Igor Tudor – All Action, No Plot

Fulham 1-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The New Manager Slump

Just to prove that it’s not all whiskey-odoured spillages and cantankerous grumblings from the armchair, AANP had the jolly dubious ‘pleasure’ – a term not so much being misused in this sentence as straightforwardly butchered – of commentating on the latest debacle of the Good Ship Hotspur this afternoon, live and from a near-enough front row seat at Craven Cottage. Couldn’t have buried my head in my hands if I’d wanted to.

Needless to say, this being 2026 and all, our lot stank the place out for nigh-on the majority. Whiffling a goal out of thin air on the hour mark at least lent an air of respectability in the record books I suppose, and as is their wont our heroes will probably pat themselves on the back for applying a spot of added-time pressure, creating the illusion of a close-run thing.

Don’t be fooled, however. At half-time, a bunch of stats were thrust in my face, providing a bit of the old ammo for listeners, including the frankly astonishing record that at that point we’d had more shots on goal than the other lot.

Be that as it may (and closer inspection revealed that this included those speculative jobs from 30 yards that were charged down immediately upon leaving the lilywhite boot, without ever getting anywhere near the oppo goal), our lot were a rotten old mess. A sprinkling of Too-Little-Too-Late back and forthing around their area at the death hardly changes that.

None of which is particularly surprising, as we’ve watched this nonsense for nigh on two seasons without interruption now, but the concern here is that this Episode 2 of the Tudor era, and, well… not to be indelicate, but isn’t something supposed to happen at this point? ‘New Manager Bounce’ and all that hokum? Ought it not to have kicked in about now? Or, as my Spurs-supporting chum Dave so pithily put it, are we the only club in history who bring in a new manager and immediately become worse?

I suppose an optimist might argue that we are no worse, simply at the same level; but when Vicario, supposedly one of the few leaders of this inept pack, took aim and blasted a free kick from halfway straight out for a goal kick at the other end of the pitch, the words did slightly stick in my throat rather than spilling freely into the microphone. If nothing else, I suppose, we have ourselves a red-hot favourite in the race to be the clip that sums up the current management reign.

Returning to the New Manager Bounce, I scratch the old loaf a bit because one simply expects a reaction to the new chappie. Admittedly this Tudor fellow has been dealt a pretty duff hand in terms of personnel, and injuries, and so on. And as for formations, there are only so many positions into which diehard 6 out of 10ers like Dragusin and Gallagher can be shunted.

But I had expected a dash more purpose and vim about our play, a general sense of bullishness and enthusiasm. We might not necessarily have dizzied Fulham with an array of scorching one-touch passes, but I had rather hoped that we might simply overwhelm them with a relentless energy bordering on the violent.

Instead, there seemed to be a lot of the usual mediocre fluff that has been shoved down our gullets for the last year or so. Kolo Muani flinging up his hands, and Porro dedicating energies to writhing on the ground. Dragusin blooting the ball into no man’s land and Gallagher scurrying this way and that like an ownerless wind-up toy. One almost wonders if Tudor’s arrival actually has inspired the troops after all.

Sitting in on the press conference afterwards for an earwig, I got the impression that Tudor is the sort of soul whose default setting is to stomp moodily about any room in which he finds himself. He barked a fair bit about the VAR shout for the first goal (in his defence, in answer to a question); glared around as if trying to decide at whom to throw a chair; and ultimately resorted to answers of the curt variety before rising to his feet and stomping off again. I suppose one might paint him as the sort of character to strike the fear of God into some of the more nervous squad members, but frankly an inspirational sort of chump he did not seem.

2. Sliver Linings. Well, Not Really, But The Least Dreadful Performances

Young Monsieur Tel bounded around like a garçon with a point to prove after his arrival, so that was nice. On one or two occasions, for a glorious couple of seconds, he looked like he might be about to Ginola his way in and out of the entire Fulham defence. It didn’t quite work, but even on a good day it’s rather cheering to see a fellow put his head down and slalom through opposition defence, so with so little else to raise the spirits his was a welcome contribution.

Our goal was a bit of a curio, by virtue of being entirely out of keeping with what had gone on in the preceding hour or so. For our heroes actually to open up the Fulham defence was a bit of an event, so well done to Messrs Tel and Gray for having the bright idea.

I also send a shrug of acknowledgement the way of Richarlison, for having the good sense to direct his free header into the net, before, naturally, picking up another of those Richarlison yellow cards that we can file under ‘Ludicrous and Unnecessary’.

It’s hardly a national secret that AANP is no huge fan of the chap, he being more likely to trip over his own feet and then start a fight with his shadow than actually produce moments of Brazilian magic in the lilywhite of Spurs. However, this afternoon, once introduced, he prowled and bumped and buffeted his way through proceedings, seemingly adopting the view that if he could not best Fulham with flair he would instead start fights of both the subtle and unsubtle varieties. I was glad to see someone in lilywhite (or, rather, natty black) care quite so much.

