Tag: Harry Kane

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Spurs match reports

Rennes 2-2 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Ndombele

Oddly enough, in the midst of yet another thoroughly toothless lilywhite showing we actually had one pretty eye-catching individual performance; and even oddlier, that performance was delivered by young Monsieur Ndombele. I don’t know much about his childhood, but I would guess that in his school reports the gist of the feedback from his teachers would be along the lines of ‘Gifted, but doesn’t always apply himself’.

But by golly that gifted streak was on show yesterday, in full technicolour. It would be a stretch – and in fact a plain untruth – to say that he covered every blade of grass and bossed proceedings, but that never has been the instruction on the side of his particular tin. Instead, his gifts manifested themselves in the form of absolute wizardry pretty much every time he had the ball at his feet.

During the early knockings, when we mistakenly chalked this up as a walk in the park, Ndombele seemed central to all that was good about us, not least in carrying the ball ten yards from central to attacking locations, casually dispensing of opponents as if playthings. It appeared to be the sort of attacking spark for which our mob have been crying out in recent games, and Rennes couldn’t fathom it.

His contribution to the opening goal has been well documented, and even thereafter, when all around him seemed to realise that rather than a stroll in the sun this was actually a fight to the death, and one they were losing, Ndombele continued casually to befuddle the nearest Rennes opponent with his every touch, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the tide had turned and disaster loomed. Remarkably, every time he received the ball he seemed to carry on like this was some sort of exhibition match in which fleet-footed trickery was a legal requirement. It was pretty sensational stuff.

Whether or not he can do this regularly, and indeed how he might be accommodated in the first place, are questions for another day. For now, it is simply pleasing to note that after another thoroughly underwhelming production we were at least able to give tongue to some rarely-used compliments about Ndombele.

2. Lucas

The current whacky trend amongst our heroes is to hobble off injured at the earliest opportunity, and Messrs Bergwijn and Lucas duly filed their entries yesterday, with all the accompanying winces and limps on show.

About Bergwijn I am relatively indifferent, truth be told. Being the sort of armchair fan who prefers my wide attackers shiny, with plenty of dribbles, crosses and goals, I am yet to warm to the chap terrifically. His injury I therefore acknowledge as unfortunate, and so on and so forth, but once out of AANP sight he’s pretty definitely out of AANP’s mind.

Far more galling was the sight of Lucas succumbing to whatever fatal blow it was. While in previous seasons I must confess to having been unconvinced, this time around he has been delivering the goods by the bucketload. His dribbles have been suitably mazy, and unlike in previous seasons, rather than simply waltzing around in a small circle and hitting a brick wall, this time around he seems to waltz past hacking limbs before delivering a sensible conclusion to the whole adventure.

It is produce all the more bewitching given the amount of risk-free nonsense being peddled by those around him. With Sonny still AWOL and the boy Gil seemingly considered too green for the rigours of the English game, the stage seemed well set for Lucas – and he appeared to have been delivering.

His injury therefore elicited a pretty fruity curse or two from this quarter. A swift recovery is to be firmly wished.

3. Kane

While Lucas seems to have fallen back in love with the game, and Ndombele – well, it’s anyone’s guess what goes on in between those two particular ears – that rotter Harry Kane now lopes about the place with the air of an aggrieved teenager.

I can’t help wondering if he would steam around the pitch with greater vim if the white shirt had on its breast three lions rather than one cockerel, but I suppose it’s difficult to gauge and probably harsh to opine. Still, while one appreciates there is little he can do when all and sundry are tying themselves in midfield knots rather than simply giving him some service, his body language is nevertheless that of a man who would rather be elsewhere. Which rather chimes with his close-season interviews, what?

This attitude is all the more galling when one considers that he has now overtaken the great S. Perryman Esquire as our European appearance record-holder. It’s an honour that ought to be held by someone who wants to wear the shirt, dash it.

On a more practical note, this rot of him swanning around in midfield has to stop. The back-to-goal first-time flick to set up our opener was a joy to behold, straight out of the Teddy Sheringham playbook; but an occasional venture a few steps south to dink one cheeky pass is one thing; taking up residence in midfield and trying his best Pirlo impressions are another. “Stay up front, laddie”, would be the anthem in his ears from AANP Towers.

4. Nuno’s Masterplan

This was a pretty difficult game to summarise in a single, pithy statement. I know because I tried – my old man, AANP Senior, presumably deciding that, having cut his teeth on the double-winners, the Europa Conference was beneath him. I suspect he is now clearer on events now, having been fully briefed by yours truly.

If the raison d’etre of momentum is to swing, it put its heart and soul into the job in yesterday’s game. Whereas the first twenty or so had much of the cakewalk about it, when Rennes decided to up the ante they did so with such relentless gusto that our lot simply could not cope. This storm having been briefly weathered thereafter, Rennes seemed in the second half to decide that being the dominant force suited them, and I for one had rather given the thing up as a lost cause when Hojbjerg spared our blushes.

Credit where due then, but trying to fathom Our Glorious Leader’s tactics did make the head swim a bit, particularly in the context of previous games. Having approached the Palace game – as league leaders, lest we forget – with three defensive midfielders, I can only assume that Nuno was approached by an angel in a dream, such was the extreme nature of his swerve to yesterday’s tactic, of a single holding midfielder and everyone else with radar set to attack.

His hand was rather forced, admittedly, by injuries, but at present much about our weekly setup suggests that the Brains Trust has not quite yet got to grips with the squad at their disposal. This is hardly to chide the honest fellow, mind, for he’s only been there five minutes.

Moreover, in truth, rather than a settled formation, I’d prefer us to have a default attitude, preferably that shown in our opening day win over City – and not a million miles from that shown by Rennes when they went behind yesterday, for it was an absolute force of nature.

Finally, as a valedictory note, a congratulatory word to the Rennes support, who, for reasons that I must confess baffle me, sounded absolutely nuts throughout.

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Spurs match reports

Palace 3-0 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Lack of Effort

When one casts the mind back to the opening game of the season, in which we put in effort by the bucketload against Man City of all people, chasing down every loose ball like the fate of the free world depended on it and then haring off on breakneck counter-attacks, one does rather scratch the bean at the limp fare on offer yesterday.

One accepts defeat – even a 3-0 defeat – if the troops have fought tooth and nail, and simply come up against a mob that have fought toothier and nailier; or indeed, one takes it on the chin when a good fight has been fought and matters have been settled by a spot of magic, or even a dodgy refereeing decision.

But it really wasn’t cricket to watch our lot give it ten minutes and then take to ambling hither and thither, each with that distracted air, as if they one-by-one-realised that a more pressing engagement awaited elsewhere, and this pesky football lark was little more than an inconvenience.

I’m not sure that too many of lilywhite persuasion were getting particularly carried away by the fact that we began the day as league leaders, but even with the Expectations dial sensibly turned to a level somewhere between ‘Middling’ and ‘Low’ I think it was reasonable enough to have expected our chosen few to have least feigned interest in proceedings.

If the rallying pre-match battle cry against City had been about lung-busting determination to thunder into the faces of opponents, one can only assume that the final instructions ahead of kick-off yesterday was more along the lines of an anaemic shrug, because the notion of pressing the opposition seemed a long way down the various To-Do lists. Early on in proceedings, Hojbjerg offered a glimpse of what might be, when his high press helped pickpocket possession and created a chance that he then duly bungled – but nobody else took the hint, and Palace were left to knock the ball around between themselves in undisturbed fashion.

In possession things were just as miserable. Those in lilywhite appeared to consider it beneath them to motor around finding space and offering options for the man in possession. When opportunities for vaguely progressive passing did present themselves, they were firmly rejected, which seemed a pretty bizarre strategy.

Winks and Skipp were amongst the most prominent offenders here, seeming already to have decided to ostracise the new chap, Emerson Royal, by pointedly avoiding passes in his orbit, no matter how much space he tiptoed into. Whatever the question, the Winks-Skipp answer seemed to be ‘Sideways or Backwards’, which certainly tested the patience.

There seemed to be a plan of sorts to look for Reguilon on the left, but it was effected with such little enthusiasm that instead of passing directly to the poor soul the ball was generally just wafted into his postcode, leaving him to battle against the odds.

