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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-0 Elfsborg: 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. Young People

I don’t know if you feel the same way, or if you’ve even noticed – because it does slightly creep up – but generally when the credits roll on a THFC performance these days, I drag myself away feeling like someone who’s just witnessed the public beheading of a cherished friend. A tad gloomy about things, I mean. A twinge of regret about how things have panned out.

With all that in mind, I was as shocked as anyone else to find myself toddling off last night with a pretty satisfied smile across the map. Goodness knows we needed a lift – it’s all very well one bleating about taking the rough with the smooth, but that does require a little smoothness every now and then.

The surprise of it all, of course, was that the good news came in the form of three of the more junior members of the ensemble.

1.1 Scarlett

Scarlett seems to have been knocking around the place for an eternity, without ever having actually interrupted any conversations in order to announce himself. Just sort of lurked in the background. Truth be told, having learnt that he had left his teens behind, and noting that his various loan spells had underwhelmed, I’d gone in for a spot of the old Judge-Jury-Executioner and written off the poor squirt as biffing along where Parrott, Coulthirst and Mahorn had gone before.

Last night does not necessarily change that particular narrative I suppose, but irrespective of whatever happens next, seeing the young fish take to the air, make his connection and dash off for his knee-slide certainly made one rise from the seat and offer some pretty heartfelt congratulations. Impossible not to be delighted for the chap.

Amidst all the noise, I’d also hammer home that it was a pretty accomplished header too. Goodness knows there have been plenty in lilywhite over the years who have adopted that sort of location and then completely sloshed the coup de grâce, directing the thing upward or westward or anywhere else but the net. Scarlett did a nifty job of getting on top of the ball, and then putting a few more eggs in the ‘Direction’ basket than the ‘Power’ one.  

1.2 Ajayi

Young Ajayi was one whose name I knew, but beyond that drew a bit of a blank. I must confess that it was therefore with a bit of a shrug that I greeted his arrival, wishing him well of course, and all the other pleasantries, but devoting more effort to a brief analysis of Richarlison’s latest pitch.

I suppose if one were of stony heart and cantankerous nature one might opine that Ajayi failed to read the mood of the room by some distance, for his immediate decision to put his head down and weave straight through the heart of the Elfsborg defence was pretty significantly at odds with what had gone before.

It was pretty sensational stuff, and from a most unexpected source. The Swedish mob seemed to have settled into a rhythm by that point, evidently pretty confident that whatever we lobbed at them they’d happily enough catch and lob straight back out at us. The use of Kulusevski through the centre struck me as making a significant difference (oh that he might have played there more in recent weeks), but in general Elfsborg gave the impression of being capable of batting until close of play without too many scares.

So I suppose when the orators murmur about the fearlessness of youth, they have in mind specifically the mazy little dribble of Ajayi last night. I’m not really one for pyromania, preferring a whiskey and an improving book for my evening entertainment, but I imagine that if one were to sprinkle petroleum about the place and throw a lighted match, the effect amongst those in the vicinity would be pretty similar to that of Ajayi’s run at the Eflsborg defenders last night. In short, wild panic ensued.

Yet another tip of the cap to Scarlett, for knowing exactly how to deliver his lines, prodding the ball back to Ajayi in what turned out to be the perfect one-two. Ajayi’s adrenaline took care of the rest, and once again, that rather avuncular pride took hold of AANP. Another, I mused, who, until the day he dies, can always boast of having scored for Tottenham Hotspur, lucky blighter.

1.3 Mikey Moore

Mikey Moore’s effort was very much ‘icing on cake’ stuff, the returns by that point being pretty much in. Unlike the other two, MM’s involvement in first team affairs for the foreseeable seems a given, so if he hadn’t scored last night one would have batted it aside. Plenty more opportunities, would have been the gist.

Still, he seemed to enjoy the moment, and it was well worth the wait. It’s not a huge stretch to say the young bean has been threatening something of that ilk for a while now.

It was a goal that showcased numerous different impressive qualities. In the first place he displayed a spot of upper-body ballast of which I hadn’t thought him capable, in winning a brief, preliminary wrestling match just north of the centre-circle.

He then channelled his inner Ajayi to go tootling off past flailing Elfsborg lower limbs, and mercifully slathered enough precision on his finish that the slightly below-par power levels were but a footnote.

1.4 The Future?

Ajayi’s goal in particular was a real triumph for the virtues of fresh-faced sorts waltzing in and doing as they please. There was a distinct sense, as he set off, that here was a youthful sort happy to take a risk, without feeling weighed down by the prospect of lusty advice raining down from the South Stand should he soil the operation.

There will presumably now be a bit of a movement for binning the old guard and shoving all chips in with the young people. AANP, being an understanding cove, would patiently hear out this argument, whilst sipping from one of the older bourbons in the collection, before politely suggesting an alternative. Rather than swinging wildly to the extreme of a Moore-Scarlett-Ajayi front-line to see us through the upcoming February crunch, I’d probably advocate for throwing them on late on, initially at least. If, as seems to be the case with Mikey Moore, they seem able to cut a rug at the top level, then by all means shove them in at the deep end.

The case of Will Lankshear strikes me as the cautionary tale in amongst all this, in that the young egg is currently undercooked. I’m not sure anyone would benefit if, for example, in the absence of Solanke, he started every game; but using him, Scarlett or AN Other specifically as a late sub might be worth a whirl.

However, rather than bog oneself down in all that speculative muck, far better for now simply to bob along on the unexpected success of last night.

2. Van de Ven

The other roaring success, which has been rather elbowed off into the background, was the return of VDV.

And golly, what a return. It has, of course, been an absolute age since he roamed the corridors a robust picture of health, so the memory actually fogged over rather, when picking up the threads of his storyline. I therefore expected to see him bounding off in a whirr of legs every now and then, and not much else. Speed, the recesses of my memory informed me, was pretty much the essence of Micky Van de Ven.

So you could have knocked me down with a feather when young Master VDV started showcasing a whole reel of impressive character traits, none of which actually had anything to do with jet-heeled pace.

I simply had no idea, for a start, of quite how strapping and weighty a chap he is, but before he did anything else he could be seen trotting along towards an Elfsborg forward and administering a shove with sufficient meaning behind him to uproot the poor soul and leave him scrambling to stay upright. I suppose it might be that these were particularly lightweight forwards, but even so, I did widen the eyes a bit.

I was also rather taken by VDV’s penchant for sniffing out danger from about a mile off, and tearing up into midfield to add a layer of protection. If, for example, our forward mob over-egged things outside the Elfsborg area, and the ball was cleared up towards the middle third, where Ben Davies or Bentancur or someone were walking a bit of a tightrope, from nowhere VDV would hurtle into frame and clear things up pronto.

This might not sound so remarkable I suppose, particularly as it tended to amount to little more than throw-in, or a square pass infield; but the contrast with what happened after half-time, and indeed what has been happening for several weeks previously, was pretty stark.

Dragusin is an earnest enough fellow, but in the last three months or so I don’t really remember him reading danger from afar, and then doing the necessary mental arithmetic to arrive on time in midfield to intercept danger before it even begins. More of a one for hanging back and chewing furiously, is Dragusin.

The one time I do recall him trying to step up and usefully intervention, he rather butchered his lines, in the league game against Liverpool just before half-time, mistiming his forward charge and leaving a seismic hole behind him.

Another bonus of having VDV in situ was that Leicester-esque situations could be avoided – by which I mean the defence, lacking pace, stationing themselves so far back that the distance to the midfield mob required packing some supplies and factoring in a break for refreshment. When Porro and Bentancur muddled their passes on Sunday, the Leicester lad was able to stroll about 15 yards unopposed. No such risk of that when VDV is around, as his pace seemed to allow him to hover a bit closer to current events.

3. Son

Another element that could pretty easily fall between the cracks was that in the first half Sonny had an absolute blast against the poor old Elfsborg right-back. When I say that the young twig was twisted in every conceivable direction, and regularly deposited on his derriere, I’m not sure I even begin to cover the facts sufficiently.

If the score had not still been 0-0, and our lot not been in the middle of an almighty slump, one might have quietly tapped Sonny on the shoulder and asked him to dial things down a little. For the sake of dignity and whatnot. Few people on the planet could have been as relieved as that right-back to see Sonny removed at half-time.

