work, but his contribution was not limited to these and these alone. It was not the case that he bobbed up on these two occasions and clocked off for the remainder, content to loiter in the background and shirk his duties. Kulusevski was menace to City every time he gathered the ball.

The goals do stick in the memory though. The third started with the Swede embracing in his inner Maradona, and twisting the living daylights out of every City player in his path. The naked eye could barely follow what was happening, such was the twinkle-toed nature of his burst. His little dribble was all the more pleasing for leading eventually to a goal, for when such moments of trickery lead to naught they can sometimes be lost in the mists of time. On this occasion, however, having danced his way past several flummoxed opponents, Kulusevski then played a delicate one-two with Sonny before haring off down the left.

His pass for Solanke thereafter was actually probably a little overhit, but the latter did a solid job of recycling things, before Porro applied the finishing touch.

A couple of standout moments then, in an altogether rip-roaring outing from the chap. Once he gets going, there really is no stopping him.

2. Maddison

The other outstanding performance was posted by young Maddison, which I must admit surprised me a little. It was just about a year ago that the young imp hobbled off against Chelsea on that fateful nine-men-on-halfway evening, and since then he has looked decidedly short of the old pep. Bit of a shadow of his former self. Always happy enough to muck in, to his credit, but rarely doing too much to stop the casual observer in their tracks and have them mouthing, “By golly” or something similar.

Yesterday, however, Maddison returned to form; or, more accurately, it seemed to me, discovered two new and hitherto untapped areas of form, which he claimed as his own. What I mean is that previously, and in the first few months of his Tottenham career, back in the summer of 2023, Maddison seemed to strut about the place creating opportunities for others. He’d collect the ball in advanced positions and thread, this way and that, some passes of the exceptionally cunning variety. Creator-in-chief, one might say, and well we needed him.

Quite a different beast on show yesterday though. His goals, for a start, had about them much of the Scholes, Platt or Dele. The first in particular was a triumph for the fine but oft-neglected art of surging forward from midfield, reaching the edge of the area and then carrying right on with the surging. In a system such as ours, in which poor old Solanke can quite often be found knee-deep in build-up muck, a goodish distance from goal, all manner of bribes and incentives ought to be flung at the midfield posse to elevate to the top of their To-Do List the essential role of arriving in the area for scraps.

And Maddison did that yesterday like a pro. As elaborated upon above, Kulusevski played his part in that opening goal with aplomb, but it would have resulted in a sigh, a little pirouette on the spot and some further sideways and backwards rot, if Maddison had not carpe’d the diem.

Having bust a gut to get there, Maddison also deserves credit for controlling his volley, which I think is the technical term for those moments when one avoids lashing the ball over the bar and off into the thinner part of the atmosphere.

His role in the second goal was even better. When the press exerted by various chums brought about an errant City pass, Maddison seized upon it like a hyena who’s spotted one of the slower members of the Serengeti gang loping his way. In a trice Maddison had collected the ball, nor did he dawdle in shoving it at Sonny. Importantly, having shoved, Maddison did not stop to admire his work either, but was struck with the winning notion that he might as well race off to the other side of the area.

One exquisite Son flick later, and Maddison was in on goal; but if one were to sit back in one’s seat and opine that all he had left to do was tap the thing home and welcome the acclaim, one would need a pretty sharp correction.

For a start, travelling at pace, Maddison’s first touch needed to be top-tier stuff. Too soft and the ball would be left behind; too hard and it would bounce off him and away. He therefore did an impressive job of dragging it along with him, even while on the gallop. The sequel that immediately followed was even more impressive, for who amongst us does not enjoy a dinked finish over an onrushing goalkeeper? Credit, then, by the bucketful. I did not know he had such things in his armoury.

These goals having been despatched, Maddison then devoted the rest of his evening to produce from an entirely different genre altogether. He seemed to dust away all his attacking gear, and lock it in the attic for another day. The focus of the remainder of his evening was to collect the ball from Vicario and chums, in his own defensive third.

If you’ve regularly passed by this corner of the interweb you may know that AANP is not too hot on this business of playing out from the back. And when I say ‘not too hot’, I add a thick layer of scorn, and a pretty evil eye. Dashed nuisance, if you ask me. It regularly leads to us ceding possession in dangerous areas; and even when it does work, it rarely gets us as far as the halfway line.