Even when eleven vs eleven I counted just the one burst of one-touch activity in the whole dashed match, the sort of move that had the ball whizzed around nice and promptly, shifting us the pitch faster than the Palace lot could scurry back. And frankly, one rather thought that if our heroes could only raise themselves for that single, thirty-second exhibition of passable football, then they rather deserved a three-nil hiding.

2. Absences

The absence of half a dozen regular cast members was trumpeted beforehand, and made a handy narrative, but here at AANP Towers we have a keen eye for detail, and it can’t have been much more than twenty-four hours before a few flaws in this story were detected. Admittedly, and in his defence, Nuno did not turn on the waterworks over this, and instead simply got on with life, but nevertheless it’s worth addressing this issue.

From the initial heady list of Sanchez, Romero, Sessegnon, Lo Celso, Bergwijn and Sonny, one could flick through and start discounting suspects, as it were.

Sessegnon, for starters, is rarely spotted anywhere near the first eleven, so dragging his name into things is pretty disingenuous stuff.

Until approximately three weeks ago, the absence of Sanchez, while not necessarily eliciting cheers would hardly have been lamented; while Romero is yet to feature in the league. Now admittedly, the absence of either of these fine specimens would ordinarily have been manageable, being countered by the presence of the other, as it were. The absence of both, therefore, admittedly created a mild quandary; but truth be told, if this were a world utterly bereft of Davinson Sanchezes I’d have no problem with that void being filled by Joe Rodon.

Further up the pitch, the absence of Lo Celso, as with Sessegnon, was hardly critical, meaning that the only real issue was up in attack, where both Sonny and Bergwijn had doctors’ notes to hand. As with Sanchez and Romero, the absence of one of this pair might have been covered by the presence of the other, but missing both did rather change the dynamic of the attack.

And here one might waggle a stern eyebrow in the direction of Our Glorious Leader, for when one has a perfectly serviceably Bryan Gil waiting in the wings, the decision to shove Dele into the ill-fitting role of pacy forward chappie seemed a tad misguided. (Not to mention that Dele’s removal from the midfield three also left us with a pretty functional and bland combo in the mid-section, of Hojbjerg, Skipp and Winks.)

So in truth, from the list of six, the only real challenge came around the two in attack – and could in itself have been countered through the deployment of young Gil. Hardly a justification for the dirge on show yesterday.

Where we were a tad unlucky was in the early exit of Dier. As mentioned, being a fan of Rodon I had no problem with his introduction yesterday, and actually lauded the move; but the fact that Tanganga had also to be shifted into central defence was a shame, for while Emerson Royal made a decent fist of things against Zaha, his was hardly a comfortable afternoon. It was a duel I’d have preferred had featured Tanganga.

3. Kane: Help or Hindrance?

As an aside, while touching on the subject of the front three, and the absences of Sonny and Bergwijn, this might be the moment for a rather awkward conversation about Harry Kane.

Carefully and deliberately leaving aside personal opinions about whether the absolute rotter should be welcomed back into the fold with open arms after having had the gall to try worming his way out of a contract without making a transfer request, several of my acquaintance have started to question whether the chap’s very presence is hindering operations; and they may have a point.

Referring again to the win against City, and indeed to various brighter moments the following week against Wolves, much of what was good about us in an attacking sense derived from the ability of Son, Bergwijn and Lucas to motor up the pitch as soon as possession was swiped, creating three-on-three situations that played out not just in real time but seemingly in fast-forward, the whole thing a blur of whizzing legs and interchanging positions.

However, remove one of the aforementioned three, plop in Kane, and the machinery doesn’t operate with half as much pace. In short, Kane slows down those counters, either by virtue of not whirring the little legs as quickly, or simply by deciding to take up residence about thirty yards further south. (Yesterday he seemed to offer neither, which was all the more odd.)

The AANP opinion has not yet been cast on this matter, and there seems more to it than just Kane (as mentioned, poor passing of the parcel from midfield to attacking full-backs didn’t help) – but with sterner tests awaiting, the optimal utilisation of that rotter Kane and his myriad talents cannot happen fast enough.

4. Lucas

Unusually in a performance of such ineptitude, there were actually a couple of presentable individual turns in amongst the dross.

Lucas, who can consider himself particularly unlucky to have been hooked for that rotter Kane last time out, was, not for the first time this season, particularly full of beans.

The young bean has never been averse to grabbing possession, putting his head down and wriggling like the dickens away from all-comers, but to this thoroughly agreeable trait he also appears to have now added a half-decent end-product, typically sensible distribution of the thing. In fact, one can imagine that in other teams (Exhibit A, Palace with Zaha) a chap of his ilk and predilections might be the sort around whom the team is built; but we being Tottenham he’ll presumably be back on the bench next week.

It was a joy to behold though, and, one imagines, a nightmare against which to defend.

5. Rodon

And in closing, an earnest salute in the direction of young Master Rodon. Quite why he is fourth cab on the centre-back rank is a mite baffling, given that those in front are hardly of the lineage of Moore, Beckenbauer and King; but fourth cab he is, and seemingly for use strictly in emergencies only.

However, he demonstrated a decent enough grasp of the basics when called upon last season; he seemed to do the necessaries for Wales during the Euros; and yesterday, if he put a foot wrong at all, I’m not sure I noticed it.

Actually, he and Tanganga both impressed, and it was just a dashed shame that the latter rather got carried away by things (although by the letter of the law Zaha should have been off himself, having tickled Tanganga’s face with a front paw at least thrice by my reckoning). While we were pretty woeful going forward, and the midfield was doing little to stem the flow of things in the second half, the centre backs were at least standing up to the challenge until the red card. Further outings for Rodon – and given the state of the various scattered centre-backs at the club, these seem inevitable – would be no bad thing.

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Spurs match reports

Wolves 0-1 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Dele’s Dive

An oddity about the goal was that once the ref had given the incident the once-over, and this season’s new, incredibly laid-back VAR had waved the replays away so as to return to its afternoon snooze, the whole affair was stamped Perfectly Acceptable and we all went back to discussing Adama Traore’s baby-oiled biceps, or whatever else the topic de jour happened to be.

However, here at AANP Towers we are men of honour, and frankly it stuck in the throat to see one of our number gain a pretty decisive advantage in this way. I’d normally back our chaps to the death, but it didn’t take much more than one replay from the appropriate angle to indicate that Dele had executed something slightly dastardly, in essentially dangling a leg or two into the body of the ‘keeper.

This strategy was all the more peculiar when one considers that if he’d maintained a vertical posture he’d have scored anyway. Having successfully nudged the ball beyond the ‘keeper, the critical manoeuvre then appeared to be to run onto it, at which juncture all that would have remained would have been to tap the ball into what would have been, by then, an unguarded net. Where the ball had travelled, as it were, so Dele needed to follow. Why he then opted to deviate from the obvious route, and engineer a collision, was a pretty rummy one to me.

2. Dele’s Role in Midfield

Returning to the 9-to-5, Dele’s duties primarily involved posing as a member of that compact midfield three, assiduously shuffling from left to right and back again, as they sought to protect the souls behind them.

This he did well enough – I’m pretty sure that anyone gathering his perspiration would have had buckets of the stuff by the time the curtain came down – but, if there’s one thing I have in common with a Dickensian orphan it’s that I tend to want more, and so it was as I cast my beady eye over Dele’s contribution yesterday.

Essentially, the AANP thought process was that it’s all well and good our midfield three working non-stop off the ball to keep Wolves at arm’s length (although frankly even this had limited success, as their wingers – and Traore in particular – seemed to make mincemeat of us down the flanks whenever the whim arose) but we also needed to see some vague wisp of ingenuity when in possession and looking to advance. And here the onus surely fell upon Dele.

Skipp and Hojbjerg are the sorts more fashioned by Mother Nature to close down opponents and win possession (although Hojbjerg-watchers during Euro 2020 might argue he has a few more strings to his bow than that); whereas Dele is one whose DNA hints at greater creativity in his size 9s. So it was pretty disappointing that when he did get on the ball yesterday, Dele did little of note. He tended to dwell on it for too long, and then seemingly kept trying to thread nutmegged passes to chums, most of which failed to bypass the man.

And if Dele isn’t creating much when stationed in that midfield three, we might as well replace him with a workhorse who will sweat similarly copious amounts but take a bit more care in possession.

