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New Spurs Book Out Now – “All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season”

“One could hardly suggest that when Son crept into view the coast was clear. The coast was crowded, and in fact fast becoming something of a claustrophobe’s nightmare. Bodies were advancing upon the poor lad like vultures getting right down to it for their daily spot of carcass.”

All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season is based loosely on the weekly chronicles of the Tottenham Hotspur blog All Action, No Plot, during 2023-24. That season will live long in the memory, as the beginning of an extraordinary, exhilarating new era under Ange Postecoglou – and no writer captured the madness as wittily as the AANP blogger, Michael Lacquiere. His combination of eloquent prose and ludicrous humour made for matchday reflections as compelling as the games themselves.

From the heady success of Postecoglou’s opening months in charge, which saw Spurs’ relentless attacking style take them to the top of the Premier League and dreaming of glory, to the turning-point of the season in an incredible nine-man defeat in November, through to a finale in which European qualification was secured while fans cheered on a home defeat, no team in the country was as entertaining as Tottenham. Relive Ange’s wild first season at Spurs with this match-by-match account from the pen of one of English football’s finest comic writers.

Out now for just £7.99, order your paperbook copy now from Amazon, in time for Christmas (ebook from £6.99).

All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season – the perfect stocking-filler for any Spurs fan.

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Spurs match reports

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

1. Some Lovely Goals

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

1.1 Our First Goal

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

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

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

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

1.2 Our Second Goal

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

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

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

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

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

1.3 Our Third Goal

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

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

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

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

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

1.4 Our Fourth Goal

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

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

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

2. Sarr

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. What Romero Might Learn From Ben Davies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Palace 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. A Rotten Performance

I’m not inclined to believe too many of George Orwell’s footballing opinions, he having been a fan of the Woolwich, but he certainly stumbled upon one truth when he rambled on about all defeats being equal but some being more equal than others (or something close to that). For AANP will accept some losses with a pretty casual shrug of the shoulders – the 2-1 defeat at Newcastle for example, or the 1-1 at Leicester (which no doubt pedants will point out wasn’t a defeat, letting technicalities get in the way of a good argument).

And the reason for such equanimity in the face of defeat is that if it’s the sort of game in which our heroes could reasonably have expected to score four or five, but somehow only managed one, then AANP will not be too concerned, as more often than not those sort of performances will bring wins.

Yesterday’s, however, was a different kettle of fish altogether, and as a result the usual sunny AANP disposition has clouded over like the dickens. Had we hammered away at the Palace goal only to be sucker-punched against the run of play, there would have been merely a philosophical rumination or two over the evening bourbon. “Onwards”, would have been the gist of the dialogue. Not the end of the world. Not too many adjustments needed.

But this was not one of those occasions.

I thought that by and large, our lot stank the place out yesterday. There may have been a token show of resistance in the final 20, but anything other than a Palace would win would have been quite the misrepresentation of events. The energy of their attacking mob in pressing us in and around our own penalty area frankly put us to shame. The Palace players simply seemed infinitely more motivated.

By contrast, the approach of most in lilywhite smacked of a dubious concoction that, from my vantage point, appeared to be approximately one third complacency and two thirds absence of interest. This calculating of the proportions occurred as I watched our defensive cohort dozily gift the ball to Palace before reaching the halfway line for about the hundredth time in that dreadful first half, the mindset seeming to be that it was simply too much like hard work on a sunny Sunday afternoon to get the head down and buzz about the place with any semblance of diligence. Far easier, was the impression given, simply to waft a pass into the loose vicinity of a teammate, and let the two clubs’ respective league positions take care of the rest.

In order to make this point crystal clear, our heroes conceded a goal that exemplified in one neat take all that was wrong about their performance. Romero dwelt on the ball inside his own area for an age despite the looming presence of two Palace forwards, before declaring that this sort of fare was beneath him, and casually floating a pass across his own area and into the loose radius of VDV.

In mitigation, VDV did not give the air of one who was delighted to be in receipt of a pass bouncing across his body inside his own area, but even he then passed on the opportunity simply to clear the thing, instead allowing the ball to continue bouncing and then deciding that this was as good a moment as any to stop focusing on the game and instead start dwelling on some of life’s other, unrelated mysteries.

The Palace laddie in attendance was only too pleased to let VDV have his quiet time, and generously relieved him of the ball so he could really crack on without distraction. The next stage in the disaster was the input of the cross from the right, Messrs Romero and Porro admirably deciding that this was an appropriate cue for them to give some semblance of concern, but without checking on what the other was doing, or indeed on the whereabouts of the most prolific Palace striker on the pitch (Mateta). Instead, both rushed towards the ball and young Eze, who promptly took both of them out of the game with a flick towards the aforementioned Mateta, who himself then took advantage of the freedom of the six-yard box to score.

As mentioned, if the self-inflicted genesis of all this had been anomalous and out of keeping with general proceedings I’d have done a quick tour of the place with rallying cries of “Chin up, gents, what?” and encouraging ruffles of the hair. But instead I folded the arms and adopted the unamused expression of a bulldog that’s just chewed a wasp. AANP was deeply unamused.

The incompetence in playing out from the back continued religiously, laced with our chronic inability to win a 50-50 challenge, and by the second half Palace were shooting from all angles, and really ought to have added to their lead.

Oddly enough we nevertheless fashioned two or three presentable chances of our own in each half, but the rhythm of the piece was firmly established long before the credits rolled, and even had we slunk out of South London with a point the AANP mood would have been one best avoided.

At whom the finger of blame should point is therefore the next question, and while the players undoubtedly deserve a docking of extortionate wages and some brief but memorable physical admonishment to boot, Our Glorious Leader also needs a few stern words aimed in his direction.

I’m firmly in the Postecoglou camp, as there has been enough to suggest we should handsomely beat most teams, and do so entertainingly, but the mentality about the place emanates from the top, and if the players on the pitch are simply mooching their way through 90 minutes without urgency or care then a jabbing of an angry towards the manager is only right. Win another seven of our next eight and AANP will be content enough, but frequent displays of this impotence and the disapproving eyebrow will be well and truly arched.

2. Mikey Moore: The Sequel

I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced the talkies, but AANP finds them a most riveting form of entertainment, and if there happens to be an evening without football will quite often seek one out to pass the time. And one aspect of these motion pictures that I’ve noticed is that if one of them constitutes a thoroughly entertaining two-or-so hours, the boffins behind such fare will sure enough paste together another one for general consumption, but – and here’s the rub – more often than not, the sequel will not match the original for quality.

There are, of course, exceptions. Terminator 2 and Aliens, I would suggest, stand peerlessly in the AANP pantheon of greats, and both are sequels that arguably top the original. But for every Terminator 2 there’s a Die Hard 2 – or, come to think of it a Terminator 3, 4, 5 or 6 – viz. a sequel that comes nowhere near the thrilling quality of the first.

And it was armed with this knowledge that AANP peered cautiously over the teamsheet and drank in the inclusion of Mikey Moore as a starter. Because, for the benefit of those who have been living under an N17 rock the last four or five days, young Master M’s left-wing bow against AZ in midweek had been about as spiffing as this sort of thing gets, all youthful exuberance and slaloming runs, and a decent amount of end-product too for good measure.

It would have been pretty tempting therefore, to expect the same and more yesterday, from the off. Make oneself comfortable and feast the eyes upon another Mikey Moore highlights reel, would go the narrative.

Knowing what I know about sequels, however, I demonstrated what generations hence will respectfully term admirable restraint, and duly convinced myself that perhaps only nineteen of every twenty attempted dribbles by the lad would result in havoc in the Palace defence and wild applause from the travelling lilywhite continent.

It would be easy to castigate MM’s performance, it having failed to bear fruit and having ended with his unceremonious abstraction on 60 minutes, but despite one pointed concession of possession in the first half that almost brought Palace some joy down their right, I thought he was one of our best performers in the first half. The bar here is admittedly so low that passing earthworms would pause and consider the odds, but nevertheless, I maintain that he fared pretty well when opportunity allowed.

On a couple of occasions he set off infield and beat a two or three players before being hacked to earth; and on a couple of other occasions he played well weighted passes into space on the left for Udogie and Maddison to race onto. That was admittedly pretty much it in terms of his highlights reel, but with everyone else in lilywhite generally misfiring I thought that this constituted a decent enough contribution. Nowhere near the level of the original, but taken on its own it had some memorable moments. Predator 2, if you will.

As a curious aside, and in the interests of fairness, I also thought that Herr Werner made a decent stab of things once he emerged from exile. While not exactly rip-roaring he did cause his opposing full-back a few problems, and also swung in a couple of crosses that arguably deserved better than simply disappearing down the gullet of the ‘keeper. I mention this purely because I bang on about the chap every time he stuffs things up in front of goal. Only fair, what?

3. Richarlison

There were not too many other notable contributions, most individuals fitting neatly within the stale, all-encompassing headline of the dreary team performance. Pedro Porro showed his attacking chops, in the second half in particular, reminding me that deep within his Angeball-moulded, inverted model there lies a traditional, touchline-hugging full-back. Solanke continues to show more value around halfway than in the opposition area. Any good that Bissouma did with ball at his feet seemed to me to be negated by his inability to provide useful protection when we were out of possession (in marked contrast to that Wharton lad for Palace, who would be advised to make a living out of snuffing out opposition attacks at source).

