Tag: Guglielmo Vicario

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Man City 0-2 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Sarr

There seemed to be pretty broad consensus that young Sarr was yesterday’s standout chappie, and who am I to disagree with the masses? Top marks to the young nib, as for the second consecutive game he took the opening whistle as his cue to break into a gallop, and didn’t stop until the credits rolled.

If you were the sort of busy cove who, finding your weekend diary packed full of frivolities, found only the team to catch the 5-minutes highlights package on Match of the Day last night, the principal evidence for Sarr’s non-stop running routine would have been his contribution to the first goal in particular. For this, to remind, he went bounding across the pitch to the right flank, on around halfway, all for the purpose of leaping a few yards vertically and applying a spot of the old loaf to the ball as it cruised by, sending it into the path of Richarlison, who combined with Johnson to do the necessaries.

And if this had indeed been all you caught of Sarr’s input, one could readily assure you that the moment was not just a triumph in and of itself, but also a most appropriate representation of the young scally’s overall performance. “Neatly encapsulating”, would be one way of describing it. “Summed up his afternoon’s work,” would be another. Or perhaps “Captured his performance in a microcosm,” if you wanted to add a scientific element.

While he obviously didn’t spend the entire 90 minutes creating one goal after another through his relentless pattering about the place, he did seem to spend the entirety haring about to every corner, chasing causes that were both lost, found and all points in between. It seemed to me that if the ball were in play, there was a strong chance that a quick scanning of the eyes a few yards to the left or right would reveal young Sarr to be in hot pursuit.

Pleasingly, this was not a performance that could obviously be labelled as distinctly ‘Defensive’ or ‘Attacking’ either, for it seemed to include generous helpings from both Column A and Column B. Admittedly the days of our lot being stretched at the rear and in desperate need of reinforcements to come haring back and straining every sinew to prevent disaster (or, for ease of communication, ‘Angeball’) are a thing of the past, but this was City away, and there was therefore understandable need for the midfield johnnies to don a helmet and muck in with their defensive chums. In this defensive respect, Sarr was present and correct whenever needed.

And yet, similarly, when the situation demanded that attacking apparel be donned, Sarr required no second invitation – as noted above, with that opening goal.

Another positive offshoot of Sarr’s mind-boggling stamina in charging about the place was that it allowed Bentancur and Paulinha to get on with their principal duties – which seemed to be interceptions and tackles respectively – without being dragged all over the place. At the risk of sounding like a commercial for a household appliance, Sarr did the running so that they didn’t have to.

2. Paulinha

On the subject of Paulinha, I was thrilled to my very core to see a fellow willing to embrace the oft-neglected art of the good old-fashioned tackle.

These days, with tackles from behind outlawed, and fouls awarded for tackles that actually win the ball but then crunch a leg or two as an afterthought, one would be forgiven for thinking that the powers that be are hell-bent on creating a world in which tackles are removed from the game altogether, and those purveying them are smoked out and publicly humiliated as enemies of the state.

All too often last season, AANP would look on with dismay as opposing sorts cottoned on to the fact that they could waltz unopposed straight through the centre of our team, encountering not so much a wall of steel as a soft underbelly.

With Paulinha at the heart of things however, there is a bit more resistance about our lot. The general setup is decidedly more circumspect, in fact. Where last week Gray sat, and Sarr and Bergvall beavered willingly further north, yesterday Bentancur and Paulinha seemed fully alert to the fact that their primary duty was to patrol the fences and wag a finger of censure at anyone who tried to slip through.

One hesitates to suggest that this was the perfect defensive midfield performance from Paulinha. Plenty more that could be done, of course, in various respects. However, I’m not sure any amongst us could fail to have been stirred by the sight of a fellow adorned in lilywhite (or, as the case was yesterday, that rather dreamy, plain black number) throwing himself with gusto into one meaningful and full-blooded challenge after another.