3. Skipp

While Dele spent his afternoon trying the AANP soul, whenever I felt that my mood required brightening I had only to look five yards to his right, and there I was able to feast my eyes upon the boy Skipp.

Which is ironic, because his dial is hardly that of a boyband member, but by golly his contribution as a central midfielder is rocketing in my estimation. As was put to me last week, Skipp seems to have the most charming personality trait of having the ball follow him, and this, on inspection, seems to be due to his combination of a workrate that’s through the roof, and some pretty cunning behaviour in the decision-making department. Skipp judges his moments well, seemingly knowing when to sit back and let plotlines unfold, and when to summon all his energies for a full-blooded challenge.

On top of which, I rather like the fact that when in possession he does not pause to consider the pros and cons of every available option and compose some sort of after-dinner speech about them all, but simply passes the ball, quickly and simply. It’s not defence-splitting stuff, but simply moving the ball immediately to a new location serves a purpose of moving the opposition around, and also prompts his teammates to shift it along with similar speed. Rarely does Skipp take more than two touches. I have a suspicion that on current form an England call will sound before too long.

4. Tanganga and Sanchez (vs Traore)

Where last week we were treated to the sight of young Tanganga evolving from boy to man before our very eyes in the space of eighty minutes, this week he looked more like a chap who just wanted to lie down and find his bearings.

No shame in that of course, as he was up against Traore, a bulldozer of a fellow who seems to take it upon himself twice a year to plough through our defence whenever and however the hell he chooses. If the rumours of a £40m bid are true I implore those who oversee such things to sign on the dotted line, just so that we never have to play against him again.

Having coped admirably with the combined might of Sterling and Grealish last week, Tanganga seemed to find Traore a bridge too far yesterday, and it was a blessed relief that in the second half the fellow eased up on the punishment.

It was pretty white of Sanchez to see trouble brewing and amble over with his offer of help to a friend in need, but I’m not sure he quite appreciated the gravity of the situation, and it was not long before Sanchez was finding himself in exactly the same sort of trouble – i.e. tied in knots and left groping at thin air – as Tanganga.

In fact, it seemed that half the team pitched in at various points, with Hojbjerg and Skipp also donning helmets and rushing over, but all to little avail. Mercifully, Traore’s many talents do not extend to shooting, so once he had bludgeoned his way through our right side the danger dissipated in pretty organic fashion, as he simply blasted the ball wide and everyone was able to reset.

So, as much by luck as by design we have two clean sheets, and Tanganga will rarely have more pressing concerns than those he has faced in these first two games, but I suspect my heart will beat a little more gently should Romero occupy one of those central spots.

5. Kane

At present one cannot swing a cat without hitting some commentary on Kane’s likely whereabouts, but in the matter of on-pitch contribution I thought his introduction was timely and rather useful.

Until then our lot had created precious little going forward. What few attacks we had seemed to be limited to a couple of counter-attacks, bar Reguilon’s pass from nothing that set up the penalty and a searching cross from Tanganga on the stroke of half-time. Both pretty worthy efforts in themselves I suppose, but when you consider that between them they amounted to about thirty seconds worth of threat in a first half that went on for fifty minutes, you start to realise that this was not one of those all-singing, all-dancing, attacking routs.

And while it would be a stretch to say that the introduction of Kane turned the thing on its head and had us pillaging the place, it did at least give the top of the tree a bit of a shake. For a start, Kane is blessed with the sort of hulking frame well designed for holding up the ball, so when it was gently lobbed clear of danger by those at the back, he was able to make it stick a lot better than any of Son, Lucas or Bergwijn had down until that point.

Moreover, those aforementioned three being all cut from similar cloth, they all tend to offer the same, pacy option – which I suppose makes sense when set up to counter-attack, but it did all become a tad predictable. Having Kane drop deep, and shuffle this way and that, lent a bit more unpredictability to our northbound adventures, bringing teammates into the game and giving the Wolves mob a few different patterns to consider. I rather fancy the chap might have a future in the game.

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Spurs news, rants

Harry Kane: 5 Talking Points

1. Trophies

First up is this issue of Kane wanting to win trophies, and deciding that this is a thing best achieved in places other than N17. Galling to hear of course, vaguely akin to being overlooked for a plum role in the workplace, or jilted by a would-be paramour; but one stiffens the upper lip and accepts rough with smooth.

What should not be overlooked, however, is that Kane himself is complicit in this failure to win trophies. Nobody would dispute that Kane fights the good fight better than most, but this business of wanting to cheese off elsewhere to win shiny pots makes it sound like he’s fulfilled his part of the bargain and Spurs did not fulfil theirs. The truth, I would suggest, is rather more sinister.

When our lot reached various Finals and Semi-Finals, and challenged for the League, Kane had as much responsibility as anyone else to complete the job. And yet forensic analysis – or even a passing glance – is sufficient to confirm that while definitely physically present on these occasions, the fellow’s contributions at such crucial junctures tended barely to register. A forlorn shrug here, an attempted halfway line header there; but hardly match-winning stuff.

No doubt at this point in a court of law, a whole bevvy of lawyers would leap to their feet and yelp about ankle injuries and match fitness and whatnot, and these would be compelling points, applying to at least two of the aforementioned shindigs. Yet the overall gist remains, that Kane himself bears much of the responsibility for Spurs’ failure to win these trophies of which he speaks with such longing.

None of which matters a jot of course. The identity of those responsible for our failure to win a dashed thing is neither here nor there if Kane decides to jump in his car and speed up the motorway. But AANP is a man of honour, and will not stand by idly while the good name of Tottenham Hotspur is besmirched. The insinuation that trophies cannot be won at Spurs meets with a pretty frosty reception at AANP Towers. Kane had the platform at Spurs; and Kane was part of the team that repeatedly fell short.

2. The Six-Year Contract

Next up is this business of the contract – a six-year package, so my spies tell me, with t’s crossed and i’s dotted back in 2018. All of which means, according to the mathematic bods who chew these sorts of figures for fun, that Kane is still legally bound to flex his sinews aboard the good ship Hotspur for another three years.

And moreover, while I’m not one to conjecture wildly, I’m prepared to stick my neck out and suggest that back in 2018 when the thing was thrashed out it was not done in the presence of several of those big burly sorts, dressed all in black, threatening expressions across their maps and guns trained on Kane’s forehead. In short, Kane’s decision to sign away six years of his life was done in a spirit of perfect liberty and autonomy.

If it did not occur to him that at some point in the coming six years at Spurs the horizon might cloud over and life’s journey turn into something of a struggle, one can at best sympathise with him for being subject to the vagaries of football – and at worse chastise him for being pretty dim in not contemplating the contingency. Dare I suggest that someone amongst his gang of advisors (who hardly seem shy of dishing out advice) ought to have mentioned to him before he scrawled his name, “For better and for worse, old bean”.

Now opinions differ on whether contracts these days count for much in the glitzy world of top-level football. Briefly summarising these opinions, some say “Nay”, and others say “Yay”, and that’s about the whole of it.

Personally, I’m not much one for the legal game. However, whether or not Kane is obliged to stay – legally, morally or otherwise – what just about everyone can agree on is that he’s not played a particularly smart card by sharpening his elbows for a move when three years remain to tick away on the paperwork.

Footballers in general are admittedly not renowned for their intellectual prowess, but for Kane to fail to realise the mechanics of this one is a tad bizarre. With three years on the contract, he should surely have clocked that if the club wished to dig in its heels then they would hold most of the aces going? And moreover, after spending just about his whole life at Spurs, how the dickens did he miss that there are few things Grandmaster Levy enjoys more in life than digging in his heels? Wait another year and Kane’s value will certainly drop – but the club will still be well placed to cash in. Advantage Levy.

Whereas Kane’s options, with three years left to run, are – as we are witnessing – both limited and pretty unseemly. Of above-board options there are precious few; and of the various forms of tantrum on offer, Kane has now had a healthy stab at most.

Curiously, and for reasons that others are presumably better able to understand than I, as far as I’m aware he has not yet submitted a formal transfer request (and you may with considerable justification call me old-fashioned, but I’d have thought that would be the obvious starting point for any such process of extrication).

Beyond a formal transfer request, all that remains is for him to refuse to play for the club. Kane’s form on the tantrum front suggests that this is now very much on the cards – and yet the situation remains that with the three years left, there is little imperative for Levy to sell up.