But one depressing thought that sprung to mind was that Richarlison is simply not up to the level we require. Why this thought chose yesterday to worm its way into my consciousness is anyone’s guess – yesterday’s was hardly his worst showing in lilywhite, and the unfortunate young chestnut is still short of match fitness and whatnot. More pertinently, there were at least a dozen others who underwhelmed massively and have had far more chances to prove themselves good enough.

But watching him scurry enthusiastically before finally missing his kick, or overhitting his kick, or in some other way failing to execute effectively the kicking part of football, just made me realise that we’ve persevered with him for quite some time now, and he’s not really improved a jot since Day One.

At some point last season – I think the point at which he inadvertently trod on the ball on halfway and fell over – it was suggested to me that he might have the worst technique of any Brazilian footballer in history. Now I must confess to having lacked the willpower to conduct the research necessary to verify that claim; but the gist has stuck with me. His touch is pretty off, what?

I have in the past peddled the line that one Harry Kane has an oddly poor touch – by which I mean that if you subject him to inspection you’ll note that the ball regularly bounces off him as if it were being thrown against a wall – but this is more than compensated for by his extraordinary goalscoring, range of passing, ability to shield the ball, winning of free-kicks, ability with both feet, ability with head, penalty-taking and various other assets. Richarlison, however, seems to possess much of the wall, but precious few of those redeeming features.

It certainly made sense to throw on a second striker yesterday, one understood the logic inside and out. And Richarlison does have physical presence, and fits neatly within the prescribed system of pressing high and expending bundles of energy. But give him the ball, or ask him to go fetch, and things start to break down. And amidst everything else that went wrong yesterday, I became aware of the notion that I had had rather enough of the wretched fellow.

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Spurs news, rants

Spurs’ Pre-Season: Eight Tottenham Talking Points

What ho. With the new season rumbling into view we might as well pour ourselves a splash of something with a bit of oof to it, and bring ourselves up to speed on recent events, what?

1. Ange Postecoglou

Now here’s a man the cut of whose jib I can straight away give the approving nod. Ultimately, of course, it will all come down to the meat and veg of the Premier League, but nevertheless, Ange has all made all the right moves so far.

For a start there are his no-nonsense interviews, giving short shrift to baiters and sycophants alike, and generally cutting through the guff. His response to the Bayern shirt stunt in particular, and the Kane noise in general, has neatly summed up much of what there is to like about the fellow – not one to suffer fools, not one to skirt around a point and, one gets the impression, not the sort of chap one wants to antagonise any more than is absolutely necessary.

Nor does the new man give the impression that this set of players, fans, team and whole bally undertaking is beneath him, à la the last couple of incumbents. Whether or not one whole-heartedly buys into every quirk and idiosyncrasy, the broad approach – of wanting to roll up the sleeves and get the best out of our mob – is easy enough to get on board with.

I was also rather taken by Postecoglou’s comments about our heroes’ collective approach to those last few minutes of the first half against Shaktar. The gist of his thoughts on the matter were that, as a collective, they needed a slap about the face with a wet fish (I paraphrase) for indulging in a spot of motions-going-through and clock-playing-down as the half-time whistle approached.

Ange-ball, it appears, does not tolerate taking one’s foot off the pedal and batting for the close of play, as it were. His anthem is something more along the lines of ‘If we have the ball let’s dashed well attack, irrespective of the clock’, and this attitude meets with a pretty rousing chorus of approval at AANP Towers.

2. The New Style of Play

And then there’s the breath of fresh air that is our new style of play. Having spent the last three years positively yowling for something at least vaguely progressive, and instead being treated to a diet of deep-lying defences and vain attempts to soak up pressure – despite the attacking riches available – to say that Ange-ball is a pretty welcome sight understates the thing just a bit.

My spies who like to sit there and count these sorts of things reckon that in the three games so far we’ve totalled over 100 shots on goal. Now caveats abound of course. Our opponents have been so alarmingly weak that I suspect we’d have triumphed even if playing with boots tied together and blindfolds about the head. But nevertheless, it’s hard to imagine racking up a century of shots against these three in the Jose or Conte eras.

And the football itself has quite simply been a lot more fun to watch. It’s all a bit zippier for a start, with one- and two-touch gospels evidently having been drilled into hearts and minds throughout the place.

There seems to have been a collective agreement amongst our lot that these days the ball is going to be shoved from Defence to Midfield to Attack without too many wistful glances backward.

The days of having two poor saps in midfield outnumbered and flogged until they can barely stand also appear to have been given the Orwellian heave-ho. It’s a three-man job these days – or at least it will be on the shiny TV graphics pre-match, but once the starter’s gun fires our lot seem to be buzz about all over the place, with full-backs inverting and midfielders dropping and goodness what else. But AANP is not one to get too bogged down in the minutiae of life. Give me a good bourbon and some one-touch triangles, and I’m a pretty content sort of conker. And the early indications are that Ange-ball’s attacking 4-3-3 will hit the spot.

Until we have to defend, of course.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose is the rather wearied AANP take on our the current state of our back-four. Which is to say it’s pretty much the same old rot in the southernmost quarter, what? Better minds than mine can no doubt grab a scalpel and get into the small-print of precisely how and why we’re conceding chances and goals to even the most amateurish teams out there, but the general sense is that it remains awfully straightforward to waltz through our lot and have a pop.

Reinforcements are apparently incoming (and for what it’s worth, I’d give serious consideration to sacrificing one of my lesser-used limbs in order to secure the services of that Laporte bean), but when Ben Davies is being preferred at centre-back to Messrs Sanchez, Tanganga, Rodon and whomever else, one does conjure up the image of a rather stern-looking Ange giving the barrel a good scrape.

Still, such things take time to perfect, I suppose, and the grand fromage does at least appear acutely aware that the current back-four, and in particular the coterie of centre-backs, is not really fit for purpose.

3. Maddison

So to our new arrivals, and the early indications are that James Maddison is pretty much everything we hoped and dreamed.

Not without good reason Daniel Levy takes the occasional slosh around the ear from the faithful, but credit where due, he didn’t hang around in crossing t’s and dotting i’s to get young J. M. bunged into an uber heading up the High Road. The apparent price was pretty reasonable, and again, a silent prayer of thanks was offered for Levy not pulling his usual stunt of haggling over the last fiver and whatnot.

And the chap himself seems to have taken to life in our midfield without too much fuss, and actually with a fair amount of pleasure. It’s no exaggeration to say it’s been years since we had a spot of creativity in central midfield, and with a couple of chums handily placed around him to keep an eye on things, Maddison has appeared to have a whale of a time so far. Long may that continue.

4. Manor Solomon

The ins and outs of his transfer may be a tad confusing to simple folk such as AANP, but on the pitch young Solomon seems to have a few good habits about him.

Some quick-footed trickery is always a good bet to melt the hearts of the watching public, but counts for naught if it ends with a fellow skipping off into a cul-de-sac and ending up in a heap on the floor. Mercifully however, this Solomon bean appears to have the good sense to attach a spot of end-product to his hop-skip-and-jumping, and is happy to hang up a cross or deliver a pull-back as appropriate.

One rather disappointing offshoot of the Solomon Gambit appears to be the elbowing out of shot of young Bryan Gil, a creature of whom I’d grown rather fond in his occasional cameos last season. Injured, at the moment, apparently, but once fit I imagine he’d be quite a long way down the waiting list.

I also personally hope that Ivan Perisic sticks around, particularly if he is to be relieved of defensive duties and deployed solely in the wide attacking role for which Nature appears to have fitted him. Not necessarily a popular opinion, that one, so I won’t labour it, but if the ability to beat a man and whip in a cross with either foot is of value, then he strikes me as an egg it is worth having about the place.

5. Vicario

The brow furrows a bit here, I must confess. A bit early to make any sort of call on the new chappie tasked with ensuring the back-door is locked. All goals he’s conceded so far seem to have come from close range and not really given him too much chance.

That said, of the snippets of action over which I’ve cast my eye, I’ve not really had the old skirt blown up by his attitude towards dealing with crosses, he not yet having given the impression of being of the school of wiping out all in his path and thwacking the ball away with a bit of meat.

He does at least appear to be a bit more comfortable with ball at feet than poor old Monsieur Lloris – a low bar admittedly – and these days all the young folk are starting attacks from goal-kicks, so we might as well not fight it. But one over whom to keep a watchful eye, for now.

6. Van de Ven

AANP has spent his summer in man edifying ways – improving the mind, penning a book or two, giving the Aussies some clobber from the sidelines – but alas, I must confess that that time has not really been spent poring over hours of footage of young Master Van de Ven.

As such, he’s a bit of an unknown quantity in these parts; but consider at least what is known about the fellow. For a start, he’s supposed to one of the quicker of the featherless bipeds plying their trade in these parts – and if we’re going to be playing a high line, that will likely be a handy trait.

He’s also left-footed, which might not sound like much I suppose, but in his line of work, and given the current state of our centre-back menagerie, actually fits rather swimmingly into the broader piece.

None of this conjecture counts for much of course, until Sunday lunchtime, but with Eric Dier still knocking about the place as first reserve I fancy we have a further spot of shopping to do. In theory at least, a Romero-VDV defensive combo sounds like it ought to hit the spot. Fingers crossed for the chap.