The curious thing about Son’s performance was that one would hesitate to describe it as a return to form, per se. A return to form would, I fancy, carry the implication that at some point Son’s lightning pace was to the fore.

Last night, however, pace didn’t really enter into things. It is true that having twisted his man into a sackful of knots and left him on the ground, Son did then scuttle off towards the byline; but this tended just to be a burst over 5 yards, and with the defender already writhing cluelessly on the floor rather than setting off in hot pursuit.

And given that the whole game was played in the Elfsborg half, this was not a game in which Son raced from halfway onto a pass played into space, like the Son of old having been picked out by Kane.

That Son repeatedly skewered his man is true enough; but to suggest that it was a return of the good old Sonny of yesteryear slightly misses the target.

Either way, however, it was pretty riotous stuff to behold – and all before the cheering finale provided by the youth choir.

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Spurs match reports

Hoffenheim 2-3 Spurs: Five 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 Disclaimer: The Shonky Middle Period

Before we invite a dignitary to say polite words and spray champagne about the place, probably best to tap the mic and make one or two public service announcements. All in the name of context, you understand.

As such, any sparkling compliments thrown about the place for a job eventually well done and three points safely pocketed should exclude that 10 or so minutes leading up to half-time, and in particular that period after half-time that seemed never to end but which the official timekeepers clocked at about half an hour.

During that period our lot barely touched the ball, but spent the entirety stuck in and around their own area as if physically bound to it. If any member of the cast, upon blocking a shot or clearing the ball, felt inclined to turn to the nearest chum to slap hands and exchange congratulations on a defensive job well done, or even simply to rattle off the exhale-inhale routine a good half-dozen times to stock up depleted lungs, they were to be pretty swiftly interrupted and forced to wade straight back onto the front-line, for more shot-blocking and ball-clearing. It wasn’t so much that this happened repeatedly, as it became just one, uninterrupted, 30-minute sequence.

Moreover, if any of our number were looking to Richarlison for a spot of respite we could probably have told them they were in for a bit of a setback. I recall a while back my Spurs-supporting chum Dave, in one of those moments of exasperation that following Spurs will generate, once labelled Richarlison the least technically-gifted Brazilian ever, which although possibly a little dramatic certainly hits upon a notable point.

Richarlison ran the good race honestly enough yesterday, and had the occasional moment, but I suppose one might generously say he was a tad rusty in his first start after injury. The upshot was that if any of our number cleared to R9, the damn thing came straight back in less time than it takes to murmur “Hold it up this time and relieve the pressure, dash it”.

I’m not sure any amongst the massed ranks observing in person or via the telly-box were particularly surprised that the Hoffenheim assault led eventually to a goal. Nor will many of lilywhite persuasion have been in the slightest taken aback to note that at least one of the goals conceded came in the Pedro Porro Patrol Area. We might as well just chalk up a goal to the other lot pre-kick-off each game, to save everyone the bother, stipulating that it will be awarded to whomever is most likely to wander into the vicinity that Porro ought to be monitoring.

(Porro also might have made at least a token effort to prevent the cross for the first Hoffenheim goal, although the general blame for that one could be spread around a little more democratically.)

So while the AANP map was plastered with a coating of satisfaction and relief by 8pm yesterday, one probably has to acknowledge that slap bang in the middle of it all our lot spent a goodish amount of time up against the ropes and taking a pummelling. However, all the more credit to them for emerging from that period still ahead, and doing enough defensively to hang on to the win.

2. Maddison

While that middle third was a pretty ghastly spectacle, it should not be forgotten that back in the mists of time, our heroes started proceedings looking like they were having an absolute blast.

The German mob might not have been toughest of nuts to crack, but that hasn’t stopped our lot struggling in the past. Yesterday, however, they slid through the gears right from the off.

Maddison in particular caught the eye in the early exchanges, as is inevitable, I suppose, when one scores one goal and puts in a decent amount of spadework in construction of another.

I actually still re-watch his goal and then remove myself to a quiet corner, to try to understand how he ended up depositing the ball high in the net as he did, as it seemed the sort of shot that should either have floated back down to earth or ballooned off into the atmosphere.

That, however, says more about AANP’s shaky grasp of physics than anything else. More broadly, I was most taken by the more attacking post that Maddison seemed to have adopted. Whether upon instruction or just his own whim, he seemed to dip a toe into Dele-esque waters, and finding that it rather suited him, spent much of the remainder as an additional attacking bean, the sort who would make a late charge from midfield into the area, to sniff around for treats.

One such burst brought him his goal, and but for a better-timed final pass from his colleagues he might have had a richer harvest.

It was impressive (while it lasted at least – as mentioned, any such attacking considerations were emphatically binned for a good old stretch either side of half-time), not least because the blighter has spent much of the season struggling to impose himself upon games.

Traditionally he seems to station himself a lot further south, and content himself with just ferrying the thing from A to B in short-range deliveries of 5 to 10 yards, which do little to impact the game. The one exception to this slightly impotent sort of showing was away to Man City, when after popping up with 2 goals (in the Dele role), he then dropped all the way back to his own area to assist with passing out from the back.

Yesterday, however,as mentioned, he was more advanced, and far more impactful for it. One for Our Glorious Leader to frown and gruffle about in the coming days.

3. Brandon Austin

Cast your mind back a week or two, and young Brandon Austin found himself thrust from the shadows into the limelight at home to Newcastle, acquitting himself most competently, before being rather cruelly shoved straight back whence he came, to those same shadows, from where he could only watch proceedings wrapped up in a snood.

Well the neat little cocktail of injuries and red tape meant that he was granted a sequel yesterday, and I thought he once again did all that the self-respecting modern goalkeeper should.

From memory, he seemed competent enough under crosses. He may have fumbled one, I cannot quite recall, but the general sentiment as things pootled along was that if a cross were to be launched of vaguely claimable pedigree, then Austin would march out and do his claiming with minimal fuss.

It might not sound much, but dust off the archives and you’ll note that in the latter part of last season, every corner conceded prompted a surge in blood pressure across N17, as Vicario made an almighty drama of such circumstances. No such concerns with Austin. The chap knows his airborne onions.

His shot-stopping too seemed at least adequate. There was precious little he could do about the first Hoffenheim goal, and while a less forgiving scribe might don the monocle and subject to closer inspection his role in the second goal, I’m inclined to wave aside any criticism there. Generally, if a shot were aimed within his wingspan, he extended the appropriate appendage at the appropriate time, and kept it out.

And while I do recall at least one pass of his from the back that missed its mark and prompted a sounding of the alarm, by and large he seemed happy enough to distribute from his feet. All in all, it was just about everything one would hope and dream from one’s fourth-choice ‘keeper in a winnable European away day.

4. Son

The performance of the on-field lieutenant had me scratching the loaf a bit though, and needing a little sit-down to collect the thoughts.

On the one hand, take what one might term the ‘Match of the Day’ approach. By this I mean that if you simply drink in the headlines, you might conclude that our captain has returned to the peak of his powers. Two goals – the second of which featured a spot of trademark activity involving a stepover and pinpoint shot – in a 3-2 win seems unequivocally to indicate that here was the game’s outstanding contributor.

However, shout that one from the rooftops, and you might swiftly find yourself being tapped insistently on the shoulder by an AANP armed with a most enquiring eye. From the off, and frankly at all points except in execution of his second goal, Sonny did not seem his traditional effervescent self. Ask a fancy AI tool for a visual illustration of what ‘Sonny off the boil’ looks like, and nothing would be simpler than to churn out footage of his every involvement (bar that second goal) from yesterday.

While in an attacking sense, in general our lot appeared to have eaten their spinach and rediscovered some swash and buckle, a certain stodginess manifested each time Son was invited to partake.

The thrilling yard or two of pace that previously allowed him to scoot away from his opposing full-back was absent, as it seems to have been all season. As a result whenever he glimpsed the whites of the goalkeeper’s eyes in an inside-left channel, he checked back infield onto his right foot, and momentum leaked from the attack.  