3. The Gentleman’s Agreement

The plot thickens with this business of the ‘Gentleman’s Agreement’ of Summer ‘20, supposedly granting Kane the good word of Daniel Levy that he could skip off into the hills come Summer ’21.

Difficult to cast any useful judgement on this particular chapter of course, the whole drama being by its very nature the sort of thing conducted in hushed tones, behind closed doors and with nothing concrete to support one side or t’other.

In a sense though, there’s the rub – a gentleman’s agreement does not provide anything concrete.

So for Kane to base his entire gambit on this was, one might topically say, speculative. Behind closed doors Levy may have delivered an ode channelling the best of both Shakespeare and Churchill, guaranteeing Kane in no uncertain terms the freedom to dance off in whichever direction the wind blows; Kane himself may have danced a little jig as he left the meeting and tootled off triumphantly to his gang to share the joyous news; and if anything like this sequence of events did indeed transpire then one would understand Kane picking up the nearest toy and hurling it from his pram.

However – with not a word of it committed to paper the whole thing rather disappears in a puff of smoke, and the dashed thing about puffs of smoke is that no matter how much one grasps at them, and no matter how much detail one later uses to describe them, once they’re gone there’s not a damn thing one can do to get them back. Whether it happened or not, the gentleman’s agreement gives Kane no leverage. To the faux pas of signing a six-year deal and expecting to wander off halfway through, one can add the faux pas of relying upon a verbal agreement to supersede that six-year deal.

So while I’ll offer Kane a chummy pat on the back, as a small act of sympathy, I’ll as soon suggest that he really ought to have known better and is now paying the price for some pretty poor planning.

4. Man City

The other element in this is the poor, cash-starved lambs of Man City, desperately scrambling together enough loose change for £100m bids for both Jack Grealish and Kane.

First of all, something about the way City have gone about their business in the last ten or so years gives the impression that they do not want for cash, so few hearts will bleed if they bleat about being priced out of the deal.

Secondly, by valuing at £100m the lad Grealish, they might have inadvertently done themselves a mischief in their planned summer shopping spree, because Harry Kane – with his goals, assists, international career, golden boots and so on – will, by whatever metric, have to be valued at one heck of a higher price.

And again, with Kane’s contract still alive and kicking for three years, the onus at this point is on City to cough up rather than on Spurs to sell. All of which rather suggests that the ire Kane is venting at those in the corridors of power at N17 might more appropriately be directed towards those controlling the purse-strings in Manchester. The onus is not on Spurs to sell; it’s on City to pay whatever price is named, if they really want the chap.

5. Kane’s Reputation and Spurs Legacy

This whole sordid business does Kane’s reputation few favours. Now many footballers, admittedly, would not care a hang for reputation, and happily wave from a luxury yacht, sipping cocktails, puffing a cigar and leaning back to have grapes dangled into their mouth, while indignant mortals like yours truly hammer away at their keyboard.

However, one suspects that Harry Kane is cut a little less from this cloth. “Role model”, “England captain” and “all-round reputable egg” are the sort of anthems he likes to hear. On top of which, having mooched about White Hart Lane since his childhood days one had laboured under the impression that here was a man who cared deeply about the club and its fans, and rather thrived on the fact that the feeling was mutual.

Alas, the fellow has pulled some pretty thick moves in recent weeks, haemorrhaging class like nobody’s business. Gags like his unsubtle interviews, dismissive wave of the hand when reminded of his contractual obligations and now refusing to turn up to training all paint the picture of a man for whom ‘Respect for club and fans’ now sits a long way down the list.

All a dashed shame, for I had been readying myself to stick the fellow on a pedestal of the ilk of those occupied by such club legends as Perryman, Mabbutt and Ledley, and was delighting at the notion that this particular bean would imminently etch his name indelibly in our history by becoming our greatest ever goalscorer.

Well you can scratch all that. Every last drop of bonhomie about the place has evaporated, and where once the AANP dial was painted with adoration for the chap, now the very mention of his name brings about a look of narrow-eyed coolness.

Personally, I am not one for booing, as there still needs to be a certain decorum about things; but if H. Kane Esq. expects that his next contribution in lilywhite will be met with some sort of rousing cheer from the AANP lips then he’s as misinformed about that as he has been about every other element throughout this whole saga.

There is no telling what might happen next of course, and the production might end with handshakes and back-slaps all round, but I rather fancy that there is a dashed sight more drama still to come.

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Spurs match reports

Leicester 2-4 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Sanchez and Rum Justice

This dreariest of seasons ended with a selection switch entirely in keeping with the utter rot that been on show for the last nine months, as one wet sponge of a defender was replaced by another.

Presumably with an eye on the pace of Jamie Vardy, Our Glorious Leader cunningly scribbled out Eric Dier’s name and scrawled instead ‘Davinson Sanchez’, a move that was swiftly exposed as pretty pointless as Vardy gave Sanchez a couple of yards headstart and still sprinted past him, in earning the first penalty.

(On which point, I hope that Toby does not walk away from this saga without a slap on the wrist, because that backwards-dangled-leg approach that conceded the penalty was an atrocious dereliction of duty.)

Now admittedly a sentient brick would have had more pace than Dier, so one did see the logic of the selection. Alas, Sanchez is blessed with so many other shortcomings that it seemed inevitable that one way or another he would have a grim time of things, and Vardy was pretty merciless in targeting the poor bean.

By and large, here at AANP Towers if there is an opportunity to castigate young Sanchez we do not hang around and wait for the paperwork. Today, however, while it would be a stretch to say my heart bled for the chap, I did feel that he was rather hard done by.

In the first place, one can basically be excused for simply not being as fast in a flat sprint as the next man. One might argue that Sanchez could think about his positioning so as not to be exposed, and so on and so forth; but a pretty forgivable failing. (Certainly vastly more forgivable than Dier’s extensive repertoire of flaws, most notably that of picking a spot in the six yard box and digging in his heels, as opposition strikers dart hither and thither all around him.)

But more to the point, Sanchez was victim to a pretty appalling miscarriage of justice for the second penalty. One tries not to judge Vardy simply because he the Almighty has bestowed upon him the face of one up to no good, but the chap was an absolute blighter for the second penalty, grabbing Sanchez’s arm and yanking it around his own body, before waiting until he was inside the area and executing an arched-back swallow-dive, dash it all. It was stuff so ripe that pantomime villains across the country would have been taking notes.

One understands that at first glance the ref would have been conned; but for VAR to interrupt their snooze and wave the thing on was outrageous. The Sky commentators, wedded to their ‘Plucky Leicester’ narrative, were similarly happy to embrace this outrage, and poor old Sanchez was left with the rum end of the deal. The guy is hardly faultless, but to be chastised for that was a nonsense, and there was a pretty hefty dollop of karma in his challenge on Schmeichel for our second goal being (rightly) allowed. And the Kane handball claim being waved away for our third, come to think of it.

However, with all that said, forget the Kane and Bale chatter: if this is Sanchez’s last appearance in lilywhite I might just clear the immediate area and perform an awkward cartwheel of delight.

2. Kane’s Performance

Given the plotlines that swirl around him presumably much about Kane’s performance will be swept under the nearest carpet, and those paid to voice their opinions will simply point to his goal, maybe his assist and then start carping on about for whom he should play next season (casually ignoring the thee years left on the contract he signed of his own volition, dash it).

However, for those of us concerned to see our lot win the game itself, Kane’s performance until his goal was pretty ragged stuff. Looking for all the world like a chappie with other things on his mind, he seemed oddly intent on dwelling on the ball when he received it, which typically resulted in him being bundled out of the way. On top of which, when he did finally shove it along, he tended to do so in pretty slapdash fashion.

The whole routine had ‘Not One Of His Better Days’ plastered all over it; until, from nowhere, he produced a strike so sweet that it even managed to fly, clean as a whistle, through the legs of the goalkeeper.

Kane’s highlight reel also included him lashing one miles over the bar, the anthem ‘Golden Boot’ no doubt on his lips, when Sonny was better placed for that sort of operation; oddly fluffing his lines when clean through on goal at the end; and then getting away with use of the hand as he almost fluffed his lines again, in setting up Bale.