7. Fare Thee Well, Young Master Winks

A quick valedictory note on poor old Harry Winks too, who’s biffed off down a division, which seems a tad unfortunate, to Leicester.

The young sport was never short of willing or devotion to the club, and as such will always be welcome for a bourbon at AANP Towers, but he was definitely one of those – and we’ve had a few – who appeared to have a lot of the ‘Cultured Midfielder’ about him but somehow seemed unable to kick on.

A decent enough first touch, and a willingness to collect the ball from his defensive chums seemed to bode well, but was too often topped off with an immediate shovel straight back to the defence, rather than an instinct for something a bit more ambitious.

Still, the chap was arguably our best player in the Champions League Final, which sounds like being an unlikely quiz question in years to come. So he’s no doubt deserving of kind words, but sic transit gloria mundi and all that. Better for everyone this way.

8. Kane

Who knows, eh?

Opinions differ, naturally, and the AANP take is that I’d rather have Kane for a season than £100 million. Not least because our record of exchanging great big swathes of cash for footballers has been pretty patchy (the mind cannot help but flit back to the Bale money, and Soldado, Chiriches, Paulinho et al); but also because even if we did spend wisely, we would never bring in someone of his quality. There’s a train of thought that if he gets us into the Champions League (which apparently extends to a Top Five this season) then he immediately nets us £50m or whatever, but even brushing aside that argument, I’m still firmly rooted in the ‘Keep The Blighter’ camp.

I’m quite content with the thought of 25 or so of his goals, a dozen or so assists and a cheery wave goodbye next summer. In fact, given that we didn’t spend anything to acquire him there’s even a spot of the from-dust-he-came-to-dust-he-shall-return about losing him on a free. Obviously not ideal, but if that were to transpire I’d lap it up happily enough. And who knows, if Ange-ball really takes off he might hang around and start scouting out the retirement homes of N17.

Bayern have been doing their pantomime villain stuff pretty well, going about their business in dastardly and, frankly, wildly ill-advised fashion. Most peculiar, actually. For a start their Brains Trust seems to have spent several weeks missing the quite straightforward point that they won’t get their man unless they pay the required fee. Seems a pretty obvious one, that.

On top of which, at least one of their number ought really to have done a bit of basic homework on Daniel Levy and his negotiating style, but again, they’ve sailed through that one with seemingly blissful ignorance, presumably adopting an approach that works domestically, of simply demanding and expecting then to receive. To give Levy another little doff of the cap, that he allegedly responded to their arbitrary deadline last week by first ignoring it and then jetting off on holiday is, if true (and it’s debatable) pretty ripping stuff.

As for Kane himself, he’s obviously convinced it’s the move of choice, but it seems a rummy old one to me. I suppose if the chap absolutely desperately wants a medal, then there are fewer surer bets than a Bundesliga at Bayern; but when the curtain comes down on him I doubt anyone will remember him for that rather than his goalscoring records with club and country (in the same way as Alan Shearer is generally thought of as a record goalscorer rather than Premier League winner with Blackburn). But to each their own. These young people will follow their own peculiar whims.

And that pretty much brings us up to speed. Admittedly it’s all a state of flux, and it seems there will be quite a few more bodies shoved out of one door while one or two are dragged in another, but one gets the gist – and by the time our paths next cross, the new season will be upon us!

Categories
Spurs news, rants

Postecoglou at Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Attacking Football

Evidently not one for the “If it were done when tis done then ‘twere well we get a wriggle on” school of thought, Grandmaster Levy has given it a good couple of months before crossing t’s and dotting i’s on the arrival of our latest permanent Glorious Leader. But he’s here now – or will be as of 1 July apparently – so that’s plenty of time to give him the quick once-over.

The beady AANP eye has immediately been drawn to all this talk of Postecoglou playing attacking football. Of course, various adoring proteges have been queueing up as far as they eye can see to fete the fellow like he’s Cruyff reincarnated, so one takes with a decent-sized pinch of salt the drooling opinions of the man that have been circulating in recent days. Something of a hero to Australians and approximately 50% of Glaswegians, no doubt. In fact it’s been near-impossible to locate anyone with a bad word to say against him, which is pretty rummy going if you ask me.

But nevertheless, even in more objective circles, a consensus seems to rumble along that Postecoglou is not one to die wondering. “Live by the sword,” appears to be the anthem – and an anthem repeated irrespective of the opponents, which ought to make for some fun viewing in the coming months. In fact, so wedded is the fellow to his attacking principles, apparently, that he’ll instruct his troops to carry on swinging, even if they have already lost a few key limbs and are looking an incoming coup de grace squarely in the eye.

By all accounts, this chap is also rather a dab-hand when it comes to dishing out a motivational speech for the troops. I have to admit, I’m not quite as sold on this as various others. Nothing wrong with it, I suppose. Will make for good stuff on the next behind-the-scenes documentary, no doubt.

But if our lot can’t already summon the spirit to give every last ounce of sweat and blood for the lilywhite cause, without needing a spot of Henry V or prime Al Pacino to rouse them into it at half-time or whenever, then it strikes me that they’re in the wrong job. Some modern-day Churchill is fine, of course, then; but AANP is rather more concerned about this cove’s tactical acumen.

In terms of which, it sounds like the back-three, wing-backs and a two-man central midfield can all be shoved into a darkened room to gather dust for some time, because Postecoglou is a back-four sort of fellow. 4-3-3 to be more specific, and with full-backs tucking into midfield and midfielders spilling over into attack, as is so achingly fashionable these days.

All of which sounds pretty dreamy stuff over in this corner of the interweb, particularly after the joyless diet that has been shoved down the gullet by each of the last three chappies at the helm. No doubt I won’t waste any time in chiding the fellow for the kamikaze approach when circumstances call for a degree of circumspection, but it will certainly make a pleasant change from the dreary way of things under Jose, Nuno and Conte, what?

2. Newbie in England

The other concern is that he arrives in N17 pretty light on experience of managing in what might one might euphemistically term the more monied leagues. Compare him to Poch, for example, as pretty much the prototype for this sort of thing. A little green behind the ears M.P. may have been, but he still had 3 years in La Liga as well as 1 in the Premier League before arriving on our doorstep and snagging every last one of our hearts.

De Zerbi had seen a few managerial sights in Italy before his Brighton jolly; Slot knows his way around the Netherlands; and while I consider Xabi Alonso something of a bullet dodged, even he is currently picking up the monthly envelope in the relatively exalted surroundings of the Bundesliga.

You get the gist. Shiny pots in Australia, Japan and Celtic are a dashed sight more than I have ever collected on my travels, so if Postecoglou about-turned, jabbed a finger towards my face and demanded to know who the hell I was to cast aspersions on him, I wouldn’t have much in the way of damning riposte; but nevertheless. Ideally, one would have wanted a chappie whose backstory included a bit more slugging it out with Europe’s finest. (The fact that his European record at Celtic is pretty middling fare also makes one bite the lip a bit.)

And while absolutely wiping the floor with all-comers in Scotland is solid stuff – and he did so from a starting-point of some disadvantage, as I understand – I cast the mind back to Steven Gerrard, arriving at Villa fresh from similar success in that part of the world, and steadily making a pig’s ear of things.

There are, however, some decent counter-arguments simmering away. For a start, just about every pundit blessed with a pulse has been tripping over themselves to hammer home the point that there are a few similarities between the mess A.P. is inheriting here at the world-famous home of the Spurs, and the mess he inherited a few years back at Celtic Park. As I understand it, he took on that particular gig at a time when Celtic had finished 25 points behind Rangers, were haemorrhaging star players and had to contend with plagues of locusts and meteors falling from the sky upon them, amongst various other irksome challenges.

The moral of the story seeming to be that if you want a man to un-muddle a situation that has rather spiralled out of control at your once-proud football club, Postecoglou has spat on his hands and got down to brass tacks in precisely these circumstances before.

On top of which, the last fellow who made himself comfy behind the desk place, without too much big-league glamour on his CV, was one Martin Jol (blessed be his name). An illustrious history, it would therefore seem, is hardly a requisite for success at our lot. And when you consider that both Jose and Conte stalked about the place as if the whole dashed thing were beneath them, Postecoglou arriving for his own personal career highlight sounds a pretty solid bet.

(He also happens not to be Brendan Rodgers, which in AANP’s book goes down as a fairly hefty positive, but that’s possibly one for another day.)

3. Relationship With Levy and Chums

The principal draw of this Postecoglou creature is, as mentioned, his attacking football (and the more I think of it, the more I am drawn to him as some sort of modern-day Ossie); but an intriguing sub-plot swirls around his relationship with Daniel Levy. Put delicately, Postecoglou doesn’t really come across as some pliant puppy-dog, who likes to solve life’s troubles by rolling over and having his tummy tickled.

For a start, he looks rather a barrel of a man, which ought not to count for anything but does make one gulp at the prospect of exchanging views; and he also has rather an angry look about his map at all times – again, not a pointer worth reading into, but again, lending a bit of oomph to the overall impression. Far more pertinently, his reputation is apparently as one who goes in for the ‘Heated Argument’ approach to life’s disagreements, rather than ‘Conciliatory Peacemaker’, so quite how he and Levy settle differences of opinion will be anyone’s guess.