Paulinha and Sarr were also conspicuous by their participation in the high press, of which AANP is also a fully signed-up fan. If City must dominate possession – as they surely will, more often than not – I rather like the logic of letting them do so in their own penalty area rather than ours, and doing a spot of pack-hunting while they’re at it, just to keep them on their toes.

As an added bonus, Paulinha even found time for a goal, which was jolly good form. It came from more of that high pressing, so it immediately earned an AANP thumbs up, and while one might argue that there was nothing terrifically sophisticated about the young bean’s finish, I still give him credit for hitting the target when he had approximately half the City team stationed between him and it.

3. Kudus

A brief congratulatory word too, for young Master Kudus, for reasons that it would be easy to overlook. Following his presentations against PSG and Burnely I burbled away with some satisfaction about the strength and skill he demonstrated whenever he strode forward.

While these facilities were once again on show intermittently yesterday, what really caught the AANP eye was Kudus’ very obvious eagerness to come bounding back and muck in whenever City advanced upon Porro in or around our own area. Who knew that a fellow as fond of the glamorous, attacking side to life as Kudus, would be quite so dedicated to the grubbier parts of the job?

And yet this was no perfunctory contribution on the part of Kudus. He did not simply amble back to the general vicinity and watch on with limited intent as Porro did the dirty work. Kudus veritably sprinted back to assist, on several occasions.

These are, of course, early days, and one waits to see how long this eagerness to please his new employers remains a defining characteristic, but by golly I gave an impressed whistle or two as I watched it unfold.

4. Vicario

Part of what made this quite such an impressive win, quite apart from the obvious elements of the opposition and venue, was the fact that this was not one of those bashes in which our lot hung on for dear life inside our own penalty area and survived a bit of an onslaught at the end. Far from it.

In fact, close the eyes and whizz through proceedings in your mind, and you’ll struggle to pick out more than three or four clear chances conceded. We almost gifted City a goal in the second half, when we gummed up one of those dreadful short goal-kick routines; and Haaland headed over from close range at the end of the first half; but aside from those I only remember two Vicario saves of note.

However, those two saves were of the highest order, and simply to gloss over them on the grounds that City created little else would be to do a disservice to our regular overseer of the rear.

For a start, both saves were made at 0-0 in the first half, at which point, had he failed to do his shot-stopping duties, the whole pattern of the game would have turned on its head. We may, of course, have concede one or both of these and still gone on to win in handsome fashion; but on the other hand, we may not have done so.

The first of those saves saw Vicario make the sagacious decision to depart his goal-line at a pretty nifty lick, and head out to the right corner of the 6-yard box, to do a spot of healthy smothering of an incoming shot from a narrow angle. It was the sort that, I suppose, one would have been mightily disappointed to have gummed up and allowed in, but nevertheless it needed saving and save it Vicario did.

The second was drizzled in a bit more glamour, that Marmoush character finding himself clean through and at a much more welcoming angle. Those who enjoy a flutter every now and then would presumably have taken one look and shoved their chips in on Marmoush, for the odds were heavily in his favour.

Vicario, however, sped from his line and then spread his frame like a champion – arms outstretched, legs splayed and frame upright. The collective effort of these body parts proved sufficient. Marmoush’s effort was repelled, quite possibly by the chest or neck of Vicario, and parity remained.

To stress, this was not one of those afternoons in which Vicario could be spotted hurling himself this way and that every five minutes to keep City at bay – but what he had to do he did most effectively, and if after a moment’s thought Our Glorious Leader saw fit to pat him on the back on the way down the tunnel, it would have been an act of congratulation with which I could only have concurred.

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Spurs match reports

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

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

1. The Match Itself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Goal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The Goal-Line Clearance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Tottenham Have Won A Trophy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tottenham Hotspur, Europa League winners – absolutely marvellous stuff!