That he scored his first and our second owed a lot to the kind deflection that ensured physics was on his side. A couple of further opportunities that might have given us the four-goal cushion seemingly necessary every time we play, were also muddled rather than aided by his input.

5. Credit to the Players; BUT WHAT THE DICKENS IS HAPPENING WITH TRANSFERS?

Depending on the side of bed from which one rolled out this morning, one may either bob along with quiet satisfaction at an important win, or chunter away a bit at another unnecessarily complicated struggle.

The AANP take is that this was a game played by a cohort of players either drained of all energy or yet to start shaving, and as such that they found a way to win at all was a small miracle in itself.

There was plenty about which to nod in approval in the opening half hour, and actually a degree of common sense and resilience in the latter stages. Now, to suggest that a corner has been turned and all is rosy once again in N17, is somewhat premature. However, the drill yesterday was simply to find a way to win. That this was achieved through contributions of attacking elan, good fortune and some bloody-minded resilience is absolutely the ticket at AANP Towers.

So to the players a warm hand; and to the Big Cheese a cheery enough shrug, accompanied by a reminder that plenty more work needs doing in the next must-win game, on Sunday.

However, to whomever is responsible for signing off on incomings and new personnel, the sternest possible glare of incandescence awaits. The failure to sign any outfield players at all, over three weeks into the January window, is bordering on negligence.

Even should half a dozen new players arrive today, they would be too late for the last six fixtures, in each of which we were simply unable to rotate as was necessary for performance levels and injury prevention.

Nor, at this point, do we even need the sort of elite-level players who will fit the fabric of the club for years to come, those we’d eye up in the summer. Right now, an extra few bodies on short-term loans would suffice, players of a Reguilon or Dragusin level who could simply come on at minute 60 or 70 to afford a breather to the incumbents, and help prevent six-week muscle strains.

The whole narrative about squad depth began weeks ago, long before the January window came into being, so those responsible for such things can hardly claim to have been caught by surprise.

Not really being privy to the inner workings of either transfer deals in general, nor the club’s policy in this area specifically, I have no idea which specific individuals are to blame further down the chain of command – although the buck presumably stops with Grandmaster Levy. Either way, the absence of a single outfield signing absolutely boggles the mind, and ratchets up the incandescence with each passing day.

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Spurs match reports

Rangers 1-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Werner and Ange’s Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Dragusin and Gray

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Porro and the Same Old Goal

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

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

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

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

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

4. Midfield Lack of Bite

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Roma: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Who We Are, Mate

After losing at home to the bottom side and then tonking the champions away, I suppose it actually made perfect sense that our heroes spent the entirety of yesterday lurching wildly between rip-roaring attack and what you might call pretty vacant defending. In short, every time either side attacked – in fact, every time either side won possession – they looked like they might score, and once we’d got past all the VAR calls and shots off the woodwork and other-worldly saves, we might have had a scoreline of around 8-8.

To suggest that this approach is universally popular would seem to misread the mood about the place somewhat. Here at AANP Towers, naturally, we lap it up, but there are plenty who cross their arms in disgust and give tongue to a few choice complaints, in increasingly irate tones. No point entertaining if we’re not going to win anything, is, I understand, the gist of the objection.

Not that Our Glorious Leader is about to budge on the matter, judging by his post-match remarks, in which he essentially tossed into the nearest bin the very concept of grinding out some 0-0s and 1-0s to ensure qualification. Entertaining football remains very much the key ingredient where he is concerned, so we can expect last night’s madness to be bottled up and uncorked on a bi-weekly basis for the foreseeable. AANP will be at the front of the queue.

2. Forster

Poor old Vicario deserves to have a medal pinned to his chest at some point, for playing a full hour with a snapped ankle at the weekend, in what was quite the commendation of the virtues of adrenaline.

The upshot of it all was that Fraser Forster was shoved into the spotlight for his 90-plus yesterday. Forster, of course, is a lad who Nature started building but then got distracted and forgot to stop, with the result that he is about two persons’ worth shoved into one. This at least makes him a handy chap to have around at corners, with any dastardly opposition plans to buffet him à la Vicario unlikely to bring home much fruit.

The narrative doing the rounds was that being built like a small oak was all well and good, but Forster would come a cropper the moment he was required to rearrange the feet and do a spot of short-passing-from-the-back. The air was therefore thick with anticipation when the goal-kicks started flowing and Forster obediently played short, but anyone hoping to point a triumphant index finger at him and scream, “See? I knew it!” was to be left a little disappointed. We did butcher several of those play-out-from-the-back routines, no doubt about it, but in truth Forster was not really the culprit.

One would not say he was particularly inept in this field. Not particularly sensational either, for one must take the balanced view. But rumours of his inadequacy with ball at feet were evidently over-played. Forster popped the ball left and right (mostly left, actually), accurately and sensibly enough, and Davies and chums got on with things.

As mentioned, things went awry thereafter, on a pretty regular basis in the first half, but this seemed to be down to the infuriatingly flippant attitude of others in lilywhite, who seemed convinced that Roma players would obligingly look the other way and allow the ball to be played around them. Forster himself seemed accurate and sensible enough with his passing.

More of a pre-match concern to AANP had been Forster’s shot-stopping. Working on the rationale that an enormous oak, when sawn off at the base, will take a good, elongated second or two to fall to earth, I gnawed a slightly nervous fingernail at the prospect of Forster being called into lightning-quick reflex activity. Toss the ball high into the crowd and Forster is your man, went my thinking; fire a shot low to his sides, and things might get sticky.

Those fears were hardly assuaged by the first Roma goal. Although directed high rather than low, it nevertheless stood out as a moment of ignominy for our resident giant, as rather than skip across his line to engineer a position closer to the ball, he opted to leave his feet planted firmly where they were, and sought to remedy matters from a standing start. Well, it did not take an expert in the field to see that this approach was laced with difficulty, even for one standing at approximately nine foot eight. Forster’s leap amounted to little more than a footnote, he getting nowhere near the ball. Those pre-match concerns about his agility, or lack thereof, played on repeat and with some extra volume.

However, the strangest plot twist unfurled thereafter, for on the following occasions on which he was called into shot-stopping action, with activity requiring a far sharper grip on things than that goal, Forster suddenly donned a cape and revealed himself actually to be possessed of superhuman reflex-saving quality.

One shot towards the end of the first half seemed almost to be behind him, and travelling along the ground. And when I state it was travelling on the ground I do so not merely to pass the time. To move from the thinner parts of the atmosphere, which Forster’s upper parts inhabit, down to the floor, would require most of us to descend a flight or two of stairs, a procedure that would take some time to effect. By contrast, Forster somehow flung himself this great distance and direction in the absolute blink of an eye, shooting out an appendage whilst doing so, to pull off a save that any physics student would goggle at.

He was at it again, at the end of the second half, with a save that ought to have won us the game, only for the resulting corner to bring their goal. Whilst not so low down, this one was still a shot from close-range, and still of the ilk that one would expect to bypass such a large and cumbersome construction as Forster. He was equal to it though, again rattling off some of that faster-than-the-naked-eye-can-discern business, to produce one of those saves that is really worth a goal.

Numerous further tests await, of course, but for now I mark him down as competent with ball at feet, and jolly impressive in shot-stopping.

3. Ben Davies

As mentioned, there was plenty to admire about our work going forward, and frankly AANP was drooling over some of the speed and smoothness with which we motored along from nondescript midfield spots to goalscoring positions. Not for the first time, some slightly more accurate finishing would have had us comfortably ahead by the closing stages, but I suppose one can’t have it all.

Kulusevski was, at times, once again pretty majestic. It seemed sufficient for the likes of Son and Johnson simply to turn up at the appointed hour and location, because Kulusevski was pretty comfortably carving apart Roma single-handedly, at various points in the first half.

I also thought Sarr again buzzed about the place like a man possessed, patrolling high up the pitch to win possession seemingly at will, while Bentancur was similarly effective about 20 yards further south. Annoyingly, many of these positive traits rather faded from existence in the second half, as our lot stopped giving too many cares about retaining possession, and then constantly found themselves outnumbered at the back.