I’m also impatiently scanning the wires for hints about his transfer targets. By and large, our lot don’t tend to fling sackfuls of cash around with gay abandon each transfer window, so it’s probably safe to assume that Postecoglou will be shopping on a budget (although I’m rather encouraged by murmurs of Raya, Laporte and Maddison – and less so by echo of ‘Maguire’ about the place).

Apparently, however, the ability to pick up a bargain from amongst the great scrapheap of lesser-heralded mortals is one of the fortes of our new man. If that is indeed the case, then it’s probably another tick against his name.

Thinking about it, he will have an equally sizeable task in trimming some of the fat of the current squad, the cast-list already far too bloated, even before one considers that there is no European football to bung at the secondary members. There is also the question of what H. Kane Esq. makes of all this, but the identity of the new grand fromage is presumably just one amongst many factors swirling around in that chap’s mind at present.

All things considered, then, it’s a pretty satisfied AANP uncorking the bourbon at this announcement. Postecoglou might not have been the first name to have sprung to mind when Conte shoved his chair under the desk and stormed off without even a wave goodbye, but given this fellow’s experience with a similarly tough crowd at Celtic, and his commitment to a spot of the all-action brand on the pitch, I’m rather looking forward to seeing how this one pans out. All hail our newest Glorious Leader!

Categories
Spurs match reports

Leeds 1-4 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Kane

This seems as good a time as any to stand to attention and offer a pretty meaningful salute to our finest. As if anyone needed reminding quite what a different plane it is on which Harry Kane operates, he belted in our opener with his first kick of the game, pretty much by way of a warm-up. Thereafter, I thought he beetled around hither and thither, in rather an understated way, popping up occasionally to inject a bit of impetus whenever we needed it.

He gave the impression that, having stumbled upon the general midfield vicinity almost inadvertently, he enjoyed himself enough to set up camp in the area, occasionally surfacing to join in with the lesser mortals and chivvy things along.

It worked out splendidly. Whenever the ball bounced off our defence and out towards halfway, Kane was happy to collect the scraps, wriggle free of surrounding limbs as necessary, and ping a pass off into the wide open for spaces for Sonny or whomever to gallop off after.

Leeds, for all their bluster, were amongst the worst we’ve played this season – which makes sense, when you think about it – meaning that the biggest impediment to Kane, as to most of our lot, was that pitch. Not that Kane let it get to him. I’m not sure it could have bothered him less if he had been one of those royal horticulturalists who knows every blade on their lawn inside out. The ground being bobblesome, Kane simply took to lofting his passes through the atmosphere, bypassing the middle man, as it were.

The piece de resistance of his performance came at the halfway stage. And when you consider that on a day on which he scored twice his highlight was something else altogether, you know it was something pretty special. As ever, he received the thing back to goal and somewhere near the halfway line, the sort of situation in which even the Leeds mob, dreadful though their day had been from start to finish, would not have had the alarms bell ringing with any great fervour.

Kane, however, was in that Magic-Something-From-Nothing mood, and having flicked the ball back over his own head, in a pleasing homage to Gazza at Euro 96, he gave the ref a polite shove from his path and set off towards goal. Leeds duly dispatched two of their finest to put an end to Kane’s rampage, and this pair reasonably enough decided that squishing the fellow between their combined frames would do the trick; but Kane was having none of it. As is often the case when he builds up a head of steam, he opted for brute force over any semblance of finesse to surmount this particular obstacle, and simply shoved his way between the two of them like an irate bear.

That done, the attack was still really only at ‘Promising’ level, there being a far bit of legwork left before we got to the really salacious stuff, but Kane didn’t hang around. At this juncture admittedly he received a fairly thick wedge of assistance from the admiring gods, as his attempted pass inside the centre-back – which really would have made the eyes water if successful – bounced off the legs of the latest in a whole queue of hapless Leeds defenders, and kindly for Porro to do the rest.

It was the manner in which Kane received the ball on halfway, however – it bouncing and he with back to goal – and turned it, lickety-split and via two opponents, into an attack bursting at the gills with promise, that really took the puff.

There then followed his 30th goal of the season, made to look straightforward even though Richarlison ten minutes later would bungle a near-identical opportunity, but by this stage one simply took the chap for granted.

Which is a point worth pausing at and hammering on about for a while – he is rather taken for granted. As in that season in which he won both the Golden Boot and whichever object is doled out for most assists, and yet somehow didn’t win a Player of the Year trinket, so this year his 30 league goals, in a team as bad as ours (and having rather gone through the ringer of a World Cup-induced blow to the solar plexus halfway through) has simply been shrugged off, seemingly on the grounds that “It’s Harry Kane, what did anyone expect?” Which is a dashed sight less than he deserves.

As to whether he will still be lighting up our days and nights come August and beyond, the AANP tuppence worth is that I can’t really imagine a universe in which Levy simply shrugs and agrees to sell the fellow this summer, no matter how much Kane might want it.  

In terms of mooching off elsewhere, the Man Utd link makes little sense to me, given that they sure as heck won’t win the Premier League, and seem a pretty long shot for the Champions League. If he wants an FA or Carabao Cup, he might as well stick around in N17; but frankly a ’legacy’ at our lot would seem to be worth more than either of those trophies. I’d have thought Chelsea or possibly Newcastle (pending great big sackfuls of transfer cash being flung around) would therefore be likelier destinations than Man U, if he wants to win the meaty trophies – but who’s to say quite how the cogs whir from the Kane neck upwards?

2. Bissouma

Back to the match, and as mentioned, Leeds’ resistance seemed to be token at best. It’s rather easy to damn our lot by suggesting that the opposition weren’t up to the job, and I should probably slap on another lashing or two of praise, because pre-match I sure as heck was resigned to our heroes wilting in the face of a team needing a win to survive. A hammering by a team in the very act of getting relegated would have seemed the perfect coda to Season 22/23, what?

So credit to our lot, principally for dealing with the barrage of crosses and throws repeatedly hurled towards the frame, but also for having the good sense to transfer documents from back to front faster than a Leeds player could mutter “Dash it, we don’t have enough bodies to stop a counter-attack”.

If Kane was pivotal in the countering, I thought Bissouma excelled in the more studious role in midfield, of collecting possession, hopping away from a swinging leg and spreading the play this way and that. He had a remarkable ability to do the above in a most unflustered manner, which had the benefit of puncturing any atmosphere or urgency our hosts attempted to manufacture, whilst also lending to our play a calmness that has been a pretty rarely-sighted beast this season. It wasn’t flawless, but it was certainly encouraging.

At one point a nearby chum, while watching Bissouma skate away serenely, murmured something about Mousa Dembele, and while all sorts of caveats abound when invoking this sort of name, and it would be remiss to take such musings seriously, one roughly got the gist. There is something in Bissouma’s size nines that lends a certain optimism to the piece.

3. Lucas Moura

It feels like the Lucas Moura Farewell Tour has been trundling along for a goodish while now – which actually stands to reason, as he announced he was off a good few months back, since when every sighting of him has been accompanied by a brief eulogy, on top of which he was last week given a chance to wave to the galleries in the home stadium.

Anyway, the final leg of his great send-off was actioned in the dying embers yesterday afternoon, but by golly, if we thought this would just be a close-up of him entering the fray and then the toot of the final whistle, we were in for one heck of a shock. One could not have scripted a finale quite like this – something of a running theme for Lucas, come to think of it.

While it is easy to submit to recency bias and get rather carried away on these occasions, even 24 hours later that goal strikes me as one of the best individual efforts I’ve seen from one of our number. While not being of the occasion of Villa ’81 or Lucas himself vs Ajax, for sheer aesthetic delight it was right up there alongside Ginola at Barnsley, and close to Sonny vs Burnley. (A doff of the cap at this point to Gareth Bale, who has literally about half a dozen solo efforts to his name in lilywhite.)

Back to the goal itself, and even on repeat watchings it had a rather mesmeric unpredictability about it. On each re-watch Lucas somehow seemed to leap off in an unexpected direction at every point in his journey, all the while retaining complete balance and control of the ball.

First Leeds chappie slid in to chop him at the knees? Nothing he couldn’t hurdle. Three more Leeds blighters try to converge on him at once? Nothing through which he couldn’t slalom. Goalkeeper flinging six feet plus of muscle at his feet? Nothing over which he couldn’t dink.

Of course, this being AANP Towers, I couldn’t drink in this goal of perfect execution and timing without giving tongue to a grumble or two, so I don’t mind admitting a spot of bitterness that we didn’t see this more often from the chap. He tried it pretty much every time he received the ball in the entirety of his five years with us – and as yesterday showed, he’s been capable of pulling it off all along – yet I can only remember it working previously away at Man Utd. Blighter.

Anyway, a marvellous way for Lucas to ride off into the sunset, a little cherry on top of a career that is already permanently etched into Spurs folklore (and, cough cough, a second instalment of Spurs’ Cult Heroes).

4. Farewell Season 22/23

More broadly, it was actually a completely inappropriate way for our lot to sign off for the season. Some ignominious thrashing would have been more in keeping with the general fashion, but nothing lifts the mood around these parts quite like a Tottenham win, so I drank it all in as giddily as ever. It may only have been Leeds, but as mentioned above, we might also easily have folded, as we often do, so to see this level of verve and creativity about the place was quite the tonic.

Looking ahead, the mood amongst just about every lilywhite I know is one of absolutely doleful pessimism; understandable of course, but the AANP lineage has never really gone in for such negativity, and isn’t about to start now.