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

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Bodo Glimt 0-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Curious Media Narrative Ahead of This One

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

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

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

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

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

3. Sum of the Parts and Whatnot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

West Ham 1-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A 90-Minute Shrug of Indifference

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

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

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

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

2. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Bissouma, and Various Other Appreciative Nods

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Forest: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Not a Bad Performance

I don’t doubt that there are some amongst us whose faces darken every time they hear the name of Our Glorious Leader, and who keep in their breast pocket a bullet, or dagger, or little vial of cyanide inscribed with the letters ‘A.P.”, while they await the right moment. To each their own, of course. It takes all sorts.

AANP continues to hope that the Postecoglou approach bears fruit, especially when watching those Europa performances unfold, and was therefore inclined to give the head a sympathetic tilt when drinking in last night’s action. I thought our lot played well enough to earn the win. Hardly humdinging, admittedly, but well enough, once we’d politely offered them those two early goals.

I don’t really approve of The Nuno Way myself. Good luck to Forest of course but Nuno’s dirge-like approach of removing all attacking thoughts from the mind, once his teams have nabbed an early goal or two, and defending their own area for over an hour, is not at all AANP’s brand of cognac.

But I suppose if you’re going to present the opposition with a couple of early goals to set the scene, you can’t then turn around and bleat that the reap-sow setup is making the eyes bleed. Concede two of the simplest goals imaginable, and you dashed well have to accept that the other lot might pull down the shutters, turn off the lights and refuse to engage in anything outside their own area.

However, this scene having been set, I thought our lot at least had a decent stab at things thereafter. The cross-heavy approach represented a bit of a departure from the previously-established brand, but once our lot had understood the assignment they made a decent stab of it.

Presumably there are those amongst us who will wrinkle the face and direct some bile towards the Big Cheese for pulling his usual trick of taking a good thing and removing six elevenths of it, Postecoglou ringing the changes from the Frankfurt win. His prerogative, of course. Personally, at this stage of the season, I’d be more inclined to leave the reserves on the sidelines to rot, consoling themselves if they must, with a reminder of the sizeable cheques they pocket each month, and leaving the first-choice mob to build up a head of steam in the League each week.

And while Spence at left-back seemed fine and dandy self, and the front three beavered away impressively enough, I was a little deflated to see the dismantling of the midfield trio that seemed to have stumbled upon some rhythm in recent Europa jollies.

Sarr, I suppose, was busy enough, but the absence of Bergvall was nevertheless felt; and Kulusevski looked every inch a chappie who’s been off the scene for a while. I guess we can all watch with interest to see where he’s got to by the time Bodo Glimdt roll around, but it will create an intriguing poser for Ange if he were to get up to speed by next Thursday, because the Bentancur-Maddison-Bergvall triumvirate has started to look the part.

2. Tel and Odobert

The brighter of the assorted sparks were out on the two wings, which I don’t mind admitting took me by surprise. Tel and Odobert as the wide-men of choice struck me beforehand as the sort of gambit that would work a treat in one of those football management computer games, but wear rather thin rather quickly in the real world.

Well, if I’d been wearing a hat I’d have removed it before lowering my head in shame, because the pair of them seemed rather to enjoy the assignment. Both displayed the burst of pace and jinking trickery that reaffirms the notion that Sonny ought soon to be put out to pasture, whilst also demonstrating trickery and fleetness of foot that simply does not come as part of the Brennan Johnson package.

What Johnson does do, mind you, is remember to pile in at the far post when a cross is delivered from the opposite flank, and there were one or two occasions when we’d have benefited from Tel and Odobert taking that particular hint and stationing themselves accordingly for a back-post tap-in.

That aside, however, these two were pleasingly bright sparks. After all, if one were studying the fine-print of one’s wingers, and noted that both had put in their fair share of successful dribbles and crosses, as well as displaying a few encouraging shoots of understanding with the nearest available full-back – well, one might indeed raise the eyebrows in pleasant surprise and make a mental note to try the pair again at the nearest available date, to see if they can replicate the good stuff.