However, during the entirety, Ben Davies seemed to accept whatever the Fates through at him, stiffen the upper lip and crack right on. There were times, of course, that Roma poked and pried in what were not Designated Ben Davies Zones, and consequently got round the back of our defence to cause a spot of alarm. Quite a few times, in fact, this happening relentlessly in the final 20 or 30.

But when matters did more directly involve B.D., he seemed well up to it. All reassuring stuff, given the absences of the first-choice pair. Moreover, with Destiny Udogie given the night off, Ben Davies also had to juggle the day-job with a spot of babysitting, of young Gray alongside him (who fared a lot better than on his previous forays at full-back).

Davies was on hand to peddle a lot of timely interventions and blocks, and while the general structure creaked a bit it seemed to be despite, rather than because of, his efforts. There was also a useful charge upfield with ball at feet, for those who like that sort of thing, only terminated by having him uprooted right outside the opposition area.

Most eye-catching to AANP, however, was his pass from deep in the first half, which bypassed the entire Roma midfield and set Kulusevski off on the gallop that led to him hitting the post. It would have been a charming addendum to his evening’s defensive work; instead, the whole thing looks vastly less impressive due to a late goal conceded and couple of points dropped, in this whole curious Europa format.

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

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 1-0 AZ Alkmaar: Three(ish) Tottenham Talking Points

1. Mikey Moore

When an aged and arthritic Mikey Moore calls time on his career a decade or two hence, arms laden with Ballon d’Or trophies and neck weighed down with medals, no doubt he’ll look back fondly on last night as something of a milestone, the day on which he called for hush and proceeded to announce himself, officially, as something of a Big Deal.

Of course, the curiosity here was how little early indication was given that this was going to turn into a bit of an event for the slippery young eel. Not to put a dampener on things, but his early missed header was one that due and proper process dictates is filed under ‘Glaring’, and in fact, until the half-time toot that faux pas was his most prominent contribution to events. Put another way, Mikey Moore on the right did not have much to recommend it.

I actually thought that the decision, by those paid big bucks to make such calls, to shove aside Timo Werner at half-time was rather brutal. I noted Ange gruffling away afterwards that Herr Werner’s removal was due to his low confidence, and the thought struck me then, as it does now, that kicking a man while down was perhaps not the textbook-suggested method of reviving his flagging spirits, but so be it. Werner was offed, Johnson took to the field on the right and, in a move for the ages, Mikey Moore began the half on the left-wing.

What then transpired, in the opening 20 minutes of the second half, was something of a blur – particularly if you happened to be the AZ right-back. From the off, the young whelp approached matters with supreme self-confidence, clearly having decided that simply getting his head down and racing at the opposition with ball at feet would do the trick, and by golly the approach worked splendidly.

His combination of pace and close control, augmented by the occasional stepover and jinky change of direction, made for exhilarating viewing – and here at AANP Towers that’s not a phrase we throw around too lightly. Of course, Mikey Moore’s reputation has spread about every corner of N17 and beyond over the last year or two, and some amongst us have even been privileged to witness his talents first-hand at various youth levels, but to see the intrepid youth parade his wares in such fashion for the First XI, in a competitive match, was thrilling stuff.

As pleasing as anything else was the fact that this was not just one memorable solo dash, etched into the memory – young Master M. packed in about half a dozen of them. That start to the second half was sensational, with Moore repeatedly demanding the ball, all in lilywhite obligingly feeding it to him and he then wasting no time in taking on as many men as the other lot could send over to stop him.

I also gave an approving nod to the fact that Moore seemed pretty open-minded when it came to direction of travel, completely unfazed whether shown on the outside or cutting infield and seeing where life might take him from there.

I suppose if one were in particularly churlish mood one might wait for the bluster to die down before pointedly remarking, quite possibly with hands on hips, that all that direct running looked very pretty but the nub of the thing was end-product, in which column there wasn’t much of note. Any such criticism, in my mind, would be pretty thick stuff. On a couple of occasions, a desperate defensive lunge blocked off an attempted cross and shovelled it aside for a corner; but he also popped in two or three top-notch crosses, the ilk of which really merited a finishing touch, as well as very reasonably having a shot at goal himself, when the mood took him.

His effort at the very start of the half, in which he beat three players, was then crowned with an absolutely glorious pass in between two or three defenders for Brennan Johnson to run onto. The pass alone was worthy of an ovation, but to have beaten three men beforehand – having initially collected the ball deep inside his own half – had us goggling away like nobody’s business. In short, the fact that no goal was spawned from his efforts should be of minimal concern, for by and large he had the AZ defence on toast and sent all manner of inviting balls towards the attacking mob.

Of course, there is now a bit of babble amongst the massed ranks to have Mikey Moore start against Palace, captain the team and spearhead Tuchel-era England for good measure – but I suspect Our Glorious Leader will not be too heavily swayed by any such background noise, and a big puffy jacket and cushioned seat on the bench will be next up for the lad. Should Sonny be unavailable on Sunday, or indeed at any point in the near-future, I’ll give our selection the eye, but with Odobert now returning to fitness I suspect Ange will be quite happy to ration the minutes of The Young One.

2. Timo Werner

While Mikey Moore’s night was quite the triumph, one might fairly reasonably argue that Timo Werner’s was somewhat less so. Indeed, there has been some speculation that with Sonny first choice, Mikey Moore’s statement performance last night and the return from injury of young Odobert, this might have been the last we’ll see of Herr Werner. Such a theory seems a tad extreme to these particular ears, there being plenty of fixtures through which we still have to churn, but as ever, Werner is in pretty desperate need of an uptick in confidence.

Gallingly for the chap, things almost started so well, that cross of his for the head of Mikey Moore being an absolutely beauty. I don’t mind admitting that the train of thought flowing through this particular loaf at the time was along the lines that Werner had already shown the capacity to beat his man for pace on the outside, and here we had proof that when cutting back on the inside and onto his right clogger, he evidently also had the ability to deliver an enticing cross towards approaching scalps – as such demonstrating a threat from both feet.

Be that as it may, however, even the most ardent member of the Werner Fan Club would struggle to get past the wretched fellow’s chronic inability to finish a one-on-one. One almost wishes he were not blessed with such pace, so as to avoid repeatedly steaming clear of opposition defences and creating for himself such opportunities to display to the watching world his glaring ineptitude in front of goal.

If one could, one surely would club together with one’s chums and simply buy the poor fish a goal, to relieve his pain; the next best thing, however, seems to be the Postecoglou option of putting him out of his misery.

I have wondered, in my idle moments, whether he needs simply to pop up at the back-post for a tap-in, one of those chances that requires minimal thought and simply needs an instinctive dab of the toe, to get his goal and fire up his juices. Call it the Brennan Johnson Effect, a single turning-point that will transform an attacker from whimpering bundle of nerves to unstoppable goalscorer. We can but dream. Until then, it is difficult to imagine that Werner remains ahead of Mikey Moore in the left-wing pecking order.

3. Pros and Cons Amongst The Other Personnel

As ever, the game was a mildly maddening mixture of dominance in possession not quite translating into goals, coupled with occasional opposition forays a little too easily escalating into clear goalscoring opportunities. One can probably excuse the absence of fluidity, given the nine changes in personnel, so I’ll give the magnifying glass a quick spit and polish, and hop straight over to the individuals instead.

3.1 – Dragusin

Master Dragusin reappeared needing to put in a decent amount of spadework to redeem himself after the ills of his most recent, red card-marred appearance, and although a clean sheet in the record books is something he can merrily take to his grave, the evidence of the eyes was a little less convincing.

The dictionary defines “erratic” as “moving or behaving in a way that is not regular, certain, or expected”, and while I’m not sure that that captures perfectly the fellow’s offering last night, it will probably suffice. At some points burly and imposing, at others quite the liability, his was a mixed bag.

If there was one consistency to his game it was that he seemed as much of a risk in possession as he was when defending – caught over-elaborating on the ball a couple of times, and similarly not quite providing the reassuring presence one would expect from a man-bunned gum-chewer when required to prevent opposing forwards blitzing the lilywhite goal.

As I seem to conclude each time I see the chap, he probably needs a run of games before we all rush to judgement, and he can’t be helped by being thrust into a makeshift back-four and in front of the reserve goalkeeper, but nevertheless he is yet to convince.