Anyway, we were at it again yesterday, of course, so I took a deep breath and duly braced myself. However, what unfurled was arguably our finest hour and a half of peddling this building-from-the-back gubbins. It actually worked, pretty well and on repeated occasions. And there at the heart of it all was Maddison.

His juices presumably flowing like nobody’s business after his goals, every time we had a goal kick he availed himself of possession in the most precarious positions conceivable, right on the edge of his own area, and seemingly unfazed by the close attentions of City bods lurking on his shoulder. And I’ll be dashed if each and every time he did not successfully hold onto possession. He dipped his shoulder as appropriate and swerved away from danger, protecting the ball and finding a chum. It was an approach that absolutely dripped with risk, and yet Maddison pulled it off every time.

This was remarkable in itself, but it also meant that, having bobbed and weaved past the City press, he was able to set us off on our way, over halfway and on the counter-attack.

Whether or not he can do this every week we’ll have to wait and see I suppose, but yesterday he orchestrated things from deep like it was the role for which he had been preparing since birth.

3. Our Defence

With VDV and Romero still poorly, we had to make do with Davies and Dragusin at centre-back, and I suppose the record books will now show for eternity that the pair of them kept a clean-sheet, so well done them. However, that they did so, especially in the first 10 minutes or so, seemed to defy physics.

I touched earlier upon the peculiarity of this one, in terms of our lack of control in the first half in particular. If you happened to grab the Sunday morning papers and cast an eye over the score-line, you might well have cheerily assumed that City failed to lay a glove, given it not a moment’s further thought and duly flicked over to the Sudoku puzzle, a cheery whistle on your lips.

This, while understandable enough, would have been a wild misdiagnosis of events. City most certainly did lay gloves upon us. In fact, several of their punches landed and left us staggering drunkenly about the canvas – as, it should be pointed out, ours did them. Essentially, whichever team had the ball looked like they would score within two shakes of a lamb’s tail. That City didn’t owed a lot to some off-colour finishing, as well as an exceptional display of limb-extension (and at one point, torso-existence) from young Vicario.

Credit where due, in the second half our midfield five rolled up their sleeves and formed a tight unit in front of the defence. This seemed to cheese off the City mob sufficiently, forcing them off into all sorts of scenic routes on the peripheries. They still eked out a fair number of close-range chances, mind, any one of which, if converted, would have had the nervous glances firing in all directions. However, as the game wore on, and our goal tally racked upon, the light in their eyes rather died.

Few would have predicted that, after an opening 10 or so in which they trampled all over us. And while Davies and Dragusin undoubtedly drew short straws in having to face up to Haaland, Foden et al for this one, they didn’t exactly help themselves in those opening exchanges.

Haaland missed two pretty straightforward knockings early on. The first of which emanated from Davies darting forward to win the ball high up, missing the ball, and duly finding himself out of position while City went on the charge. When the ball eventually squirted out to Haaland he had the freedom of the penalty area, but oddly decided to pause and reflect on things, in which time Davies was able to scamper back and effect a block.

Full marks for scampering back and blocking, of course, but the whole episode might have been avoided with better judgement earlier on in the piece. (A quiet chiding here, too, for Bissouma, for not having the presence of mind to step back into Davies’ vacant spot and fill in for him when he disappeared a-wandering.)

Not to be outdone, a minute or two later Dragusin pulled an identical trick, lunging for the ball and finding himself kicking at thin air as Savio tootled away. Again, no ill transpired, but the omens hardly filled one to the gills with confidence.

Thereafter, at least, the pair had the decency to keep their noses clean. It is only fair to applaud them for sticking to the task for the remainder, and without huge alarm. As mentioned, we did still rely on Vicario an awful lot, but one imagines the pair of them will feel a heck of lot better for having a clean-sheet to their name, against that lot of all lots.

And ultimately, with a tip of the cap to Herr Werner for doing what very few have ever done before, and skinning Kyle Walker, we rode off into the sunset with one of the finest score-lines of the Postecoglou era.

Of course, none of it counts, as Rodri was injured, and that simply is not fair on City; but is there anything more maddeningly Spurs-esque, than to lose at home to Ipswich, before travelling to City and hammering them? Marvellously entertaining, of course, and if we ever stumble upon some consistency we’ll be a heck of a force to be reckoned with, but for now I try not to think of whatever shock defeat is forthcoming, and simply enjoy the moment.