A few new signings are undoubtedly needed – only one of yesterday’s back-four ought to start for us ever again, and another day sans Messrs Dier and Hojbjerg stirred no sense of longing from this quarter – but there are a handful amongst our number, both on display yesterday and propping up the stools in the treatment room, who might inject a bit of life into the old beast yet.

Moreover, enough teams around (and above) us that have demonstrated that even with deadwood floating amongst the ranks, a spot of organisation and freedom can bring home a bit of a harvest.

The absence of midweek traipses around the continent will help. And frankly performances (both individually and collectively) like yesterday’s suggest that with a spot of pruning, and a few well-judged additions, we would have at least a nucleus of a side with a beady eye on the Top Four. All that remains is to bring in a manager of sound mind – and front-foot style – and Season 23/24 practically takes care of itself, what?




Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-0 Palace: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Change in Shape and Personnel: Porro

After a couple of weeks that have been heavy on action and light on plot, our latest Glorious Leader did the honourable thing and picked the option marked “Do Something – Anything – Differently”. Which translated into the hooking of Messrs Perisic, Dier and Kulusevski; and a line-up that, while still seeming pretty lopsided, was at least lopsided in a new and interesting way.

The change in formation struck me as one of those jobbies in which in possession the gang adopts Format A, but out of possession they revert as one to Format B, if you follow. So at various points Emerson was tucking in as a third centre-back, while at others he seemed to be surreptitiously shuffling off towards the flank to adopt a more conventionally right-back pose. In fact, it appeared at certain times as if our heroes were going about their business in a 4-4-2, which rather took me back to my salad days in the 80s. A pleasing riposte to false nines and that sort of thing, what?

Back to the general mass of humanity on our right side, and the reappearance of resident eccentric, Emerson Royal, was quite the pleasant surprise. For a start, he displayed a hitherto unknown sense of inconspicuousness in returning to the fold completely under the radar. I’d pretty much written the fellow off for the season, and rather forgotten about him in truth, what with one damn thing and another at N17.

But there he was, in that unspecified, hybrid defensive role on the right, crossing all t’s and dotting all i’s in the manner one would expect of arguably our greatest ever player. However, if the reception he received from the paying masses was rosy, I suspect it paled into insignificance next to that he received from Pedro Porro.  Poor old P.P.’s eyes may light up when charging into the final third, but if he’s shown us one thing over the last couple of months it’s that he couldn’t look less comfortable in his defensive duties if he slung a sandwich board about his frame bearing the legend “I Just Want To Be A Winger”, and continued wearing it while trying to defend.

With Emerson babysitting him however, it was a different story. Porro was able to shove most of his eggs into the attacking basket, and on balance one would say he ended up with a few more pluses than minuses to his name.

He slung in enough crosses that sooner or later he was bound to strike oil with one of them, duly doing so to create our goal; but as well as his general output I was pretty satisfied to see him scuttling into view, stage right, with every attack. Again, the goal was a decent example of that, Porro getting his head down and hurtling over halfway out on the right, even as the attack was still having its genesis somewhere nearer the left flank – all of which preliminaries meant that when Kane lobbed the ball off towards the right of the area, the young frijole seemed to have approximately a quarter of the stadium at his mercy to do as he pleased.  

2. The Change in Shape and Personnel: Dier (and Romero and Lenglet)

The other principal consequence of the rejig was the removal of Eric Dier from any area in which his slightest involvement might spark the usual disaster. It is, of course, a little difficult to judge the success of someone’s absence. One could, in theory, emit a joyful whoop at the fact that Dier was not in situ to dither on the ball or play a chum into trouble or mistime a lunge or get dragged out of position or get outpaced; but this seems a little hollow. Rather like celebrating the fact that a piano hasn’t fallen on one’s head – good news, of course, in anyone’s book, but more the sort of thing one curses when it does  happen, rather than celebrating when it doesn’t.

More usefully, the absence of Dier seemed to have a calming effect upon Romero, who, since returning to the day-job with a World Cup winner’s medal around his neck, has given the impression of turning up for work every day since absolutely sozzled in celebration.

Yesterday, however, with the absence of a calamitous defender on one side of him, and the presence of a capable defender on the other, Romero appeared pretty steady on his feet. Of wild lunges and cavalier shimmies forward, there were none. He still found time to pick another lovely 50-yard pass or two – hang your head in shame, Sonny – but it was the principal business, of keeping things under lock and key at the back, that were of concern, and he seemed focused enough.

I’m not sure how much credit Monsieur Lenglet should be given for this. I’m never really sure how much credit Monsieur Lenglet should be given in general. He seems to be one of those chappies who has loosely the right sort of idea, and can also contribute a bit bringing the ball forward, which helps; but who will just shrug the shoulders and let out a sad gallic sigh if an opponent gets the wrong side of him, accepting his fate as irreversible, which nettles a bit.

Be that as it may, not being Eric Dier seemed to work in his favour yesterday, as did the fact that alongside him (I’m shuffling right-to-left here) he had Ben Davies in Cautious Mode, both full-backs for the day clearly having been drilled on the importance of being as boring as possible, for the greater good. Anyway, the nub of it was that Lenglet-and-Romero more or less worked, as a central pairing, at least when up against Palace at home and with Fraser Forster’s enormous frame behind them.

3. Ryan Mason

A triumph for Ryan Mason, then, a bean about whom I can’t really make up the mind, three games into his second stint.

That he cares about the club, with all the loveable idiocy of you, I or any other long-suffering fan, is beyond doubt. Cut Mason open and he bleeds lilywhite. Thrust a microphone in his face immediately after the final whistle, and within ten seconds he’ll forget the rules of diplomacy that the PR mob have spoon-fed him, and instead launch into some pretty impassioned stuff, his voice rising an octave, which is really the tell-tale sign that it’s all coming from the heart. After the public sabotage of Conte and Jose, this sort of thing is welcome stuff. This sort of thing makes me want to clasp his hand with firmness and meaning, and there’s not much stronger sentiment than that.

The players are apparently fond of the chap too, or at least happy enough to do his bidding and enquire how high when he yips ‘Jump’. Again, after a couple of years’ worth of managers taking every opportunity to advertise to the world how inept the players are, this seems a pretty useful commodity.

Tactically, I find him a bit harder to fathom. The changes made yesterday seemed to do the trick, at least suggesting a spot of welcome clarity at the back, as well time well spent behind closed doors. It’s hardly his fault that there is not a creative midfielder to be found at the club; and his adjustment to a back-four featuring bona fide full-backs, while seemingly about as common sensical as it gets, was much needed (and yet, bizarrely, completely beyond the grasp of those who trod the path before).

I also rather like the spirit with which he approaches in-game tweaks and substitutions, as if struck by a realisation, which again had completely eluded his predecessors, that by virtue of his role he possesses the capacity to move the pawns about a bit and thereby effect change in real-time. The famous Dier-related adjustment against Man City was apparently his bright idea; and he can take a sizeable chunk of the credit for second half comebacks against both Man Utd and Liverpool, improvements of sorts being evident after his tuppence worth at half-time.

But nevertheless, I have my doubts in this regard. Improved though we may have been after half-time in the aforementioned matches, they were still his troops, under his orders, who fell behind in the first place. (One sympathises here, admittedly, for he was dealt an abysmal hand; but one cannot really have it both ways – credit for the comeback goes hand-in-hand with chiding for the deficit.)

Nor does young Mason exactly come across as particularly Churchillian in manner. Fun though it is to see a genuine fan taking charge of things, for all his being a likeable young soul I struggle to imagine him either stirring fire in bellies or plotting tactical works of genius. Not his fault, of course, that he’s a contemporary (or junior) of half them, but still. Gravitas and nous do not really seem to be his selling points.

The big caveat here, of course, is that this judgement is based purely on the evidence of what Mason presents to the public in press conferences and interviews and whatnot – and here I may well do him quite the injustice. The impression he gives in front of the camera is that of a passionate fan, rather than one of the game’s great thinkers; behind closed doors there may well lurk a far more astute mind (indeed, the murmurs one hears from behind the scenes suggest as much), and one heck of a communicator too.


For now, at least, his presence at the helm makes a goodish amount of sense. Whatever the problems at the club, they were not of his making. If he can inspire our lot simply to care as much as he does, politely demote those worth demotion (irrespective of reputation) and continue to instil the same level of organisation and clarity that was evident on Saturday, then it will be a job pretty well done.

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Spurs match reports

Newcastle 6-1 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Happy Birthday AANP Senior

This weekend was the 90th birthday of my old man, AANP Senior, which is a solid innings by most metrics.

Having seen our lot lift all but two of the trophies in their history, and seen in their entirety the lilywhite careers of Messrs Greaves and Kane, I classify the aged relative as something approaching Spurs royalty – so it seemed a bit rotten that he should spend his birthday sitting through that garbled nonsense yesterday. But I suppose if we’ve learnt anything it’s that our heroes will repeatedly find new and innovative ways to plumb new depths, what?

(He was pretty philosophical about it though.)

2. The Players

I recall in my younger days one of the female chums giving me a funny look, and possibly patting my head, saying, “There are many, many things wrong with you,” and it was a sentiment that sprung to mind last night as I recollected the day’s events and tried to make sense of them. For there was not really any single issue that sprung to mind. In fact, one cannot think back to the game without about eighteen different problems immediately jostling for position at the front of the queue.