On a side note, I’d have liked also to have seen young Mikey Moore given a quarter-hour in a fixture like this, given that Ange was clearly already in Lesser-Used Personnel mode; but I suppose two impressive performances from the wide attackers is a decent return on its own.

3. Vicario

All a bit futile to pen a letter of complaint against Vicario, because he’s undoubtedly welded to the spot between our sticks, but if he’s going to be on display each match the least he could do is get the basics right, what?

After making an almighty pig’s ear with ball at feet last week against Wolves, as well as throwing in a half-baked punch, last night he tossed in a couple more pretty basic errors. The first Forest goal undoubtedly caught a bit of a deflection, and no doubt this increased the difficulty level for the chap when it came to keeping the thing out. Make no mistake, however, this was not one of those almighty deflections that tosses the laws of physics into the bin and leaves the goalkeeper watching helplessly. This was no Mabbutt ’87.

As far as I could tell, the shot from the edge of the area caught a flap of Bentancur inner thigh, enough to encourage some extra bounce, but not really interfering with the direction. Vicario’s inner satnav was already directing him appropriately. No doubt he needed to effect some critical last-minute adjustments to the specifics – the arc and height – but frankly he was already in position and well-set to finish off the manoeuvre. One or two firm palms would probably have done the trick.

Instead, the limp-wristed flap that followed was as infuriating in its result as it was lamentable to the naked eye. Quite the faux pas, from a fellow whose principal role is to bat away precisely such incomings.

Admittedly for the second, Vicario was not alone in receiving some withering glares from the direction of AANP. Pedro Porro, in the first place, produced his usual routine of allowing the designated crosser as much space as he wanted to deliver the ball, the slightest notion of actually charging down the thing seemingly not even entering his mind.

The ball having been crossed, Micky Van de Ven of all people then gargled his lines, which frankly felt like a complete betrayal of trust, he being one of those on whom I have generally turned for a reassuring defensive rescue-act time and again. On this occasion, however, he judged particularly poorly, essentially opting for a policy of non-interference as that Wood chap readied himself for a header right in front of him, rather than taking the hint and muscling his way into the thick of things.

None of which would necessarily have come to any particular harm if Vicario had greeted the occasion with a dash more refinement. Having opted to come off his line to deal with the cross before Wood could get involved, Vicario’s end-product did not come close to resolving things. I suppose a photographer capturing the specific moment for posterity might have argued that he at least looked the part – clad appropriately, and arms clearly outstretched and so on – but the grim truth is that he might as well have been watching from the stands for all the value he added.

He was a goodish distance from the action at the moment that Wood connected with the ball. In such circumstances one expects the goalkeeper to flatten all in his path, wiping out friend and foe alike for the greater of good of beating the ball away to a neighbouring postcode. Instead, Vicario’s attempt was so poorly-timed and -directed that he didn’t make contact with any of the protagonists, but simply flew through the atmosphere, arriving far too late and in the wrong coordinates.

Thereafter, of course, he didn’t have much to do, as Nuno instructed his lot to kill football by never leaving their own penalty area; but by then the damage was done. Vicario certainly has far more good days than bad, but these were basic errors, and do little to reassure either his teammates or the watching masses.  

If you’re at a loose end on Saturday and fancy listening to the final day of the season in non-league football – with both the title and relegation on the line – AANP’s regular stint behind the mic takes in Enfield Town vs Worthing in the Vanarama National League South – feel free to listen in at 3pm on https://mjl99.mixlr.com/

Categories
Spurs match reports

Wolves 4-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. How Much Longer?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Our Defending

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Chelsea 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Another Dreadful Showing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Fulham 2-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Romero

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Ben Davies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Broader Problems

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Bournemouth: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Urgency (Or Lack Thereof)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Bergvall and One or Two Others

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Man City 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Vicario

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

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

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

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

3. Bergvall (In The First Half At Least)

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

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

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

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

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