3.2 – Gray

Alongside him, Archie Gray seemed to me to have a rotten old time of it at right-back, providing precious little resistance whenever the AZ left-winger built up a head of steam. The thinking behind his deployment is presumably that his ability in possession makes him a decent fit for those moments when we need our full-backs to beetle off into midfield and do useful things; but if AANP has a principle by which he lives and dies it is that defenders inhabit the planet first and foremost to defend, and on yesterday’s showing young Master Gray did not even seem aware that a manual for such things even existed, let alone giving any indication of familiarity with its contents.

3.3 – Udogie

That said, when it comes to defending I increasingly fret about Signor Udogie. Going forward he does, of course, tick numerous boxes, but early on in proceedings last night an AZ johnnie sent over a peach of a cross from the right that had three or four chums stretching and mere inches from a tap-in.

All well and good, and a shiny commendation to whichever AZ winger was responsible – but re-watching the spool rather glaringly highlights the negligible effort put in by Udogie to prevent the cross. In the first place he did not attempt to close down his man, and then when the cross was being readied he turned his back on it for heaven’s sake. It was all dusted under the carpet because the chance ultimately went begging, but this sort of guff strikes me as amongst the absolute basics of defending, and yet our first choice full-back seems barely interested.

3.4 – Forster

It was not all bad news at the back, however, as Fraser Forster lumbered in, gave an immaculate performance between the sticks and then lumbered off again at full-time to wherever giants go to rest.

In terms of the eye-catching stuff, he emerged with full marks. The leaping save to palm away a header from a corner in the first half was what one would expect, I suppose, but, casting one’s mind back a few years it was the sort of effort that Monsieur Lloris got into the habit of simply watching sail in, so a polite ripple of applause seems appropriate.

He then came racing off his line and to the edge of the area, a manoeuvre that I don’t mind admitting initially appeared not so much fraught with risk as a glitzy advertisement for the act of kamikaze, but to his credit it turned out to be impeccably judged, Forster not just getting to the ball in time to avert danger but also managing to stay within the confines of his area when he splayed his limbs.

And then in the second half he got down swiftly enough to repel the late AZ shot after they broke from halfway. This one was pretty much straight at him, but needed saving, and on a night on which the back-four in front of him seemed to have much about them of the kitchen colander or sieve, his ability to beat away the incoming was vaguely reassuring. Mercifully, there were also few alarms when he played the ball with his feet, life chugging along pretty serenely on that front – which has not always been the case with Forster – so all in all his presence provided quite a welcome antidote to the slightly less robust unit pieced together in front of him.

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Spurs match reports

Ferencvaros 1-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Team Selection

AANP has prattled on a few times in recent weeks about the virtues of integrating up to a maximum of four non-regulars in a Starting XI, and conversely the vices of shoving in youths and extras until a Starting XI is bursting at the seams with lesser-seen faces, so I won’t bang on about it again.

Suffice to say, the eyebrow raised when news of yesterday’s Starting XI trickled through was not one of unrestrained gaiety and joy. Asking for trouble, was the gist of the rumbling over here.

As it turned out, Ferencvaros themselves made five changes, in a whopping endorsement of the new, endless, Europa format. And while, for the first half hour, our lot showed the usual sieve-like security of a defensive line stationed on halfway, we muddled through, by accident – and the impressive inputs of Vicario – rather than design.

One can only imagine the series of embarrassed and quizzical looks exchanged between Archie Gray and Ben Davies when informed that the former would start at centre-back and the latter at left-back. However, that was the curious defensive call made by The Brains Trust at the outset. To suggest it was a roaring success would be to inflict some pretty significant damage upon the English language.

I suppose part of the thinking may have been that if Gray could be found to include central defensive brilliance amongst his many talents then we would have an additional, ball-playing option for the fixture slog of coming months (and potentially one with a spot of pace about him, although I confess I’ve never observed the young tyke in a basic sprint). Anyway, it all turned out to be academic, because Gray showed himself to be as full of willing as he was bereft of expertise for the role, and having been caught out numerous times by fairly straightforward passes played behind the back-four and into space, the experiment was scrapped at half-time, presumably never to be seen again.

The midfield at least seemed appropriately fitted for the occasion. Bissouma, after an errant opening, made a pretty useful fist of things in front of the back-four, and Sarr seemed to enjoy the freedom to stretch his legs in the final third as the whim allowed, elevating himself, to the AANP gaze, to the heady heights of one of our two best performers.

Bergvall, frankly, had a slightly rotten game, happy enough to do all the running but regularly giving the ball away or tripping over himself. Hardly a crisis, as the young imp is evidently here for the long haul, but another Europa night on which he’s unlikely to dwell with too much fondness.

As mentioned, the midfield three were at least assigned appropriate roles, but not unexpectedly there was little rhythm or understanding between them, and one could almost see on one’s telly-box the looks of pleasant surprise whenever a little combination of passes clicked, betraying the fact that here was a group of young specimens who had never played with each other before.

The fact that beaverings in the final third slickened considerably once the cavalry arrived should be of little surprise to anyone. Off-the-ball the press was more intense, and in possession the various protagonists seemed to have an innate understanding of where to be and at which appointed hour, which helped chivvy things along. In short, the players who had played together regularly looked like a mob who had played together regularly.

As such, Our Glorious Leader, had he caught the AANP eye at the final whistle, would no doubt have directed a satisfied smirk in this direction. For all the naysaying emanating from my lips beforehand, he would be entitled to argue that he played his hand to perfection – blooding the younglings, giving minutes to fringe players, excusing the big guns from a full night’s work and then reaping a pretty solid harvest when he did eventually lob on the aforementioned BGs for a twenty-minute sweat.

2. Mikey Moore and Lankshear

Without doubt the biggest learning about Mikey Moore from last night was that, like Ben Davies, he is one of those coves whom one always addresses by their full combination of forename and surname. The next biggest learning was that he seems pretty capable of taking steps unaided in the big wide world.  

I mentioned above that I thought Sarr was amongst the top two performers, and alongside him I’d place Mikey Moore. Displaying a rather endearing fearlessness, every time he received the ball he seemed struck by the thoroughly commendable notion of doing something useful with it. As often as not this seemed to involve getting his head down and dribbling infield, to create a whole new world of options; but even when he stayed wide and was forced to use his right foot for something other than balance I thought he did a good job of things.

When ushered up on stage to receive his award and acclaim for yesterday’s work, I’ve no doubt that in listing all those to whom he gives thanks he’ll include Pedro Porro, for the slightly unhinged right-back seemed to do a good job of keeping an eye on him – giving him space to do his own thing but never straying so far away that he left the young pup completely marooned. Their combinations were amongst the more natural from our lot in the first half, and it was just a shame that when he was switched out to the left towards the end he didn’t gamble at the far post for what would have been a tap-in from a Johnson square ball.

As for young Lankshear, I suspect he might have a few self-inflicted welts on his own thigh today, from frustrated hand-slaps, but apart from not quite directing his chances within the frame I thought he made a good fist of things.

The fact that he was in the appropriate spot to miss a couple of chances was encouraging – a statement I appreciate might sound like lunacy of the first order, but my point is that, like any good striker, he took up the right positions, rather than watching from twenty yards south as the ball sailed harmlessly across goal.

He ought to have done better with the first half header from Werner’s cross, and he was unlucky that his scruffy second half effort from a corner bounced over rather than under then bar, but as Dominic Solanke can presumably attest, these things fall into place eventually.

Lankshear can also be mightily encouraged that he received a start in only the second game of this curious competition – with approximately eighty games left to play, presumably including one or two dead rubbers, there’s a good chance he’ll have more than just substitute cameos in the coming months.

3. Confidence, and Lack Thereof

I only studied German for one year at the old alma mater, so while I can pretty confidently assure you in that language that I’m fifteen years old, and can ask they way to the train station like the best of them, when it comes to screaming at Timo Werner to just bury the bally thing for heaven’s sake, adding that he’s supposed to be a professional footballer for the love of all things holy, I’m afraid I have to revert to the old mother-tongue, rather than conveniencing him with a spot of Deutsche.