So a slightly mixed bag of a performance, but as so often it is difficult to look past the quality of his finish for the goal he did actually score.

3. Kane’s Future

The AANP tuppence worth on the fellow’s transfer situation is that in the first place I don’t think much of this business of him trying to engineer a move by way of unsubtle hints and choreographed interviews. If he wants to biff off then he ought to accept that one cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs, and say so in no uncertain terms; and if that eats into his seven years of goodwill in N17 then he’ll have to lug that over his shoulder and live with it.

More to the point, he signed a six-year contract, so there’s not too much sympathy for him in this neck of the interweb. (The secret yearning over here is that Levy folds his arms; we bring in a manager with enough between the ears to steer us into the Top Four next season; and thereafter, Kane or no Kane, good times start rolling again.)

And as a final point, albeit one to chew over rather than anything compelling, while one understands Kane’s howls of despair at not winning any trophies, he might do well to remember that he was front and centre of those second-place finishes, and lost finals and semi-finals. He, as much as – and in fact more than – most others, could have influenced whether or not he toddled off with a winner’s medal or two.

4. Bale’s Charmed Life

As has been his wont, Gareth Bale ambled on in the closing stages to mooch around without breaking sweat, before giving his late-season stats their customary shot in the arm.

The chap is quite the oddity. Were it anyone else sauntering about the place in such languid fashion I suspect we might shout ourselves hoarse in attempting to communicate every curse imaginable; but this being Bale, frankly he receives exemption.

And while Messrs Bergwijn, Lamela, Lucas et al might shoot some hurt glances and mutter about favouritism, the fact is that, even if he contributes little else in any other part of the pitch and during any other part of the game, Bale contributes more goals than one can wave a stick at. The aforementioned B., L. and L. can only dream about the sort of goals return being produced by Bale.

It’s a bizarre trade-off, and makes for pretty unenviable stuff for whichever manager happens to be overseeing things, because as we’ve seen in recent weeks, should the opposition pin us back then Bale joins Dier in the queue of players playing second fiddle to that sentient brick. But frankly, if he can produce a goal or two – call it 1.5 – per game, then some might say it rather seems worth the hassle.

Moreover, the chap has now discovered that the whole trick can be performed from the delayed entry point of substitute, meaning that he can spare himself the ignominy of working up a sweat in the opening seventy minutes or so.

5. Farewell, 20/21

I suppose if today has taught me anything it’s that I’d much rather play in the Europa Conference, whatever the heck it is, than finish below that lot from Woolwich. (And if today taught me a second thing it was that watching a game on Sky with commentary muted , as I did for the final twenty or so, is a surprisingly pleasing experience, but one man’s meat and all that I suppose.)

It’s been an absolute mess of a season, neatly typified, I thought, by the midweek Villa game (scoring early; calamitous defending; minimal effort), has brought about a regression of approximately four years and sent us dangerously close to the pre-Jol days of mid-table obscurity. (Still finished above Woolwich, mind.)

Many Spurs-supporting chums of minehave been moping about the place prophesying doom in a fashion that would have had some of those Old Testament sorts nodding in admiration, and one understands the mindset.

Nevertheless, the mood at AANP Towers is actually rather more upbeat. I remain convinced that, while admittedly some way behind the current Top Four, player for player we are a match for and should be bettering just about everyone else in the league (by which I mean Leicester, West Ham, Woolwich etc), should we hire a manager capable of dragging the current mob into some semblance of shape. No doubt there will be Ins and Outs over the summer, but even looking at the current squad, it hardly seems inconceivable that with some half-competent moulding and coaching they could be outdoing the likes of Leicester, West Ham and whatnot next season.

As ever, my gauge for these players is to ask who would buy them if they were up for sale – and by that metric, we have enough talent in the squad to match the aforementioned mobs outside the Top Four at least. Our squad is lop-sided, the performances are pretty aimless, every dashed one of them looks unfit – but a manager worth his salt ought to have enough to work with.

Not that such ramblings count towards anything, but fingers crossed and all that.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-0 Wolves: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Low-Tempo Stuff

Given that even when the Top Four was realistic our lot hardly dashed about the place with any sense of frenzied urgency, it was perhaps unsurprising that today, with the only available carrot being the slightly wonky, shrivelled one of Europa football (or the even smaller, even more shrivelled one of the Europa Conference, whatever that is), the mood amongst those tasked with doing the necessaries in N17 was set to ‘Leisurely’.

Not that it mattered much, as Wolves had switched off their mood setting entirely, in order to sit on a beach and sip something punchy, but there was a curious gentleness to the way in which we gradually exerted our superiority.

Yes, Kane hit the post in the opening jabs, with the sort of shot out of thin air of which he seems to be the sole licence-holder; and yes, we twice had shots thwacked off the line with the ‘keeper seemingly distracted by the beach-side view; but there was none of that zip about our build-up play that makes the pulse quicken and arrests the attention.

The Sky cameras caught the spirit of the thing by doing their best to not show our opener when it did eventually come, preferring to dwell on their narrative de jour about a man from Sunday league football repeatedly heading away crosses (a plot-line with which they were so obsessed that they pretended it continued long after it had stopped, bizarrely awarding the bean in question the day’s rosette despite him being wildly out of position, and then comically parked on his rear for the first goal; and too slow to get to the rebound for the second: man of the match indeed).

It was not until early in the second half that our lot began showing any appetite for the thing, and we were treated to the first sights of free-flowing football coursing through the veins. Again, probably worth emphasising that nothing beyond third gear was really necessary, but given the talent on display, and the pliant nature of our guests, the first half in particular was oddly muted.

However, it was still comfortably sufficient, and should an eager student ever choose to write an essay on ebbs and flows of this particular match then “Two-Nil” would be a title that captured entirely appropriately the game’s dynamics as well as its scoreline.

2. Dele: Delightful and Exasperating

In terms of the specifics, Dele’s performance was an odd mix of the delightful and exasperating.

In the Debit column, the chap was guilty on a couple of occasions of the sort of carelessness that would have been excoriated by notable former managers who were sticklers for that sort of thing and who, it might be suggested, carried about themselves particularly needless vendettas.

In one instance he gave away a pretty needless free-kick in a dangerous area, via the medium of an unnecessary and pretty unsubtle shove to the back; on another occasion he tried to be rather too cute for his own good inside his own penalty area of all places, giving away possession, when anyone in the Sky commentary box could have advised that simply hacking the ball away to kingdom come would have had him lauded as the game’s standout performer.

One might point out that the nature of the chap’s play means that such errors are simply part and parcel of the whole Dele experience. Here, after all, is an egg who seems to take to heart the anthem “Go out there and express yourself”, generally treating the pitch as his playground and the match as an opportunity to roll out as many party tricks as possible (witness the glorious first half nutmeg).

Mercifully, the Wolves players were too busy admiring the bathing suits of their fellow holiday-makers to do anything with these gifts, but young Dele might do well to give some consideration to the time and the place, when next he dips into his box marked ‘Casual Possession Giveaway’.

More prominently, however, Dele’s attacking instincts came to the fore today. He seemed quite happy to take a prominent role in affairs, availing himself of a pass at every opportunity and stationing himself pretty centrally throughout. The man did not shirk the challenge.

And, without exactly dominating things (that accolade fell upon the Wolves chappie who occasionally cleared a cross, don’t you know) Dele made enough deft contributions to swing the thing.

His role in the odd sequence of post-hitting was impressively delivered. In the first place he won possession in the old-fashioned way, emerging victorious in the often-neglected tangle of legs known as ‘tackling’; and then picked precisely the right moment to play his killer pass. I don’t mind admitting it was a moment that deeply affected me, having spent many of my years of Dele-watching berating him for hanging onto the ball for too long. On this occasion, I bowed in the presence of his greatness. He hung onto the ball for precisely the appropriate amount of time, and then played a perfectly weighted pass – through the opponent’s legs, of course – into the path of Kane. The whole thing deserved a goal; what it got, instead, was two successive shots hitting the two different posts.

And then for our second goal, I was rather impressed by the manner in which Dele first sprayed the ball stage left, for Reguilon to run onto (albeit Reguilon made rather a production of things out there, sliding and scampering and all sorts); and secondly, on receiving the ball back from Reguilon, in picking out Bale. Bale’s shot was then parried, and Hojbjerg completed the routine; but Dele did enough to merit at least a nomination for Best Supporting Actor.