But amidst the behind-the-scenes circus currently in full effect at the place, the players certainly contributed to the general spirit of full-blooded incompetence yesterday.

I could bang on all day about Romero waddling around from minute one in his own area with his hands behind his back, and it wouldn’t begin to address the problems in the vicinity – but nevertheless, why the dickens was Romero waddling around from minute one in his own area with his behinds his back? Yes, yes, we all know the handball rule means that merely possessing arms is in some cases a punishable offence, but really. The chap was facing down a fellow about to shoot, the situation seemed to demand a spot of spread-limbed antagonism. Instead of which, Romero made himself as small as possible, the complete opposite of what the impending crisis required. On top of which, this arms-behind-back nonsense had the unhelpful immediate consequence of constricting all his subsequent movements in the adventure, Romero hereafter proceeding about the place with all the freedom of one bound by a straitjacket.

Not that Romero was the sole culprit. Right from kick-off, Dier opted against bringing down an aerial ball when given the time and space to do so, instead heading it first time in a manner that stacked the odds against Sarr, who duly lost it. This may sound a pretty incidental detail, and a lot of the time it wouldn’t amount to much I suppose. But in a way, just carelessly tossing the ball around without too much concern for its eventual whereabouts sums up a lot of what is wrong with the troupe. Put another way, next time someone wonders aloud what is meant by the players lacking a winning mentality, I’ll plant them in front of a screen and show them a clip of Dier aimlessly heading the ball with the air of a fellow who thinks it’s someone else’s problem.

On top of which, it wasn’t quite such an incidental detail, because Newcastle promptly scooped up the thing and opened the scoring.

Perisic reacted to the save from Lloris, immediately prior to the first goal, by taking the sight of the loose ball squirming free as a cue to take his first break of the day. Perisic instead adopted a watching brief, as a Newcastle sort politely shuffled forward to poke the ball into the empty net.

Porro for possibly the second goal (I think, one rather loses count) had the decency to check over his right shoulder for imminent threats, and having clocked one such foe lurking with a spot of menace, reacted to the incoming cross by giving it his best Perisic impression and letting the ball sail past him, seemingly convinced that a strategy of non-interference must eventually come good. To his credit, where Perisic had simply goggled a bit, Porro at least made a perfunctory attempt to appear engaged, by raising an arm to appeal for offside. Pointless of course, and infuriating too, in this age of play continuing so that VAR can sort it out at a later date, but if the drill amongst our lot was to find ever more appalling ways to stuff things up then Porro was fitting right in.

Of course, no abject lilywhite capitulation would be complete without Monsieur Lloris adding his signature move of just not bothering to move at all, and he rolled out one of his best for number three (or was it four?), making zero effort even to stretch out an arm, or even twitch a limb, as the ball sailed past him.

This, of course, is but a selection. Everywhere one looked, there seemed to be one of our heroes stumbling off into some new crisis that only ended with the ball in our net and Eric Dier puffing away angrily as they marched back to starting positions. So, chronic and deep-rooted though the problems at the club may be, the current mob out on the pitch are certainly adding their tuppence worth of hokum to the mix at every opportunity.

3. The 4-3-3

The pre-match announcement of the switch to 4-3-3 struck me at the time as ripping news. Indeed, it would be no exaggeration to say that it raised my level of expectation from ‘Nil’ to ‘A Flicker Of Hope’. I’d been baying for the thing all season after all, the sight of our midfield pair repeatedly being outnumbered and generally cut to ribbons week after week having an oddly discouraging effect upon the juices.

Of course, it’s difficult to measure such things as the success of one formation as compared to another, all sorts of wacky metrics being available in these days of Opta stats and XG and so on and so forth. But it’s seems a fairly safe bet to suggest that most right-minded folk would point to a 5-0 deficit after 20 minutes as evidence that the thing had not quite transpired as an unparalleled success.

So no real quibbling on that front, but nevertheless the whole thing left me rather miffed. Like most things in life, done properly a 4-3-3 would seem a perfectly reasonable way to conduct one’s day-to-day. Somehow however, our lot managed to take a pretty normal state of affairs and turn it into the sort of nightmare to rival a stretch in the flames of Hades.

Now there are a few rummy elements to this. One thing that occurred to me is that the club never waste an opportunity to bleat on about how our lot have one of the best training facilities in the business. As bragging rights go, it’s a peculiar one admittedly, but if it helps bring out the best in the troops then I’m all for it.

However, seeing them scuttle about the pitch yesterday like they’d not previously heard of football, let alone adjusted to the rigours of a 4-3-3, did get me wondering what they hell they’ve been doing all week in those gleaming training facilities. One appreciates that change is always a bit much to stomach, we homo sapiens being creatures of habit and whatnot, but honestly. They began proceedings looking uncertain if they were in the right half of the pitch.

Another challenge that has been widely highlighted is that apparently having a wing-back play at wing-back is hunky-dory, and a full-back play at full-back is tickety-boo; but if a wing-back is every required to play at full-back cracks will appear in the sky and the very fabric of reality will come crashing down.

This seems to be the expert take, and is used to explain why, for example, Perisic was utterly incapable of exhibiting any signs of life when the situation at Goal 1 yesterday required him to extend a leg and poke the ball clear. Wing-backs, after all, are incapable of defending. Similarly, Porro’s inability to jog back alongside the striker on his shoulder was not so much his fault, as a desperate flaw in the system – wing-backs are incapable of defending.

So if that’s the unquestionable truth then I suppose we ought to accept it, but I did occasionally pass a hand over the fevered brow and wonder, as our lot fell apart at the seams, whether anyone had tried training Perisic and Porro – and indeed Romero and Dier – to adapt to this new and mind-boggling setup, viz. The Back Four. In this age in which every baked bean ingested is recorded and every drop of perspiration monitored, I’d have thought they’d have the resource at the gleaming training facility to sit down with a couple of the players and shove a few hours of analysis at them, touching on some of the key do’s and don’ts of the role.

4. Kane

It obviously got rather lost in the mists of general wretchedness knocking about the place, but Harry Kane popped up with a heck of a goal. On another day I would have lit a cigar, been pretty liberal with the bourbon and scrawled some of the best prose going in salute to it. There was a spot of one-touch stuff at the outset, completely out of character with the general sentiment of not-knowing-what-day-of-the-week that had been adopted by one and all, before Kane was released on halfway.

And while his little dribble to beat his man owed much to general bluster and force than any particular finesse, it achieved the objective, and left him to make a left-foot shot that many would have dragged wide.

So well done him, although for how much longer such jolly sentiments are lobbed his way remains to be seen. If he decided to sprint out the door as soon as the whistle blows on the final game of the season, one would understand the sentiment.

However, one point I have begun to mull in my quieter moments, is whether a permanent absence of Kane might work to our benefit. One treads carefully here, dodging the slew of incoming rotten fruit, and picking the words delicately, but the point I’m driving at is that we no longer press from the front, with any real sense of verve or spirit when Kane is leading the line.

Essentially this is because the poor fellow is completely out of puff, having strained every sinew non-stop for about four years under Poch. These days, his top speed is something of a chug, which is more than adequate for most of the tasks on his morning To-Do list – finish with the right foot; finish with the left foot; win a foul; drop deep and ping; finish from outside the box; and so on.

But when it comes to pressing the opposition, Kane is something of a spent force these days. This is entirely his prerogative, so no complaint there; it does, however, prevent the rest of our mob from effecting a high press as a team.

This is a bit of a tangent that probably needs some cove with a screen and some whizzy graphics to do justice to, and if push came to shove I’d certainly keep the fellow in the ranks and let him do his damnedest pretty much any way he pleases. But as well as wing-backs who can’t play full-back, the generally decrepit nature of whichever system we’re peddling does seem to include an inability to shove any pressure on the other lot when in possession at the back.

5. The Running of the Club


Well that Stellini chap has taken the well-trodden path, so no need to bother about him any longer, and poor old Ryan Mason is now faced with the gargantuan task of trying not to devastate his CV before he’s had a chance to write the first entries.

But further up the food-chain, if I have correctly picked up the occasional whisper, it seems that there might just be one or two murmurs of displeasure against one D. Levy Esquire.

If he would stick to the business side, steer well clear of the football side and bring in a few qualified eggs with a good knowledge of the club, AANP would probably be happy enough, in truth. Off the pitch he knows his beans well enough, and if things pootle along well on the pitch then I’m happy not to give him a further thought. But things on the pitch could not really be much worse, which does rather bend the argument a good 180 degrees.

The complete lack of strategy in the pre-Nuno and pre-Conte appointments (as evidenced by shortlists containing all manner of managerial styles) was troubling stuff, and since then it seems like the blighter has stumbled upon a whole series of choices on the football side of things, which, while no doubt well-intentioned, have really piled one steaming mess upon another.

The ominous silence around the managerial situation in recent weeks – bar, bizarrely, a few off-topic lines at the old alma mater last week – may have been just the job in the 1970s, when one waited patiently week to week for news from the club, but these days serves only to infuriate an already pretty restless bunch of natives.

And frankly twenty years at the head of any company strikes me as pretty unhealthy, although I don’t suppose I’d be giving tongue to too many grumbles if we’d picked up some trophies and waltzed into the Top Four with Levy still at the helm.