As the hopeless young bean lay on the turf muttering oaths after his latest clanger, and then had the ignominy compounded by promptly being forced into a walk of shame around the pitch for substitution, I did muse – not for the first time – that he is both blessed and cursed by that turn of pace.

Blessed, of course, because it meant that when Mikey Moore set off on the right wing and looked up, there was nobody within a mile of Timo. And not for the first time. Only a Van de Ven would catch Werner, given a few yards headstart and clear path to goal.

Cursed, naturally, because here is a fellow who seemingly would be more at ease chewing off his own leg than finishing a one-on-one chance created by that pace. I’m actually inclined to suggest we re-purpose the chap as a centre-back, and see if we can put that speed to use in a sphere in which hitting a stationary target is not really a requirement.

Anyway, while I’ve never been anywhere near the professional game, the sages around me seem convinced that his do-anything-but-score approach to life stems from a lack of confidence, and as if to hammer home the point, Brennan Johnson then put his ten minutes to good use by cheerfully peppering the goal until he got one to stick.

The Johnson first-time effort that pinged off the crossbar was, lest we forget, inaccurate, but nevertheless spoke volumes – the audacity to see a ball rolled towards self, and greet this correspondence with a shrug of the shoulders and decision to forego all niceties and simply lamp the thing first time made crystal clear that here was a chappie who felt that he could do little wrong.

It was a conclusion emphasised by his goal a few minutes later, a chance that, on receipt of the ball, was hardly worth of the name, he receiving a bouncing ball when stepping backwards, and with a small line of defenders between him and the goal. To have the gumption to shift the ball onto his weaker foot and then place – this time with perfect accuracy – a shot off the post and in, essentially rubber-stamped the fact that he and poor old Werner sat at the extreme opposites on the scale of confidence.

I suppose if one had to raise the Werner spirits, one might yet point to his fine work in crossing for Lankshear’s first half header, and the fact that whenever he does decide to go outside his man and test him for pace, he generally wins. However, if Cheering Up Werner is the objective, probably best not to mention to him that young Mikey Moore prefers the left flank, what?

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-0 Qarabag: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Glorious Lunacy of Angeball

There are several ways to skin a cat, so I’m reliably informed. Not a hobby for which I’ve ever gone in myself, you understand, but presumably the hypothesis stretches to playing with ten men too. Several ways to do it, is the gist. One can pack one’s own penalty area, abandon all notions of attack, adopt a 6-3-0 and feign injury every five minutes (and still fail to achieve the one, single object). Or one can go full all-action-no-plot.

In much the same way as the home game vs Chelsea last season – the poster-child for this sort of madcap wheeze – was encapsulated by that shot of all eight of our remaining outfield players strung across the halfway line, so the mental snapshot will live long in my head from last night, of poor old VDV and Davies manfully back-pedalling in the face of three Qarabag sorts, while a good 5-10 yards back Messrs Gray, Udogie, Sarr and Bissouma desperately tried to race back in time to avert disaster.

They needn’t have bothered, as it happened, as Qarabag appeared to have Ray Charles leading the line (and Johnny Wilkinson on penalties), they packing the sort of finishing quality that had you convinced they could have played all night without scoring. But that’s not really the point, what? The point is that even with ten men, the last thing any of our lot want to do is defend.

Not strictly true, I suppose, as the two centre-backs by and large stay at home and man the fort. And admittedly when the opposition has a little spell of calm possession, all in lilywhite will obediently trot back into formation and at least pretend to play the game.

But once we regain possession, heaven help the centre-backs and Vicario, because for everyone else, all bets are off. I doubt that VDV and Davies even hear the cheery adieus of Gray and Udogie as they go sprinting up into midfield. With Bissouma and Sarr the segue from defence-minded to attack-minded is perhaps a little more subtle, but within about ten seconds of our gaining possession they also find themselves almost irresistibly sucked up the pitch, leaving VDV and Davies to puff the cheeks and brace themselves for the inevitable two-on-two fandango.

Now personally I think it’s absolutely riotous fun, but then I’ve spent half my life penning a tome called ‘All Action, No Plot’, so one would expect as much. I suppose the grudging proviso I would make is that, given that every other team in the history of the game will be better in front of goal than Qarabag, there may be value in considering a minor modification – such as that one of the two full-backs hangs back at any given time, for example, or that the nominal sitting midfielder does actually, in real life, sit (as I actually thought Bentancur did quite well vs Brentford the other day). Some such low-level tweak might facilitate just a mite more security at the back to guard against the counter-attack, while still allowing all concerned to have an absolute blast when in possession.

Broadly, however, I love this stuff. It’s fitting that last night was a European jolly, as it allowed one to focus the mind’s eye on that AC Milan game under Conte, our most recent, prior European night, and an absolute low-point in the club’s history. Harking back to that felicidal theme, just as there are many ways to skin a cat, so there are many ways to go sixteen years without a trophy, and I’d rather we lose going full Ange and swinging wildly, than having Conte make our eyes bleed in a 0-0 against Milan that we supposedly had to win.

Of course, the smoking room at AANP Towers is full to the rafters these days of incandescent lilywhites petitioning for a return to paper-based transactions just so that they can rip up their season tickets in front of Our Glorious Leader. And one understands, because the man’s stubbornness does take the breath away somewhat. As indicated above, one need only make a few minor changes to maintain high levels of gung-ho whilst tightening considerably at the rear. In plain English, we could very feasibly have our cake and eat it.

We won’t, however. Ange won’t. Just about any other team in Europe would have scored three against us last night; it just means that next time we’ll need to score four. AANP is fully on board.

2. Dragusin

Still early days, of course, and the place is absolutely teeming with mitigating circumstances – he’s barely played; when he does play it’s once a month, hardly allowing him to learn the lyrics; it’s a different formation to the one he played at Genoa; it’s the madness of Angeball, for heaven’s sake; and so on.

This is not to exonerate Dragusin for last night’s faux pas, a clanger that I estimated was three parts complacency and two parts lack of concentration (and served also to ruin poor old Bergvall’s evening).

Rather, the point I make is that, more broadly, it seems too early to make a judgement. Early signs are that he’s going the way of a Ramon Vega, Federico Fazio or, to give it a suitably Romanian twist, Vlad Chiriches – viz. that he’s one of those bobbies who looks thoroughly at ease in national colours, and then appears not to know what shape the ball is when he trots up the tunnel at N17. But let’s give him time to make a few more clangers before we lock that one in.

If ever there were a time to throw in a seventh minute red card it was probably at home to Qarabag. More concerning to the inscrutable AANP eye was that this was the lad we spent months researching and courting. I mean, really? They have legions of scouts, and all sorts of files of data, capturing every conceivable metric – and the chap they pick for an Angeball central defence has a top speed of ‘Moderate Jog’?

‘Quizzical’ doesn’t really do justice to the look on my face as I try to wrap the head around that one. I’d have thought that before anything else, the absolute priority in a central defender who will be spending most of his time preparing to sprint back from halfway would be a turn of pace.

Anyway, there we go, and here he is, so we’d better muck in and hope that VDV’s hamstrings hold up for the next 50 or so games until May, because goodness knows the chaps alongside him won’t be much use once we lose possession.

3. Vicario

If you popped your head in around these parts after the Brentford game you’ll know that I delivered to the masses a pretty coruscating appraisal of Vicario’s misadventures, he having posted one of those wild performances from which one cannot tear away one’s gaze, in a sort of morbid fascination.

Well, he made amends last night. Whether someone had a quiet parola in his ear, or he simply tired of the wild hyperactivity and fancied a calmer night, I could not say, but this was altogether more conventional stuff, and quite impressive too.

As mentioned, the Qarabag compass seemed to point in every direction but the goal, but when they did finally hit the target Vicario did all that was required. In the second half in particular he made one or two highly impressive saves, padded out somewhat by a couple of more straightforward ones that he embellished with unnecessary leaps and roles and all sorts – but we can accept that. First and foremost, Vicario is a shot-stopper, and he stopped shots last night like a champion.

I was also rather taken by a moment in the first half – still at one-nil – when he came off his line to deal with a low cross in unconventional manner, sliding forward full-length across the turf to punch clear the ball as it was delivered. Looked a bit odd, no doubt, but a year of Vicario has taught me that here is a man who does not mind looking a bit peculiar to the average passer-by; and more to the point, it did the job. Had he not slid forward thusly, and instead stayed on his line, there may well have been an opportunity for the approaching Qarabag striker to miss another open goal.