3. Lo Celso’s Deeper Role

Ryan Mason it appears, is not one of those fellows who thinks that the key to life is to dive in and change as many things about it as he can get his hands on. For Mason, the status quo seems to hold a certain charm, and as such, having deployed Lo Celso in a deep-ish role once, he has been happy to extend the experiment a little while longer.

Personally, I am rather enamoured of the role itself and its current occupier. Particularly in a game such as this, something of a free hit given the quality and mentality of the opponent, there is hardly need for multiple defensive types to prowl the midfield looking for fires to put out. The use of Lo Celso then, is primarily forward-thinking, tasked with picking up the ball from the back-line and transferring to the forward-line, with minimum fuss and maximum efficiency.

(It should be noted that, in addition to the forward-looking stuff, Lo Celso does not mind scampering around to win back possession either; he might not necessarily be the most gifted exponent of the more destructive arts, but he knows what’s expected.)

But it was going forward that I rather enjoyed Lo Celso’s mentality. Now, to be clear, I thought this week, as last, he could have done more of it – demanding the ball and making it clear to all in the vicinity that he was the go-to man for these sort of jobs. But nevertheless, his general mentality, of wanting to create whenever he received the ball, went down well at AANP Towers.

As if to illustrate the point, we were then treated to fifteen minutes or so of the slightly dreary alternative, when young Master Winks bounded on to replace Lo Celso, and promptly set about biffing the ball backwards every time it was given to him. Sometimes Lo Celso hit and sometimes he missed, but pretty much every time his first instinct was at least to go forward.

4. Hitting the Woodwork

At one point (at what I am tempted to call a lull in proceedings, but which description does not necessarily narrow down the timeframe), the TV bods flashed up a stat to the effect that our heroes have hit the woodwork more than any other team this season. 23, if my eyes did not deceive.

Pertinent stuff, given that we were treated to this very scenario thrice this afternoon. Now one might wail and lament our ill fortune at this, but the stat did remind me of a moment in my formative years, when on returning from a school football match and receiving an enquiry from my old man, AANP Senior, as to how I got on, I informed him that while I did not score I did at least hit the post. This earnest communique, as I recall, met with a pretty unforgiving eye and the brusque response from the esteemed relative that he would give me credit if I were aiming for the post; and that feedback rather ended the back-and-forth.

It’s a mantra I apply to this day. Hitting the post 23 times is deserving of little credit or sympathy given that the pretty unambiguous aim of the exercise is expressly not to hit the post, but the structure contained therein.

All that said, the little burst of activity that saw Kane and Dele hit the two posts with successive shots did make the head swim a bit and the curses flow. One can only imagine what the kindly folk who neighbour AANP Towers made of the assorted yips and yelps that doubtless emerged from within as the passage of play unfolded.

Mercifully, neither the woodwork nor VAR nor any other excuses needed to be wheeled out on this occasion. A curious game for sure, not least because of the odd passivity of our opponents, but a comfortable win is always a delight.

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Spurs match reports

Newcastle 2-2 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Intensity: Only To Be Shown When We Fall Behind

Now don’t get me wrong, one need not be one of those intellectual sorts clothed in lab coats and spewing out formulae to be able to pop a positive spin on this one. There was decent attacking interplay; we created a solid fistful of pretty reasonable chances in front of goal; Lucas continues to look a game number 10, Sonny is back and Ndombele picked a couple of those natty slide-rule passes of which Luka Modric would be proud.

But if you are anything like AANP then you dismiss these so-called silver linings as rot, and your face is as thunder. One might argue that we fared reasonably, and that two goals and a point on the road represents a commendable effort: but don’t be fooled. Newcastle, every time we play them, for all their willing are blisteringly average and we should have been perfectly capable of tearing them to pieces.

Even allowing for the fact that our defence is so incapable of getting their little heads around the most basic precepts of the game that they are basically worth two goals to the opposition every match, we still ought to have made mincemeat of Newcastle. And lest you be in the slightest doubt about this, pray cast your gaze upon Exhibit A, the Tottenham Starting Eleven; and Exhibit B, the five minutes or so after we fell behind.

That starting eleven (Exhibit A, that’s for those who, much like Davinson Sanchez, are struggling to keep up with things going on around them) had enough talent to have one hand tied behind their backs, play in blindfolds and only use their weaker foot, and still be pretty evenly matched with a team as devastatingly mediocre as Newcastle. Alas, our heroes seemed determined to take this challenge literally, and set about the thing as if deliberately doing so at half-pace, just to ensure an even contest.

With Jose seemingly giving instruction that the mega-cautious approach of two holding midfielders was to be torn to shreds for one night only, we were even treated to the most becoming sight of an attacking midfield packed with the delights of Ndombele, Lo Celso, Lucas and Kane, with Reguilon eager not to miss out on the left.

It ought to have had the makings of a mauling. Any two of those alone, in combination, could probably have given Newcastle the run around if sufficiently motivated.

And, as per Exhibit B, once the indignity had been suffered of going behind, the pistons started pumping and all concerned treated us to five minutes or so of their collective A-game, all forward passes between the lines and movement in between defenders. Two goals duly followed lickety-split, and those manning the floodgates sounded due warning that all hell was about to break loose.

And then, dash it all, the half-time gong sounded, our heroes paused long enough to realise that they were actually ahead and all need for intensity vanished as swiftly as it had arrived.

Sure, we made the occasional second half dart, and could pretty easily have increased the lead on the strength of those chances alone; but any manic intensity that would have strangled the life out of Newcastle – and of which the personnel were perfectly capable – was gone.

Put simply, had they approached the second half with that same, aggrieved determination as they had approached the five minutes after conceding the opener, we would have witnessed a rout.

Instead, and for apparently the eighth time this season (Eighth! Egads!), we have thrown away points by conceding in the final ten minutes of the season. (I pause at this juncture, for a stiff, Sunday afternoon cordial, to give the necessary strength.)

2. Sanchez

I have a feeling that in each of the most recent half-dozen or so games, I have featured prominently in my post-match ruminations the doings (and, typically, misadventures) of Davinson Sanchez.

If the repetition is grating, then I can only beg your pardon; but let’s face it, the wretched blighter hardly helps himself.

He gave early signal of his intention this afternoon, with a second-minute header into the lap of a Newcastle forward who was still catching breath from him pre-game warm-up, and while that chance was duly wasted (this, after all, is modern-day Newcastle), young Master Sanchez evidently considered that he had found the appropriate level for his afternoon’s work.

Thereafter, seasoned players of Davinson Sanchez Bingo were in for an Easter Sunday treat, as the young blister treated us to his just about his entire array of ignominy, from countless wayward passes to a couple of mistimed leaps, culminating in not one but two tours de force: the clearance (I use the term loosely) that presented Newcastle with the opportunity for their opening goal; and the decision to clatter with his whole body into the nearest chum while attempting to defend (I again use the term loosely) the cross that brought their second goal.

(Although on the subject of the second goal, a dozen lashes each across the backs of Messrs Lamela and Lo Celso for casually and criminally slowing to a halt as the Newcastle attack germinated, and allowing Willock to run beyond them, unmanned, to slap home the goal. Eminently avoidable stuff, and quite possibly indicative of a broader attitudinal issue.)

But back to the lamentable Sanchez, before he thinks he has escaped admonishment. One can only assume that the blighter plays like some sort of holy amalgamation of Ledley King and peak Jaap Stam in training, because little he does on the pitch suggests that here strides a Champions League-level defender.

3. Rodon and Tanganga

Blessed with Sanchez alongside him for company I did wonder what despicable acts Joe Rodon must have committed in a former life to earn the privilege. I must admit that the morbid fascination with Sanchez meant that I did not necessarily pay due attention to the beaverings of young Rodon alongside him, and it generally became a little difficult to match the blame for our numerous defensive mishaps to the appropriate defender.

Rodon gives the impression of one with whom it is worth persisting, on the basis of some well-judged interventions. Whether or not he is an organiser of things, a quality in which we are in desperate need, is an unanswered question at present, but I thought he emerged with some credit.