Need a Christmas stocking-filler for the Spurs-supporter in your life? Keep your eyes peeled, for a new AANP book will soon be arriving on this site.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Ipswich: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Neither Good Nor Dreadful

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Dragusin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Porro

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Werner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Galatasary 3-2 Spurs: Three(ish) Tottenham Talking Points

1. Dragusin

When gathered in the smoking-room to pick over the bones of the weekend jolly vs Villa, a sentiment seemed to surface that young Dragusin might be a bit of a one. A defender with something to him, was the gist. Thrust into the thick of battle shorn of first VDV and then Romero, he emerged with half-shaven-half-man-bunned head held high, was the sentiment.

AANP contented himself to nod along at all that, rather than wade into the discourse. In my private moments I confided that there was a fair old slab of rough, as well as smooth, when it came to Dragusin, but I thought then – as now – that it is a bit early to really measure the dear boy for size.

To bang home the point, it still strikes me as too early to judge either way. That said, put politely, last night he had a bit of a stinker. No doubt about that one. If there were a mistake to be made, Dragusin was front of the queue. He was like one of those fellows one sees in the black and white slapstick comedies, who places a hand on a door and the whole edifice comes crashing down around him.

It says much about his night’s work that there are simply too many mistakes to catalogue. Not that he was alone on this front – Forster’s distribution was often the stuff of nightmares, Bergvall and Maddison offered no assistance whatsoever, the other members of the back-four had turned off the ‘Accuracy’ settings on their passing dials for the evening – but Dragusin seemed keen to make himself the poster-boy for all the calamity unfolding about the place.

To summarise, from top to bottom, his attempts to dribble from the back almost always saw him tackled; his passing was often errant; and on more than one occasion he allowed too much space to whichever forward he was marking. Again, to re-emphasise, he was no doubt dealt a duff hand, being partnered with the earnest-limited Davies, B. and in front of the enormous-but-far-from-sprightly Forster, F. And seeing Dragusin occasionally put that sizeable frame to half-decent use in the second half, by bouncing away Galatasaray forwards, one could at least wrap the old grey cells around the concept that he and VDV might make a useful combo.

Last night, however, was not his night. That is acceptable enough; the broader concern over here is that Angeball is not his system. The requirement of being a pretty competent ball-player, in order to get on board with playing out from the back, currently seems one heck of a stretch for the man. Nor is he exceptionally quick, which would be a bonus in our high line, and on last night’s showing there is nothing in particular about his defending that would have you rushing to the beds of your nearest and dearest to wake them up and excitedly prattle about how we might have stumbled upon a gem. Let’s see how he gets on this Sunday, I suppose.

2. The Youth

For the avoidance of doubt, any game that Spurs lose rather ruins the mood at AANP Towers for the remainder of the evening; but that said, on this occasion the atmosphere around here come the final whistle last night was a lot more philosophical than would ordinarily be the case after a 3-2 reverse. And I suppose the reason for this was that last night’s game had the distinct air about it of a free hit. That is to say, if you lined up every Spurs game you’ve ever watched on a scale of importance, with the ’91 FA Cup Final and 2019 CL Final up at one end, then this would probably be tucked away at the other.

One doesn’t really make any effort to master the mechanics of this Europa League drivel, but the word around the campfire seemed to be that with three wins from three already banked, for one night only our heroes could afford to take their eye off things yesterday. The Europa League as a whole has been seen as a chance to give minutes to squad players and unleash the kids, and Our Glorious Leader made clear yesterday that he was fully signed up to this policy.

2.2 The Youth: Bergvall

In this context, I considered young Bergvall an almighty let-down. One might reasonably exercise a bit of The Dragusin Disclaimer here, and point out that these are early days and limited viewings, and therefore urge a spot of caution before ejecting the blighter from the premises. Such an approach would be entirely reasonable. The point of these Europa and Carabao outings is not really for armchair fans like your current scribe to act out the roles of judge, jury and executioner, but for the young pups to gain experience and improve.

And by golly, judging by his starts so far this season, Bergvall has a heck of a lot of improving to get through. His touch and talent seem present and correct, no real concerns there. The problem, rather, seems to be that he has a touch of the old Bryan Gil about him. Featherweight, I mean, and that puts it kindly. Every time he was in possession last night he duly received a gentle buffeting that near enough knocked him from his moorings; while his attempts to scurry back and lend some muscle when chasing their midfield were akin to watching a kitten tyring to interfere with a passing elephant. As mentioned, both he and Maddison were woefully low on useful input, and the contrast once Bentancur, Sarr and Kulusevski arrived was enormous.