And right on half-time, again with the score at one-nil and therefore the game far from won, he came charging approximately forty yards out of his goal, which cost me a few heartbeats I’ll never get back, but it was ultimately to good effect.

It came about when Ben Davies, in a rather charming act of solidarity with Dragusin, dithered on the ball when last man, was robbed and immediately exposed for having no burst of pace worthy of the name. The immediate fear that Davies was going to take that Dragusin Tribute Act a little too far and haul his man down was swiftly superseded by the sight of Vicario racing in the other direction, bringing with it a brand new fear, that he was going to trump Dragusin by clattering into the man from the front. Either way, in that split second, the AANP mind computed that we would be playing another nine-man defensive line on halfway, and wondered who our substitute goalkeeper was.

As it turned out, I need not have fretted. Vicario had his calculations spot on, reaching the ball first and then extending every conceivable limb to ensure that no rebound would get past him either. It spared Davies’ blushes, kept us in the lead and avoided a second red card – and while the 3-0 scoreline was evidence of a comfortable enough finale, had Vicario not got that challenge right then things really would have pickled themselves.

4. Solanke

The attacking mob can probably pat themselves on the back for last night’s efforts. Son looked a pretty constant threat on the gallop, and Johnson took his goal well (albeit he ought to have had a second), the young egg’s confidence evidently now on a pleasingly upward trajectory.

I thought it a slight shame that Kulusevski was stuck out on the right again, rather than the centre, but if nothing else his very presence appeared to terrify the Qarabag lot; and Sarr’s contribution to the high press helped bring about our opening goal. Young Gray was a curious mix of fine touches and technique, that give evidence of a pretty special footballer lurking, married to some dreadful passing and control to give away possession in important areas. And for some reason, every five minutes one or other of the Qarabag lot would stroll up to him and give him a hefty kick around the ankles.

But one of the most pleasing elements of the evening was the ongoing acclimatisation of Solanke to the lilywhite uniform. The headline, I suppose, was that he scored, which obviously helps jimmy things along, and I do rather think that the poacher’s goal, converting a rebound from close range, is something of a dying art. Not one we see so much of any more, don’t you think? Good for him, anyway, and a drink on the house for his alertness in beginning to chase for a potential rebound even before the ‘keeper had saved Son’s initial shot.

As much as his goal, however, I was rather taken by his all-round game. If there were beavering to be done in deeper positions, Solanke was a surprisingly willing volunteer. He held up the ball reasonably well, and picked the odd pass from deep for onrushing chums, into which category one might file his contribution to our opener. Solanke is evidently happy to play his part in a high press, and once the ball had been won he showed a pleasing spot of the old upper-body strength to shove aside his man, before rolling a pass into Johnson’s path just so.

While it was hardly world-beating stuff, it nevertheless seemed exactly the sort of performance he needed to settle into the role as our focal point, offering a threat in front of goal as well as contributing to the general to-ing and fro-ing further back.

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Spurs match reports

Dinamo Zagreb 3-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Attitude

The attitude of the players seems to be the major gripe amongst the masses today, and that particular narrative certainly gets my vote, because from the AANP vantage point last night the attitude of the collective from first whistle to approximately the 115th minute stunk the place out.

And while the countless individuals thrust into the limelight yesterday should all be publicly flogged for their pitiful efforts, I do wonder what the hell Jose is doing to earn his weekly envelope. If the players’ attitudes are rummy, or their confidence low, then the manager is presumably tasked with inspiring the requisite changes in mindset, and sharpish. And if the manager is incapable of drumming into their thick skulls the need to buck up and get the pistons firing, then one might say he is incapable, full stop.

It would not quite be accurate to say our lot picked up where they left off on Sunday, because strictly speaking, on Sunday we perked up considerably once the odds had lengthened to enormous levels (anyone else notice a theme emerging here?) via throwing away a lead, going behind and going down to ten men. At that point the place was choc-full of fire in the belly.

No, more accurately, our heroes picked up pretty much where they started on Sunday, or perhaps a regressed a step or two from that point. The approach last night from the opening toot seemed to be to hope that the game would stagnate into nihilism, actively trying to ensure that nothing happened each minute so that we could hurry along to the final whistle and qualification, preferably without the need to break sweat.

Now strictly speaking, in logical terms, there was much to applaud about this approach. If nothing had happened, we would indeed have qualified. Very clever stuff. If the entire match could have been spent by Winks and Sissoko passing sideways to each other and occasionally backwards to Sanchez, as seemed to be the dedicated aim, then we would indeed have coasted through. In fact, I got the impression that our lot were hoping that the ref would decree that there was no need to play a game at all, and that he might just instruct everyone to sit quietly on the spot for 90 minutes, after which results would be recorded with minimal fuss.

However, while fool-proof in theory, if anyone wanted practical evidence of flaws in the tactical approach of “Let’s hope nothing happens for the entire 90 minutes”, then last night their cup overflowed with the stuff.

The galling thing was that one goal would have neatly ended the contest, and one goal against these willing but limited opponents was eminently achievable. Had our heroes gone up the necessary gears they would almost certainly have fashioned enough chances to kill the thing.

Instead, as per the headline, the attitude stunk the place out. Our mob presented themselves as fully converted to the doctrine that they needed only be present and the game would see itself through to full-time in their favour. No effort was exerted in search of a goal because no need was seen for a goal, and the sound of a million Spurs fans banging their heads against the nearest brick wall back home did nothing to amend this.

2. Jose’s Future

It has been widely suggested that Daniel Levy has sacked numerous coaches for less heinous crimes than the rap sheet currently pinned to Jose. Whether or not this is true, one would imagine that the Paymaster General is now casting his mind back a little nervously to Jose’s assurances on contract-signing day. Where Poch’s appeals for funds were often ignored, Jose was invited to dive into a cartoon bathtub full of money at the first opportunity.

Having been duly backed, we find ourselves outsiders for the top four and peddling some pretty dreadful fare on the pitch; and really at least one of these – results or performances – needs to be in place to justify this whole wretched experience.

In the interests of fairness it should not be overlooked that we have at least started beating the teams at the lower end of the table, as the recent run of victories evidences. Nevertheless, the nagging suspicion remains that, armed with Kane, Bale, Son, Lucas, Dele, Lamela, Ndombele and Reguilon at their disposal, most managers ever to have walked the earth could probably have conjured up a win at home to Burnley.

It is being suggested that a Cup Final win against City would be enough to keep Jose in post, and Levy presumably would concur. After all, the whole point of the Jose exercise seemed to be to bring in some shiny pots. I’m not sure that the t’s and c’s included doing so at the expense of our footballing souls, but if it’s pots that Levy is after, then at least one pot Jose now has an opportunity to snaffle.

The AANP tuppence worth is that this would not be sufficient. Should Jose win the Carabao then let that be a triumphant, if ill-deserved, coda to a pretty ghastly tenure, and let’s have him shoved out the door while bleating about his knack for winning titles wherever he goes.

As suggested above, Jose does not appear capable of coaxing, cajoling, hypnotising or blackmailing the players into playing with the requisite attacking feist. Blessed with arguably three of the most talented attacking footballers of their generation, not to a mention a supporting cast that would be the envy of most teams across Europe, he has fashioned a team that seems convinced the road to glory is paved with a counter-attack every half hour.

The style is only bearable if we are top of – or perhaps challenging for – the league. In this context, winning a trophy (via a bye, a penalty shoot-out and wins against two lower-league opponents) hardly cures all ills.

I spent much of last night trying to avert the bleeding of my eyes by working out whether we are a decent team that is occasionally dreadful, or a dreadful team that is occasionally decent. Neither of these seem good enough for a manager having wads of cash thrust into every available pocket, yet who, eighteen months in, is yet to present a plan for future improvement.

All that said, it is difficult to imagine Levy giving his man the elbow unless we spin down into the bottom half. For unfathomable reasons Levy seems pretty obsessed with Jose, having near-enough stalked the man until he agreed to hop on board. It seems unlikely that he will turn on his back on him now, with the Top Four and a Cup Final win both still within the realms of possibility.