And t’other side of the lamentable Sanchez, young Tanganga probably reserved his finest moments for the front-foot. When called to defend, not for the first time in his fledgling career his decisions seemed a little too heavily influenced by some positional naivety, not least in being sucked infield to help out Sanchez, and leaving in the lap of the gods those activities in operation behind him.

With Toby’s use-by date just about upon us, and Dier operating at precisely 0.5 times the speed of every other professional in the game, the grim conclusion is that we are pretty desperately need of at least one prime centre-back to slot straight into the starting line-up and liven the dickens out of the rest of the defensive mob.

4. Kane

Mercifully, when all about are losing their heads – and, more pertinently, their slim leads in the final five minutes – one can always seek (and find) solace in the quite astonishing outputs of Harry Kane.

For a player at pretty much the opposite end of the Natural Talent Spectrum to the game’s true greats, the quality he delivers game after game is absolutely unreal. His first goal was hardly a lesson in the finer arts, but as exemplars for persistence, presence and a striker’s instinct to gamble it was something from which young Master Vinicius might have taken copious notes, Vinicus being one found a little too often rocking casually on his heels for my liking.

Kane’s second, however, was an absolute dream, contact so sweet one wanted to football’s governing bodies to compose for it one of those special anthems they insist on blaring out as the players line up for every game.

For Kane to be top-scorer in the league, and near enough top assist-provider, within a team that is as inclined to defend their own penalty area as to attack the opposition’s, makes the man a pretty strong contender for player of the season (particularly given the fact that the success of the runaway leaders is not really due to the stand-out efforts of any particular individual).

All of which still does Kane a disservice, because to judge the honest fellow purely on the basis of his goals and assists is to ignore most of what he does in a game. Even the chances he misses are ripe for study, given the manner in which he so frequently shifts the ball between his feet and then lashes a shot that nutmegs the defender and leaves the ‘keeper rooted to the spot (note today’s effort that hit the post).

On top of all of which, the chap has even taken to modelling his looks upon AANP’s lockdown, swept-back, no-longer-giving-a-damn haircut. A most becoming choice, if I may so.

5. The Awkward Subject of Kane’s Free-Kicks

If there is one, gaping in flaw in Kane’s DNA it is his comically bad free-kick taking ability. I have a feeling that one of, if not his very first league goal for us, might have been a free-kick, but an equally strong suspicion that it was deflected (which would make a heck of a lot of sense, because nature’s elements alone will not divert the ball from its wild trajectories towards goal).

Now it seems that on the basis of this one, freakishly fortunate, close-your-eyes-and-thwack effort half a decade ago – albeit probably in conjunction with his standing as the greatest striker of his generation – Kane’s general ineptitude when presented with ball, wall and twenty yards is no impediment. His teammates simply present him with the ball and sidle off to their positions in preparation for the coming goal-kick.

It is quite the oddity for one so plainly dedicated to every element of his craft, but his abilities seem to drain from him as he soon as he spots the ball from twenty-plus yards – to the extent that the greatest PR agency in the world would struggle to sell Kane on free-kick duty, unless the aim of the exercise is the bloot the thing into the wall, into the orbit or into any other vacant space not occupied by the goal webbing.

That aside however, the lad is worth his weight in the 24-carat stuff, and we should cherish his every contribution.

The occasional AANP tweet to be found hither

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Spurs match reports

Dinamo Zagreb 3-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Attitude

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Jose’s Future

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Son and Kane’s Futures

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Fulham 0-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Front Four

Not sure how well versed you are on your scripture, but as I recall there’s one wheeze in The Good Book along the lines of Character A bumping into Character B, who – and this is crucial to the plotline – happens to be pregnant, with the punchline that on seeing Character A, it is reported by Character B that “the child in her womb leapt for joy”.

A pretty rummy line, and not something I can personally relate to, having, for various reasons, not experienced a child or indeed a womb myself – but had I been so blessed it is absolutely nailed on that the child would not just have leapt but would have performed an Irish jig at seeing the teamsheet yesterday. The universal reaction amongst all lilywhites of my acquaintance on learning of the starting eleven was one of barely containable excitement, as the star-studded quartet of Kane, Son, Bale and Dele was unleashed.

That said, the gratification was not quite instant, with Fulham inconsiderately deciding to start on the front foot for the first 10 minutes or so, and our lot revealing a pretty sizeable disconnect between defence and attack. However, when things did click it was pretty fruity stuff, and the fact that Fulham were still waltzing into our area a little too easily when in possession simply added to the feel that this whole thing was an Ossie Ardiles ’94 tribute act.

It will be interesting to see how stronger teams cope, but when our front four did purr last night there wasn’t a great deal Fulham could do to stop it. In time one would imagine that their interplay will improve, if the telepathy between Sonny and Kane extends to the other two; and, being an indulgent sort, I’d rather like to see the various band members interchange positions and go a-wandering.

As it was, Sonny obediently stayed out on the left, presumably because Bale had announced that he intended to stick to the right, with Kane varying his longitude if not his latitude. I’m not sure of the extent of the tactical coaching this mob received, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Jose simply told them to toddle out there and do as they please, relying on their individual quality to do the necessary. It certainly brought about enough clear first half chances to have more than just the single goal.

In that respect Harry Kane deserves a slap on the wrist and a spell on the naughty step, as he was guilty of the sort of basic errors in front of goal that, had they been committed by Vinicius, would have had us booting him out the door and hurling a suitcase and his passport after him.

2. Dele Alli

The star of the show was probably Dele. While the headlines have been grabbed by his glaring miss that turned into an own goal by the chap next to him, the existential point he made by simply popping up in the area at that moment, with a good sense of dramatic timing, did a lot to justify his inclusion.

In a team so heavily reliant upon Son and Kane for the beginning, middle and end of its goals, Dele’s presence and natural inclinations to tiptoe forward immediately open up new routes to goal, and as such give fresh headaches to opposing defences.

On top of his attacking threat, I feel legally obliged to mention that he also knuckled down to the meat and veg of a midfielder’s role, performing such unglamorous tasks as tracking back, making tackles and helping to dab possession about the place. However, the principal benefits he brought were in the attacking spots, which does make one wonder why the hell Jose saw fit to kick him out of the squad for the first two thirds of the season, but I suppose life is full of such mysteries.

3. Ndombele

Having missed out on parity by a whisker with the last kick of the first half, Fulham decided to try the same approach in the second, with the result that we spent a full 45 minutes clinging on for dear life against a team that for all intents and purposes is from the division beneath us. From the Championship they came, and to the Championship they will return, but this did not stop them relentlessly attacking us and coming within one rulebook absurdity of equalising.

Every time our defence desperately thwacked the ball clear it came back at us, as the concept of hanging onto the thing seemingly lost on those members of the collective who were stationed further north.

The whole nerve-shredding spectacle did make me stop and wonder about the role of Ndombele in these scenarios. No matter how many times and how large the phrase “Defensive Midfielder” is stamped across his frame, it does not alter the fact that here is a chap who looks longingly at his attacking chums on the other side of the halfway line, desperately wanting to remove himself to such sunnier climes.

This seemed to be emphasised by the fact that he raced forward over halfway at every opportunity, not even really caring about the specific destination as long as he could glimpse the sight of the opposition goalposts and take a few gulps of oxygen from the Fulham half.

Which is all well and good, and is the sort of back-up act that makes the dreamy front four even more irresistible; but when he is stationed as one of two chappies sitting in front of the back four, there is something of a statutory requirement that he puts on his defensive hat and offers some protection.

Alas, he didn’t offer much in this department. If anything I noticed Dele’s defensive contributions more than his. This is not so much a criticism of Ndombele himself, more an observation that if we are going to field a stardust-sprinkled front four then we probably do require something a bit more solid behind them.

4. Davinson Sanchez

For the second successive game I was struck by the thoroughly disorienting sensation that Davinson Sanchez was, just about, doing an adequate job of keeping intruders at bay. Much though I would like to, I cannot really bring myself to describe him as a reassuring presence back there, as he does give the impression that calamity is only one opposing stepover away.

However, he stuck to his task yesterday, and by and large emerged in credit with a number of solid interventions and tackles to his name. There were a couple of moments, notably one at the very end of the first half, when it seemed that the ghost of Gundogan had returned, and threatened to leave him writhing on the floor again, but he recovered well and generally did the necessaries.