However, be all that as it may, we appear to be stuck with the chap, for the foreseeable anyway. And in truth, if we could only appoint a manager capable of giving some direction to the current rabble, I’d once again shove Levy from my mind and just enjoy the ride. One understands the calls for the entire useless shower to be shoved out the door and start from scratch; but looking at Villa, Newcastle and, to an extent, Man Utd, turning their fortunes around with only minimal cosmetic surgery, I do still cling to the hope that a competent manager would give a spot of direction to the existing squad.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-1 Brighton: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Danjuma

Being the sort of chap who likes to keep an audience on their toes, I thought I’d begin with a spot of wittering on the rarely-sighted Danjuma, not least because he was the principal object of a spot of post-second goal gushing from yours truly yesterday.

It might not necessarily be the view clung to by the masses, but I was already greeting with boyish enthusiasm the energy of Danjuma, even before it led, in a slightly convoluted way, to our second goal.

Danjuma came bounding on with all the perk and vim of a man who had spent several months in a Conte-induced purgatory and had a few sackfuls of energy to release. In that respect I suppose he had much in common with Lucas Moura at Everton last week, but whereas Lucas channelled his efforts into imprinting his size nines across someone else’s shin, Danjuma’s approach wasn’t quite so lacking in a few spoonfuls of common sense.

Which is to say, in the first place, that he didn’t stamp on anyone – an obvious baseline, one might think, but nevertheless the sort of thing one can’t take for granted amongst a gang as low on the grey stuff as ours. Anyway, having confirmed the ability to chase everything that moved without getting himself sent off, what really grabbed the attention was the fact that, having buzzed from one outfield player to another in pursuit of the ball, Danjuma then turned everything upon its head by daring to chase down the Brighton goalkeeper as well.

This was front-page stuff. I had noted over the course of the game that our high press was being applied with a little more meaning than usual, but that once the ball beetled its way back to this ‘keeper, Steele, our lot tended to slam on the brakes, and subject him to little more than a beady eye.

No doubt this was part of a masterplan concocted by the Brains Trust. Something to do with cutting off angles, or not leaving gaps, or some other such gubbins. Be that as it may, Danjuma was clearly having none of it. Goodness knows what his superiors made of it, but the first chance he got he put his head down and fairly raced off towards that Steele fellow, leaving the latter in no doubt that the time for a pause and restorative break was long gone.

I don’t mind admitting that this sent a quiet thrill through me. After all, if one is going to press 90% of the way up the pitch, why not shrug the shoulders and go the distance?

It is probably important to note that Danjuma’s press did not in itself draw a mistake – Steele with ball at his feet is no Hugo Lloris, and simply funnelled the thing off to his nearest chum as if it were something done since he were knee-high. However, Danjuma’s lust for involvement, as well as drawing a satisfied nod from these parts, also seemed to have the infinitely useful knock-on effect of prompting everyone else in lilywhite to look at one other and murmur, “Well if he can do it, dash it, I might try as well!”

And so it happened that Danjuma’s charge on the ‘keeper was followed by Son charging at the next chappie in possession (Webster, apparently). This Webster fellow then popped along the hot potato sharpish to that Mitoma lad, who had Romero charging at him; and at this point all that charging paid dividends, as Romero emerged from the argument with his inventory reading: Size 5 Football (x1). And from there, within 3 passes, Kane was doing his thing and we were up 2-1.

The extent to which the goal can be attributed to Danjuma is of course the sort of debatable stuff that will sit right up there for centuries to come, alongside butterflies flapping their wings and causing cyclones and whatnot – but at a point in the game in which we were looking as likely as we’ve done for several weeks to craft a goal, I was glad to see Danjuma raise the energy level a notch and have some level of involvement in a goal.

2. Hojbjerg

A propos the goal, P-E Hojbjerg would no doubt have given the chin a slightly irritated scratch as he read the above, and rightly so, for it misses the point rather wildly to bang on all day about Danjuma chasing a back pass to little avail and then omitting to mention the critical pass that set up the goal.

But that, and more, was contributed by the same P-E H. Having been released by Sonny, Hojbjerg’s interest in affairs suddenly rocketed, as has often happened this season when he is granted temporary dispensation to rub shoulders with the elite in the final third. Off he galloped into the area, before, crucially, taking a deep breath or two, as I understand these Scandinavian types are fond of doing. This was an important move, because if he had simply attempted to pick out the only teammate in the box – my golden boy, Danjuma – he’d have had a dickens of a time manoeuvring the ball around four Brighton defenders to reach him.

Just as well that Hojbjerg’s fabled capacity to hear at bat-like frequencies kicked in, this no doubt allowing him to catch the heavy breathing of a lumbering Kane, arriving in the second wave. Hojbjerg effected his pass to perfection, a good ten yards behind everyone else, after which there still followed a pretty lengthy interval, as all in attendance waited a little longer for Kane to catch up, but when he did the fruits were ripe.

On a tangent, I have to admit that that pause – as the entire stadium took a sharp old intake of breath, and held it, before exploding – was one of the AANP highlights of the season.

Back to Hojbjerg, and a big old tick against his name, for the run, awareness and delivery. The problem, however, is that that same big tick is both preceded and followed by a couple of emphatic red crosses.

Not five minutes earlier, it had been Hojbjerg’s errant leg that thrust itself into the limelight for no good reason, clipping the twin limb of Mitouma inside the penalty area. Inadvertent it may have been, but in these days of constant and panoramic surveillance, one ought to be pretty darned sure about whether or not one will clip the leg of another in the area. The fact that the VAR spook gaily waved it on should not exonerate our man.

He followed up later in the piece by conceding a couple of pretty unnecessary transgressions – more clipping of legs, actually. And from one of these free-kicks the similarly bone-headed Lenglet played pretty fast and loose with the rules, grabbing at a shirt with two hands, which at the very least prompted those concerned to institute polite enquiries.

So much though I enjoy Hojbjerg’s spirit of willing and general fire-in-belly, and, of course, his contributions when let off the leash in the final third, I do wish he would focus a bit more on the basics within his own defensive game. But in a way, it rather sums up the chap – a mixture of valued contributions and lamentable, avoidable gaffes.

3. Skipp

Alongside Hojbjerg, young Master Skipp beavered away in his usual understated manner, and as ever I was all for it.

I suspect that beyond N17 few would afford him more than a shrug of the shoulders and a nonplussed look, but his lack of glamour ought not to mislead. Skipp keeps things ticking.

I suspect I have prattled on about this before, but I am particularly drawn to the fact that if a winning pass does not immediately present itself, he does not dwell or dither. The chap distributes as if on a timer. Speed – of distribution – is of the essence, in the mind of young Skipp. Whatever the circumstance, his motto is that gag about things being best done when done quickly, and if that means he should simply shovel the ball sideways or backwards then it’s fine by him, seemingly aware that there will be another day and another opportunity to show his full passing range.  

And it is quite some range. We saw a few weeks ago when he set Richarlison free for a disallowed goal, that he has in his armoury a pass of the 40-yard ilk, and he was at it again yesterday. Neither led to goals, but both – one in each half, from memory – found their man and helped turn defence into attack pretty neatly.

On top of which, he also set off on a couple of healthy, long-distance gallops, as circumstances dictated were prudent. Running at full pelt with the ball for 40 yards or more is pretty impressive stuff, and it all nudges towards the sense that here is a lad who might eventually grow into quite the all-round sort of bean.

4. Sonny

Not that there were any headlines for young Skipp. That was Sonny territory yesterday.

One might, I suppose, if in particularly curmudgeonly mood, complain that Sonny did little of note apart from score one and pop up with a spot of behind-the-scenes assistance for the second  – but this, to me, would be pretty rich stuff. The whole point of Sonny is to score and do a spot of behind-the-scenes lifting and shifting for others to score, so if he can check both boxes I think the appropriate reaction is a slap on the back and reminder that his bank account will be credited in due course.

His goal was an absolute dream. Different goals please in different ways of course, but Sonny in particular has long had a line in those curling efforts that start outside the post and curve inwards, leaving the goalkeeper fully extended and still falling short, for added aesthetic pleasure. I suppose part of the reason we see so few of them from him these days is that various opponents nowadays know better than to let him try that particular party-trick. It was a delight therefore, to see him unleash it once more, for old time’s sake.

And as mentioned, he also did his best, in understated fashion, towards the second. Once Romero had won possession near halfway, the ball was fed to Son, who for reasons to be fully investigated, had at this point popped up on the right flank. Sensibly, rather than try this season’s choice routine of running into a brick wall and tripping over his own feet, Son opted to pop off a quick pass; and what a pass he popped. The nutmeg is one of AANP’s personal favourites at any given point in any given game; when it is effected in the build-up to a goal, all the better.

Son’s nutmegged pass was just the excuse for which Hojbjerg had been looking to bound forward, and as mentioned above, the Dane duly did his thing. Sonny may have offered little else in an attacking sense, but if this is to be his weekly output then I would happily sign him up to it pronto.

5. An Oddly Enjoyable Win

I emerged from that win in vastly better spirits than anticipated. Admittedly, this is not least because I fully expected our heroes to collapse in a heap at the first sign of trouble, but even though we had less possession, and were not half as competent in midfield as the other lot, this produced one of those ear-to-ear grins across the map.