3. Son and Kane’s Futures

But to hell with Jose, what about Sonny and Kane?

I’m no student of body-language, but Kane’s demeanour as he exited the crime-scene last night did not strike me as that of a man bursting with the joys of life and all it has to offer. My spies tell me that the fellow turns 28 this summer, and one would therefore not blame him for using his quieter moments to pause and wonder where the heck his first winners’ medal might come from, and whether any more might follow.

Things would be different if, as were the case in the prime Poch years, the club were elbowing its way into conversations about the top prizes, and appeared to be in with a shout. Kane presumably is not hanging his hat on this particular season being one of triumph, but, one suspects, he would at the very least want to see that the vehicle as a whole is heading off in the direction of success.

Alas, under Jose there is precious little indication of any such thing. The current lot are pretty accurately-seated, being somewhere between sixth and tenth, and with every step forward having pretty promptly been followed by one in the opposite direction.

Kane undoubtedly has affection for the club, and it’s a safe bet that he is well aware of being within a season or two of Jimmy Greaves’ record, but one would hardly be surprised if he announced that he would rather not spend his prime years working up a sweat on Thursday nights in Zagreb. This is not to denigrate Zagreb: I dated a Croat for a while in my youth, and can attest to the fact that the city has its fair share of delights; but regular Champions League involvement is not amongst them. Kane will rightly feel that he needs to be sharing a stage with Lewandowski, Mbappe and Haaland, and the clock is ticking on his career.

While Sonny may be inclined to wait a little longer, I imagine he will have less of an affinity to the club than Kane, and it’s a pretty safe bet that he will be almightily cheesed off if Kane gathers his possessions and pootles out the door.

Nights like last night are happening a little too often; much more of such rot and the whole dashed thing will unravel.

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Spurs match reports

Wolfsberger 1-4 Tottenham: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Bale

The Gareth Bale Saga, what? With its assorted triumphs and disasters it’s already been a fairly exhausting ride, which seems to have much about it of the seven stages of grief, with each passing game swinging us wildly between hope and despair. For those struggling to keep up, yesterday’s input ranked amongst the more positive variety, and accordingly wild and fanciful expectations have shot through the roof and off into the horizon.

It’s probably best to get the caveats out of the way early. Wolfsberg, or Wolfsberger, or Pellets, or whatever the hell they were called were pretty game going forward, but seemed only to tick the boxes marked ‘Defence’ because they absolutely had to under UEFA regulations, and consequently offered little in the way of resistance once our heroes began motoring.

This was best summed up by the comedy villain sent sliding into a different postcode by Bale immediately preceding his goal. The chap had much about him of ‘Henchman Number 3’ in one of the old Bond films, his purpose seeming solely to appear on screen in order to wave some ineffectual limbs before being obligingly hurled aside by our hero.

There was much to admire about the artistic direction of that particular scene. That combination of Bale’s speed on the run, balance on the turn and then vicious whip on the shot lent itself to some pretty dreamy aesthetics, the sort of thing that could not have looked better if it had been the product of hours of choreography.

But as well as the splendid entertainment of the goal itself, the fact that this was a glimpse of Peak Bale, for the first time since his return, was what really got the masses chattering.

As has been pretty well documented, the chap has underwhelmed in recent months. No need to dwell on the unfortunate particulars, but suffice to say his most significant contributions have been a couple of headers delivered with feet planted pretty solidly on terra firma, as if to indicate his reluctance to exert himself any more than is absolutely necessary.

If one squinted, and added a pretty generous narrative, one could just about discern the occasional glimpse of a man of talent, but in truth these moments were no more spectacular than any of those provided occasionally by the least celebrated squad members. Even Moussa Sissoko or Steven Bergwijn occasionally sidesteps an opponent; to laud Bale for doing likewise once every few games was straw-clutching at its finest.

So to see the chap raise himself to the heights that are the preserve of only a fairly elite group of players certainly got the heart fluttering. Sissoko or Bergwijn do not and cannot and never will score a goal like Bale’s last night. And I don’t mind admitting that I had resigned myself to never seeing such output again from the man himself.

But if, for whatever reason – be it fitness, or confidence, or simply a whim-based shrug of the shoulders in which the young folk seem to delight – Bale has rediscovered something of that alchemist’s touch of yore, suddenly we might have a potent third appendage to the Kane-Sonny axis.

2. Dele

Sunny optimism clearly comes in twos, because just as we all began happily speculating about the longer-term meaning of Bale’s goal and assist (not sure he contributed an awful lot else, mind, but beggars and choosers and all that) we were treated to a few party tricks from young D. Alli Esq., which suggested that here was a man who considered his affairs to be in order.

Dele, as is well known, loves a nutmeg, and I suppose we should guard against getting too carried away on the basis of one such specimen, delicious in its execution though it was.

But for the purposes of a duly diligent reality check it is probably worth nothing that there was a decent stack of other impressive output from the man.

In possession, a lot of the old swagger had returned. This can actually tend to be a source of considerable frustration, as he often seems to derive ideas above his station and refuse to part with the ball as a result, holding onto it far too long and sapping momentum from our attacks. Yesterday, however, the need for urgency seemed impressed upon him, and he generally combined his trademark love of the elaborate with a good appreciation of the need to chivvy things along.

Moreover, off the ball he seemed perfectly happy to make a generous contribution to the collective act of The High Press. Again, worth noting that these were obliging opponents, but it’s the only fare Dele gets these days, so he may as well make the most of it.

With Ndombele now seemingly entrusted to the deeper-lying role, and Lo Celso still poorly, opportunity potentially knocks for Dele in the Number 10 spot, and a couple more eye-catching flourishes in the Europa would do him no harm.

3. Vincius: Offering Value of Sorts

The curious egg that is Carlos Vinicius was given his traditional airing yesterday, and duly continued to leave us all a little undecided as to whether it was best to castigate or sympathise with him.

The answer, of course, lies in between the two extremes. Passing judgement with moderation is something of a forgotten art in these days of non-stop and ubiquitous news coverage, but there might be value in taking this approach with Vinicius and simply appreciating both what he offers and his limitations.

In the Credit column, his mere existence allows us such luxuries as the complete resting of Harry Kane. I distinctly remember tearing out great big clumps of hair in midweek Cup matches of years gone by, at the fact that we were forced to deploy Kane in pretty meaningless matches, simply because we had nobody else in the squad worthy of the description “Striker”. Kane, of course, never dissented – quite the opposite in fact, the eyes of the honest fellow tended to light up when he realised easy goals were to be had – but that’s not the point. Wheel him out for every game and he will eventually break; so having a Vinicius in the squad affords him and Sonny some respite and saved energies for tougher tests.

On top of which, while Vinicius does have his limitations as an all-round centre-forward, it was good to see him show something of the Lineker about him yesterday in poaching his goal. It’s something of a dying art, but one for which AANP reserves a special place in the affections.

That snaffle aside, Vinicius did not offer a great deal, which seems to point to a couple of causal factors. On the one hand he has plenty of room for improvement. He might have been more alert to pounce when Bale had a shot parried, and he might have used the ball more wisely when it did come his way.

But on t’other hand, this is not the sort of creature who will drop deep a la Kane, or spend his afternoons working the channels. Vinicius comes across as the type who would like a few testing balls to whirl around the penalty area, either along the ground or otherwise, and if his chums are not donating to the cause it leaves him pretty unemployed for sizeable chunks.

4. Lloris

I rather reluctantly offer a mention to Monsieur Lloris, primarily because justice demands as much.

In recent games he has dropped such howlers that one wondered if he were doing so deliberately, but more salutary habits were on display yesterday, with the one-handed first half save, from close range, a particular highlight.

So, having jostled to the front of the queue to pelt the chap with rotten fruit over the last couple of games, the AANP Code of Honour has seen to it that I now similarly commend him for his efforts yesterday.

Elsewhere, the combination of Dier’s poor pass and Sissoko’s poor control contributed to another pretty careless penalty, but in general this was a fair result, and given our recent struggles, against both capable and weaker opponents, it was pretty welcome stuff.