2.3 The Youth: Gray

Of the other whippersnappers, Archie Gray gave the impression that while he’ll obediently play the game at left-back or right-back or wherever, what he really wants is to be let off the leash to go roam about the midfield.

His contribution to our first goal was outstanding. The alacrity to pick up pieces when Sonny tumbled to ground might not sound like much, but it was a heck of a lot more than Maddison achieved all night; however what really drew the admiring gasp was his pass to Johnson. Lest it go unmentioned, there were simpler options available, not least the sideways pass, so beloved of Spurs midfielders from generation to generation, just shuttling the ball from left to right, neatly and tidily but without the merest whiff of penetration.

Gray, however, spotted a vastly more exciting option, and then executed it to perfection, flighting a cross that turned harmless midfielding into threatening attack, for Johnson to set up Lankshear. I’ve heard it recently said that teams seem to take far more risks in defence than attack these days, but in this little scene Gray demonstrated the virtues of taking a risk in attack, and frankly that output alone put to shame the watching Maddison.

2.4 The Youth: Lankshear

Another who looks a bit too light of frame just yet, this was probably an ideal experience for young Lankshear to develop from boy to man. One of course stiffens the upper lip at moments of heightened emotion, so his goal was greeted with little more than an approving nod, but deep within the AANP bosom the heart fairly bulged with pride at seeing him tuck away his chance.

However, when the grandchildren gather round to hear him narrate the tale, I’d imagine he’ll gloss over the sub-plots. Had our defence and midfield been fully stocked I actually fancy he might have had a few more dishes from which to choose, as Galatasaray looked far from watertight at the back, as befits a team whose cornerstone is Davinson Sanchez, and there were a few occasions on which a more accurate through-ball would have had Lankshear in on goal.

Gallingly for him, our defence and midfield spent much of the game on a different planet, unable to string together the requisite passes to progress beyond halfway, and Lankshear’s was largely a watching brief. When the ball was tossed up to him with a distant yelp of “Good luck!” that sentiment about his bulk, or lack thereof, sprung again to mind, and all the more so when Solanke arrived to illustrate the contrast more pointedly.

His two yellows were the other notable events of his night, and while most about the place seem to be rather forgiving of the young cheese on this front, invoking his age and whatnot, AANP is a little less forgiving here. Green behind the ears or not, he ought to have displayed a bit more sense with both cautions.

3. The Cavalry

I mentioned that with a stronger selection I’d have fancied us to make a goodish bit of hay against this lot, and the changes in the latter part of the second half seemed to bear this out to an extent.

Bentancur looked a few classes above all around him in midfield when he took to the stage, and Sarr and Kulusevski similarly helped to wrest the initiative our way.

Watching the first half seemed to provide an answer to anyone who had ever wondered how a one-man midfield might fare against Galatasaray, as Bergvall and Maddison’s gentle melting into the background allowed Bissouma to take on all-comers single-handedly, and I thought he accordingly rattled off his best performance of the season. Where all around him our players were turning themselves in little troublesome knots and ultimately looking up to find the ball had been spirited away from them, Bissouma peddled an impressive line in shielding the ball and shimmying away from trouble.

Once his more experienced chums rocked up, he was able to switch roles from trying to throw water from a fast-sinking ship, to providing the base upon which a spirited comeback might be built. It said much about the upturn in performance brought about by the cavalry that we were on top in the final 20 or so, even when a man light.

Solanke, as mentioned, offered a heck of a lot more muscle at the apex than young Lankshear, and also executed his goal mightily impressively. All in all, I fancied there was enough evidence in that final quarter of the match – a man down, and against one of the more fancied teams – to vindicate the notion that we are amongst the favourites for this particular pot.

So while, to repeat, a defeat is always rather unpleasant, one gets the impression that Our Glorious Leader will have been pretty happy with the night’s work. The regulars received a break – and then made a noticeable difference when introduced; those on the fringes were given the chance to work up a sweat; Lankshear nabbed a goal; Gray assisted an assist; and the whole thing was effected without too much lasting damage. On we bob.

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Spurs match reports

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

1. Some Lovely Goals

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

1.1 Our First Goal

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

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

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

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

1.2 Our Second Goal

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

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

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

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

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

1.3 Our Third Goal

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

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

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

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

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

1.4 Our Fourth Goal

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

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

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

2. Sarr

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. What Romero Might Learn From Ben Davies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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