Ultimately, I thought his night was rather summed up by the disallowed goal: an agricultural clearance (which is better than no clearance at all), combined with a spot of luck, with the net result that the clean sheet remained intact.

In the final analysis it is a bit difficult to get one’s head around things: two consecutive wins is excellent stuff; albeit the opposition have been relegation strugglers; the front four could potentially light up our end to the season; yet our defence remains pretty wobbly at best. Luckily the games come so quickly these days there isn’t much time to dwell on these imponderables.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 4-0 Burnley: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Dream Front Three: Son and Kane

Admittedly it was six months overdue, which does take the gloss of these joyous occasions, but now that the third member of the trio is just about fully fit this could be considered the official unveiling of The Dream Front Three, and they delivered all the traditional punchlines and crowd-pleasing moments that were legally required of them.

Burnley, it must be said, were pretty accepting of their part in the spectacle, dutifully approaching their roles of Lambs Being Led To Slaughter with all the obedient passivity of a mob of extras who are fully aware that their part in the thing is purely to make the superstars look good. When the Dream Front Three needed to combine for the cameras, Burnley gave them all the space they needed; when the Dream Front Three needed to score, Burnley were at pains not to inconvenience them, at one point even subjecting each other to meaty off-the-ball challenges in order to ensure that the day’s neon-lit narrative was not disturbed.

Tougher tests will therefore await, but this was still rousing stuff.

Sonny, who appears to have adjusted his coordinates to pop up less centrally and more towards the left since the renaissance of Bale, made a welcome return to his sprightly self after a bit of a lull in recent weeks. This geographic shift perhaps lends itself to being Creator rather than Finisher, but Son appeared to have no objection to the modification of his job description, and was at the heart of many of our quicker and more penetrating routines.

Kane, for his part, looked thoroughly irked at the indignity of having seen a goal scored within two minutes against Burnley that did not feature him, and set about doing his damnedest to correct that particular clerical error at the earliest opportunity, lashing in shots until one went in; at which point he calmed down and settled back into life within the collective of The Dream Front Three.

2. The Dream Front Three: Bale

Meanwhile Bale, as threatened in recent weeks against Wolfsberger (twice) and West Ham, bobbed about the place with the swagger of a fellow who is one of the best in the business and is pretty well aware of the fact.

He does still wander along with a look of some disdain for those statistics that litter the modern game around yards run, and sprints sprinted, and jugs of breath inhaled and whatnot; but it matters not when a chap has Special Dispensation Because He Is Bale. While not exactly the tireless blur of legs that, for example, defines Sonny, peak Bale possesses a threat that can destroy teams with a couple of well-judged swings of his left tentacle. These have been in evidence in recent weeks, both in the sweet contact for his goals against Wolfsberger but also in the link-up play when drifting in from the right, and all of the above was evidenced again today.

His opening goal was hardly the most spectacular of his career, but was still a triumph for those who enjoy a well-timed run from deep, executed as if some sort of meta-joke in reference to Dele Alli. More usefully, it set the tone for a pretty idyllic afternoon stroll in the sun, taking the pressure of everyone concerned and giving a licence to The Dream Front Three to do dreamy things.

Bale’s pass for Kane’s goal was pretty indulgent stuff, those sprayed, long-range passes being the reserve of those who consider themselves above the rank-and-file of the Premier League, and his audacity to undertake such a project was indicative of an egg who is thoroughly enjoying life.

‘Tis true, he has looked like he has been enjoying life from the moment he re-signed, but more on account of the barrel of laughs that have kept him entertained while watching on from the bench, judging by the televised evidence of him chuckling away on the sidelines every week. While encouraging to see a man in high spirits, he has done little to contribute to the greater good while wrapped up and sedentary, so there was much to welcome about the sight of him today ambling into the spotlight, demanding the ball and spreading play.

Most eye-catchingly, at one point he also treated us to a throwback of Bale at the Lane, when he knocked the ball past his full-back, took him on in a short sprint and comfortably triumphed. This, combined with the absolutely sumptuous technique in his finishing, generously demonstrated again today for his fourth, is the stuff that really gets the masses chattering in excitement, and these little glimpses of the Bale of old bode well for the remainder of the season.

The interplay between The Dream Front Three at times did make the eyes widen with excitement. Stay fit and continue to play together, and one suspects that their understanding and combinations will only improve, which makes the heart race a bit, what?

3. Lucas

AANP is only too well aware that being the youngest of four siblings can at times be a pretty dispiriting gig, particularly in one’s formative years when nature dictates that you are comfortably the least accomplished of the gang. And when perching on the starting blocks and looking up to behold The Dream Front Three scattered around him, I could therefore sympathise with Lucas Moura, who, while possessed of his own set of handy talents, is nevertheless a man whose own mother would have a tough time putting him on the same lofty pedestal as Kane, Son and Bale.

Lucas, one might argue, ranks more alongside Messrs Bergwijn and Lamela in quality, and appears to be scrapping it out with these two and Dele for the coveted Number 10 role, with Senor Lo Celso presumably at some point also due to pop back into frame and offer his tuppence worth.

One therefore had to be careful not to place too much pressure upon Lucas, or, to put it more bluntly, not to judge him by the same standards of his starrier chums. The poor fellow also had to contend with the fact that AANP has made pretty public in recent weeks a level of dissatisfaction with his output, chiefly centring on his obsessions with dribbling past as many opponents as drift into his eyeline. Disheartening stuff for the man to read each week, no doubt.

Today, however, I thought Lucas made a decent fist of things. His energy was impressive, and probably necessary given that scampering around incessantly is not quite the principal virtue of G. Bale Esquire. Lucas also job-shared with Harry Kane the duty of dropping into midfield to help out the frontline staff who were getting their hands dirty, one of the game’s less glamorous undertakings but a box that no doubt needed ticking.

And I am also a personal fan of the young bean’s penchant for treating every opportunity that falls to him without discrimination, but simply lashing it as hard as his little legs allow, and trusting in God to do the rest. On one occasion today this sent the ball into orbit; on another occasion he thumped it straight at the ‘keeper, when any modicum of deftness would have brought about a goal; but the ‘Close Your Eyes And Hammer It’ approach duly struck oil on his other opportunity, so well done him.

The personal preference in these parts would be for peak Dele to make Number 10 his own, or, if tireless industry is specifically required, Erik Lamela. Indeed, a fit-again Lo Celso would also be above Lucas in the pecking order if I had my way on these things; but there can be few grumbles about either Lucas’ input or output today.

4. Davinson Sanchez

Another of our lot whose persual of these pages in recent weeks will have tested his fortitude is Davinson Sanchez. If being left to chew turf by Gundogan a few weeks ago represented the nadir of Sanchez’ Tottenham career, then his backheeled pass to a teammate in the 79th minute might well have been its zenith. Party tricks aside however, in general, this will go down in The Book of Records as one of his finest displays in lilywhite.

Four-nil though the scoreline might have been – and a pretty fair reflection of affairs at that – this was not a game without incident for the centre-backs. Make no mistake, Sanchez earned his weekly envelope today.

Burnley have generally offered a pretty stern physical and aerial test over the years, and this Sanchez (and Toby) withstood well, all the more so given that Lloris’ attitude of non-interference means that he will stay on his line come hell or high water, and that the centre-backs cannot not expect a damn jot of help from his quarter.

And having been given nightmares by the twists and turns of Gundogan on terra firma a few weeks back, Sanchez also deserves credit for sticking to his guns when similar attempts on his dignity were made today. In the areas of both shepherding and blocking, he seemed to meet all challenges thrown his way, and even at one point displayed his rarely-sighted burst of pace.

Now I’ve heard it said that one swallow does not make a summer, and as I understand it the chap who penned that particular gag was referring specifically to Sanchez and the prospect of him turning in a solid performance, the gist being that a clean sheet against Burnley does not mean Sanchez is guaranteed to be the bedrock upon which a watertight Tottenham defence will be built for years to come. And this seems a reasonable assertion, for there is plenty of evidence in the bank pointing to Sanchez being anything but bedrock as he goes about his duties.

Nevertheless, this was encouraging stuff, both in terms of the practical output and the confidence it will give him. One hopes that he can bash out similar fare against Fulham in midweek, because I think we would all breathe a little easier if the centre-back pairing in N17 began at least to look the part.