And I think that’s about as far as the praise extends today. The rest of them can pretty much go and boil their heads.

3. The VAR Shout

I’m rather reluctant to give this airtime, because, as last week, doing so creates the utterly false impression that if the decision had gone our way then the outcome might have been different. I think nothing of the sort. Our lot stank the place out inf the first half, and VAR call or no VAR call, we were good value for a 2-0 half-time deficit. Immediately prior to our goal, Smith-Rowe ought really to have dinked the game to bed. This was a well-earned defeat.

Nevertheless, one does rather wave the arms in frustration in seeing a replica of last week’s Kolo Muani shove go unpunished when executed against us this week. No doubt someone or other with a flair for these things will adjust their spectacles, bury their head in the minutiae of the game and insist something about on-field decisions that means that actually, everything was carried out to a ‘t’. But from the AANP vantage point it was a pretty rummy turn of events, what with one week’s two-handed push to the back receiving the finger-wag, and another week’s two-handed p. being gaily waved away.

Barely worth arguing about, however; we lost this one by virtue of being second-best rather than because of a refereeing call.

Spurs 1-4 Arsenal: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Tudor Reign

It would be a stretch to say that AANP went into this one feeling positively optimistic, that term being officially defined by the dictionary as “Feeling bobbish, to the extent that when asked for a score prediction one tips the cap at a jaunty angle and smiles a particularly devilish smile”. This was most certainly not AANP pre-match. After all, new manager or not, it was still the same clueless rabble tasked with going out onto the pitch.

Nevertheless, if anything were going to put a little pep into the AANP step, the replacement of that last chap by literally anyone else was a sure-fire bet. It could have been you, it could have been me – as it happened, it was this Igor Tudor chap, and while I don’t know much about his history, the one thing I do know is that he is not, and never has been, Thomas Frank. This represented a definite and sizeable tick against his name.

As hinted at above, there was of course, a limit to what Gospodin Tudor could do ahead of this one. An available manager with a spot of experience in fighting short-term fires he might be, but he’s not a bally magician. Expecting him to plot a way of running rings around the other lot was probably a bit much. Realistically, if he had learnt everyone’s names he had probably hit the acceptable target for week one.

So when our heroes came bounding onto the pitch, AANP’s expectations were suitably limited. To their credit, they certainly did not lack for enthusiasm. Word had evidently got around that North London expected, as a minimum, a demonstration that this occasion mattered; and accordingly, to a man, they tore about the place in the early knockings, racing after the ball like cheetahs spotting some lesser beasts in the Serengeti.

However, what added an odd, and slightly comical edge to proceedings, was that for all their gusto, our lot couldn’t actually get near the ball. For the opening half hour we barely made it into the Woolwich half. In fact, in that opening half hour I’m not sure we touched the ball at all more than half a dozen times.

Every now and then, Bissouma or VDV or whoever it happened to be would successfully get a toe onto the ball to ram it out of play, and the place would erupt. And swept up in the matter, I happily piped up with a throaty roar of approval too. But on catching my breath, the awkward realisation dawned that while we treating every stumbling half-tackle to a standing ovation and a general slapping of each other’s backs, for the other 99 per cent of the time the other lot were running rings around us.

Team Lilywhite, by contrast, could barely find time to gasp for breath before being dragged beneath the surface again. Of a neat, one-touch triangle there was no sign. Actual sustained pressure and creation of chances was the stuff of fantasy. In that first half, for all the good, honest beads of perspiration, the only real triumphs were the occasional tackles that sent the ball out of touch. As brave new eras go, it was fair to say that this one had yet to build up a head of steam.

Still, we snaffled a goal out of nothing, and made it to half-time battered and bloodied but with a faint pulse still registering. Given that the other lot know how to duff up a good thing better than most, there seemed to be a sliver of hope. Moreover, our eleven heroes out on the pitch seemed not to have registered how obviously second-best they were, and were still gamely charging after every loose ball, which was rather charming.

Alas, that was as good as it got, as Woolwich forgot how to choke, the tight margins went against us, the absence of so many from the bench loomed rather starkly into view and what challenge we had offered rather seeped away.

Despite the incessant crowing from my Woolwich-supporting chums over the last 24 hours, AANP won’t be losing too much sleep over this particular reverse, it having been against one of the more organised and efficient mobs around; but with a full week ahead to roll up the sleeves and bark out instruction in not-quite-perfect English, I would jolly well expect a Tudor-inspired uptick to commence from next weekend at Fulham.

2. Irritating Mistakes

Expectations having been dutifully managed, even at half-time it seemed that a solid hammering was the likeliest outcome, but I was nevertheless rather miffed that in the second half we rather gifted the other lot their goals.

The third – which struck me as the mortal blow – may have ended up in our net via a circuitous route, replete with ricochets and stumbles at every turn, but the dashed thing came about because of a pretty gormless piece of play in the first place from young Dragusin.