I suppose it is partly because in those moments when we did counter, the mechanics seemed to whirr and hum as well as they have done for some time. A low bar, admittedly, but still enough to get me off my seat a few times.

Kulusevski, while still not exactly the swashbuckling hero of last season, seemed to have a few vague recollections of dance routines and jinky steps that have served him well before. In the second half, I fancied that we even looked likelier to score than they did. At one-one, with the game approaching its finale, I experienced something other than the usual dread; and all of this, coupled with the marvellous pause before our second goal, put a spring in the step and song on the lips.

No doubt we had a couple of helpful interventions – or, I suppose more accurately, benefited from the absence of a couple of unhelpful interventions. The AANP tuppence worth is that the disallowed goals were scrawled from the record books rightly enough, but the penalty shouts were another matter.

However, the outrage accompanying all this has been rather entertaining. One understands the Brighton howls of indignation. Tough to swallow, no doubt. More than happy to administer a sympathetic pat, if it helps. But it is all rather amusing, what? One would think, from the outpouring of apoplexy that no other side has ever suffered a VAR bruising since the thing was unveiled. And frankly, the rarity of benefitting so obviously from a spot of VAR fumbling has contributed all the more to making this an absolute delight. Heaven knows we’ve suffered at its hands often enough in the past, and will no doubt do so again soon enough – so that being the case, I’m happy to throw back an extra bourbon in celebration of it tonight! But a sympathetic pat to our guests, of course.

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Spurs match reports

Everton 1-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Post-Conte Era

AANP is pretty sharp. The former Commander-in-Chief may no longer have been of the parish, but it couldn’t have been more than an hour or so into proceedings last night when it dawned on me that actually, for all the bluster and announcements, not a dashed thing had changed.

For a start there was the formation. Now one generously acknowledges that, thirty games into a season, one can hardly force a completely revamped model down every available throat, and expect everything to fall into place without so much as a squeak. The newly-installed Brains Trust had had by my reckoning about five days to inspect the troops. So, much though the wretched 3-4-3-featuring-two-defensive-midfielders grates, one understood the logic and waved an accepting – if grudging – hand.

But nevertheless, while tearing down the foundations and creating something completely wacky and new might have been a bit rich, a few nuanced adjustments would have been nice, what? Brave new era, and all that. Would it really have cost the earth, I asked myself, to have rearranged the deck-chairs and including an extra creative soul in midfield? Not that we seem to have any such souls left, but with a bit of jiggery-pokery – and maybe a Pape Sarr – I thought we might see Hojbjerg pushed further forward, or Kulusevski more central, or Kane and Sonny as a front two, or literally anything that indicated that Conte had biffed out the door in deed as well as word.

But nope. The formation was exactly the same. And if that was not enough, the performance ended up being even more Conte-esque than it had been under Conte, which takes some doing.

In fairness, there were patches of play in the first half that weren’t too bad. Everton had obviously got into their heads the ridiculous notion that we were the sort of mob that would fold immediately under questioning, and so spent the opening exchanges charging in a frenzy at whichever of our lot were in possession, lacking only a bayonet to brandish and a war-cry to shriek. And our lot responded pretty impressively, at least at various points between approximately minutes 5 and 25. Whomever was in possession tended to do a quick tap-dance, shimmy around the nearest swinging Everton leg and pop the ball off to a nearby chum, at which point the whole routine began again.

So we looked competent enough in possession, and able to sidestep the Everton press. Most notably to the AANP eye, we moved the ball pretty quickly. One got the sense that Team Stellini had spent their five days barking a few choice phrases celebrating the virtues of the quick pass and one-touch football, because there was a welcome dash of urgency about the place.

On top of which, whether by our design or the accident of Everton being rather narrow, Messrs Perisic and Porro had a few moments of joy up the flanks. Hojbjerg seemed to be having one of his better days in the centre. Kane had a couple of near-ish misses. Rumours of a new-manager bounce were no doubt miles off the mark, but for half an hour or so I at least thought that we might just about edge our relegation-zoned, lowest-scoring-team-in-the-division opponents.

2. The Performance at One-Nil

I should have known better of course. From the latter part of the first half onwards, our lot absolutely stank the place out. Whatever upper hand we might have had early doors was old news by the midway point, and there was not much improvement in the second half.

It took some pretty generous and unsubtle interventions from Everton to get our noses in front, because goodness knows our clueless heroes weren’t going to manage it themselves. First that laddie got himself sent off; but on seeing that our lot hadn’t really taken the hint, and were still scratching their heads a bit, another Everton slab of meat took it upon himself to give us a penalty, just to make sure.

And at that point, I fancy I even allowed myself a smile, which just goes to show one never really learns. The one-nil lead was not really a deal-breaker; but a one-nil lead against ten men with under half an hour remaining struck me as the sort of binge even our lot couldn’t foul up.

Of course, it is a little hard to describe what happened next. One simply stared in disbelief, and rubbed the eyes a few times. After Sheffield United and Southampton – and seemingly every other game we’ve played this season, in truth – it shouldn’t have come as any surprise, and yet this seemed to be one of the worst performances of the lot. By just about any metric available, we managed to let ourselves get comprehensively outplayed by ten men. Even now, 24 hours on, the recollection of it seems to hollow out my insides.

It is tempting to get a bit Shakespearian about things and declare this the worst I’ve ever seen from our lot, but having had my teenage years fashioned by the delights of Francis, Graham and Gross a little perspective is probably in order.

Nevertheless, though, this collective offering – let’s call it The Conte Tribute Act – was down there amongst the absolute dregs. If a chum had suggested to me that with twenty minutes to go against one of the worst teams in the league, and up a man, our lot would choose the option of dropping deep, ceding possession and praying for the final bell, I’d have laughed them out of town and suggested for good measure they had over-indulged in the sauce. And yet our lot did precisely that! Forsooth!

The amateurish passing from the back; the aimless hoicks upfield; the introduction of Davinson Sanchez as a means to shore up the defence; the brainless red card; the continued absence of Danjuma – I’m not one to betray the emotions unnecessarily, but when I tell you that at least one of my lips quivered with despair as I watched matters unfold I rather fancy you get the picture.

3. Son

The rest is mere details. By full-time I was in such a state of shock that I found myself groping blindly towards the drinks cabinet, but at half-time, when thoughts were slightly better ordered, one of the principal points of concern was the latest dithering performance from young Sonny.

The wise old coves have it that form is temporary and class permanent, which is true enough I suppose, but it makes this dip in form one of the longest temporary contracts in living memory.

The poor blighter was dreadful yet again, in just about every area of his game. I admired to an extent his diligence in trying to track back or drop deep to receive the ball, but seeing him trip over his own feet and fall to the dirt upon every contact, I did look skywards and utter a silent prayer or two that he might just relocate to the top of the pitch and stay there. I much prefer the chap playing on the shoulder of defenders and scurrying off towards the opposition goal.

Not that his attacking manoeuvres bore much fruit either, mind. The days of him dipping a shoulder, side-stepping a defender and whipping a shot goalwards seemed pretty distant specks as we watched him shuffle straight into an opposition frame and, more often than not, complete his routine by yet again hitting the turf.

After last night it is admittedly hard to make a case to suggest that Lucas is the answer, but one does cast a longing look or two towards Danjuma on the bench and wonder what on earth that is all about.

4. Lloris

Amongst the bigger decisions our newest Glorious Leader had to make was between the sticks. Absence, of course, makes the heart grow fonder, and Fraser Forster has not been without the occasional flaw, but I did puff the cheeks and think it rather a shame that he was automatically elbowed aside and the red carpet rolled out for Monsieur Lloris.

In Lloris’ defence he did grab a cross or two of the high-and-swirling variety in the first half, which lowered the blood pressure a bit around these parts. However, with the ball at his feet he seemed, as ever, to be not entirely sure of what day it was or which sport he was playing, and there were more sharp intakes of breath than any right-minded nurse would consider healthy whenever our lot tried to play out from the back. An admonishing clip should be aimed around the ear of Romero at this point, for his bizarre inputs into this particular nonsense, but the whole fiasco did have me pining for the return of Forster.

The real blow to the ribs, however, was the goal. The objective viewer would, naturally enough, raise an appreciative eye at the quality of the strike, but at AANP Towers the headline was all about Lloris and that utterly infuriating habit of his, of simply standing and watching, rooted to the spot, as the ball sails past him.

I don’t mind admitting I could have absolutely screamed at him to use his bally hands. Why the dickens does he keep doing this? Adopting the pose of readiness, as if coiled to leap into action, and then, as the crucial moment approaches, instead of leaping as advised, simply swivelling the hips to watch the ball? It happens over and over, and drives me to absolute distraction. What is stopping him from extending the frame and at least broaching the possibility that he might reach it?

It is galling at the best of times, when he is nowhere near the ball; but last night the thing whistled within his wingspan! I’m not sure he even needed to dive in order to reach it, simply extending an arm might well have done the trick. That the ball was travelling at a fair old lick is beyond doubt; but geographically this was no insurmountable challenge.

Utterly bewilderingly, after that utter crate of garbage – and all the other ones we’ve witnessed – we sit fourth in the table, but given the games played and whatnot (and, more pertinently, the utter guff we keep peddling) we’ll be waving that one goodbye pretty sharpish. One can only look onwards, and hope yet again for an upturn on Saturday, but this really is getting a bit thick now, what?