A shame, because in the first half, the chap seemed to understand the assignment, and by and large did what was required. While I doubt I will ever back in him a foot-race, and his distribution always prompts a sharp intake of AANP breath, he is the sort of lumbering unit who seems to enjoy a spot of last-ditching in his own penalty area, and in the first half he took the opportunity to demonstrate this capacity with a handful of timely headers, blocks and general inserting of self into the sort of cramped positions that prevented Woolwich sorts from shooting freely.

He gummed up operations considerably for that third though. Pape Sarr, just inside his own half, had the bright idea to send the ball back to Dragusin, outside his own area and under no pressure, but – and as it turned out, critically – at head-height. This was admittedly a complicating factor. One would have hoped that, seasoned international that he is, Dragusin might have been able to bring the thing under a degree of control, perhaps pulling it down closer to earth before sending it off into the heavens.

Instead, he chose the rather dubious option of sending forward a header at an equally awkward height, towards Bissouma. While I suppose one might half-heartedly applaud the fact that he found his own teammate, any further praise rather sticks in the throat, because there are players a dashed sight better than Bissouma who would have treated such an unhelpful pass with a wobble and a murderous glare back at him.

Anyway, Bissouma, having expended all his useful energy in the first half, was not about to battle for a sub-standard pass in his direction, and before you could murmur “Dash it, one good pass and they’re in on goal”, that horrible lot were in on goal.

Similarly, already in a state of significant disgruntlement by the time the 94^th minute rolled around, the pompous dallying of young Spence did little to gruntle me. That Spence is a pest. He undoubtedly has a trick or two in his locker, and one is gripped by the urge to yelp “Ole!” whenever his elastic limbs bamboozle an opponent and magic the ball the other side of them – but the ability to drag the ball around an opponent dost not a Pele make.

High up on the Tudor To-Do List should be the task of shaking Spence violently by the shoulders and drilling into him that he has not half as good as he thinks he is, and should just focus on the basics until we are at least three goals up in any given match.

Being far too convinced of his own abilities, Spence attempted to slalom his way around a couple of the opposition rotters when inside his own area, and not for the first time when attempting such ill-advised tomfoolery was left with a whole omlette’s worth on his face. Woolwich emerged with the ball, and before you could murmur “Dash it, one good pass and they’re in on goal again”, that horrible lot were in on goal again.

This is not to suggest that had every individual error been removed we would have gone toe-to-toe and emerged triumphant – but no need to roll out the red carpet for them, what?

I do sympathise to an extent – willing nibs like Palhinha and Archie Gray did their damnedest, but made the sort of positional mistake (for the second) that one might expect of a central midfield being asked to slot in at the back and hope no-one notices; while for the fourth poor old Archie Gray put in the sort of challenge that one might expect from a boy in a man’s world, and was more or less shoved out of the way without a second thought by that Gyokeres rotter.

So while these shortcomings are hardly the faults of Messrs P. and G., the more block-headed errors detailed previously were entirely avoidable.

3. A Forlorn Grumble

For the avoidance of doubt, even had we eked out a surreptitious draw, it would have been quite the act of larceny. Defeat by a three-goal margin sounded about right.

Nevertheless, had the disallowed Kolo-Muani goal been allowed to stand, many a neutral onlooker would have rubbed their hands and licked their lips in anticipation of Woolwich imploding once more. No knowing how events might have panned out of course, but in the absence of any hint of attacking patterns, one has to cling to whatever passing wreckage presents itself.

One understands why the goal was disallowed – two hands to the back does have a pretty incriminating look about it. And a standard AANP motto at this point is “Don’t give the referee the option”. Put another away, if R.K-M had kept his hands to himself, we might have jigged off down the High Road with a point in the bag.

However, even the two-handed contact, such as it was, was hardly enough to send Gabriel flailing off in the air like that. If you don’t mind a spot of top-level physiology, when one unexpectedly takes a bump or stumble, and finds themselves off-balance, the instinct is to shoot the hands downwards, to prevent the fall. Cushion the blow, as it were. It’s what might call Nature’s Way.

Closer inspection of that bounder Gabriel, however, reveals that on receiving his pat on the back he flung his arms upwards, a sure sign of a spot of the old Hollywood. And not just his arms in fact. The irritating drip flung out every available limb and fairly propelled himself through the air, just to make sure that he made the highlights reel. It was actually a pretty risky manoeuvre, for he would have looked quite the dimwit if the ref had rolled his eyes and waved matters on.

As it turns out, the Match of the Day hawks were also onto this, pointing out that earlier this season a similar push by Liverpool’s Ekitike on our very own Cristian Romero went unpunished, to the tune of a goal conceded, so there’s certainly a precedent for this sort of thing being allowed to fly. (Another moan about this might be to ask whether a penalty would have been awarded had a similar push been effected upon a striker – one assumes not).

To repeat, that moment is by no means the reason we lost yesterday. Our latest Glorious Leader did at least seem to spark some life and willing into the troops; next up he simply needs to instil at least the faintest hint of tactical strategy.