Tag: Kevin Danso

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Spurs news, rants

The End of The Postecoglou Era: 6 Tottenham Talking Points

So Our Glorious Leader is gone – long live whichever poor squirt is roped in next. But while we await the appointment of Grandmaster Levy’s next wretched plaything, some reflections on the end of the Postecoglou era.

1. League Form

Might as well head straight to the meaty stuff – Ange was elbowed out for finishing 17th. Shiny European pots be damned, seemed to be the gist of the farewell message from the club (although I was rather tickled by the line that burbled “We are extremely grateful to Ange”, it prompting me to wonder what ingratitude would look like).

Now, it’s a bit early in the piece, but I’m going to set off on my first digression already, and it’s because one well-meaning sort put it to me recently that if the bottom three hadn’t been so bad we might have been relegated.

AANP isn’t really much of a lad for historical hypotheticals. Suggest to me that if such and such had happened differently some time in the past then things would have turned out a dashed sight differently, and you’ll get a pretty blank stare in return. Possibly a gentle sigh too. The reason being I just don’t see the point in that brand of thinking. Far more useful to discuss what actually happened.

So for avoidance of doubt, Ange wrote off the League campaign precisely because the bottom three were so bad that there was no danger of relegation, instead shoving every available egg into his Europa basket and taking his plunge.

If that theory were cleared with Daniel Levy back in January, it’s a pretty safe bet that none involved anticipated finishing 17th – but finish 17th we did.

One can throw in last season’s harvest too, although there the plot does thicken a bit, as both sides begin marking their run-up. The Pro-Ange brigade point to 5th, followed by a trophy, and rather pointedly say no more but dish out one of those pointed stares.

This line of reasoning rather tugs at the heart-strings. Who amongst us can forget the dizzy highs of last summer, when Angeball fizzed us to the top of the pile, and not just that, but did so while peddling some absolutely whizz-popping football too? When put like that, one does become rather misty-eyed and start murmuring guff about glory, and tradition, and whatnot.

The more mischievous amongst the Pro Ange brigade could even evoke the entirely accurate gambit that Ange’s record reads 5th in his first season, and CL qualification in his second, the whole thing garnished with a trophy – a factually correct interjection guaranteed to prompt a pretty passionate response either way.

However, at this point the Ange Out mob roll their eyes and interrupt, to make clear that, after the first 10 games of last season, our form fell off a cliff. And nor did it stop there. I don’t know if you’ve ever fallen off a cliff, but as I understand, though deeply unpleasant, the whole experience is done in a matter of seconds, as Gravity takes charge and the ground looms into view pretty quickly. The problem with our heroes under Ange was that having fallen off that cliff, they just kept right on falling. In fact, our form continued to plunge in pretty uninterrupted fashion for about 18 months. From Nov ’23 right through to May ’25, to be precise. Which is a heck of a long time to be falling, by any metric.

It’s a punchy argument. If you pick up the thread after the 10th game of last season (Chelsea at home, for the evocative amongst you) our Win-Draw-Loss record for the remainder, of 12-4-12, was at best middling – and for avoidance of any further doubt, this season’s numbers read a rather ghastly 11-5-22.

And having had a season and a half to weave his magic, the Ange Out contingent continue, rather hotting up at this point, what the hell reason is there to expect things to pick up next time around?

2. Change the Squad, Not the Manager?

It’s difficult to counter that one, but AANP is nothing if not wilfully obtuse. Passing mules have been known to pause and take notes when catching yours truly digging in the heels to defend the indefensible.

And the point I swoop in on here is that the problem was not so much the manager as the squad. From January, Ange opted to keep the top-tier performers for European jollies, instead shoving out the reserves for the weekend’s PL appointments.

In particular, Messrs VDV and Romero were strictly curfewed. Ange’s medical understanding may have raised a few eyebrows over the last two seasons, but if there’s one thing he clocked it’s that VDV is constructed of balsa wood and blu-tac, and that the risk of damage to his various moving parts ought to be minimised.

As a result, we regularly fulfilled our PL commitments with such luminaries as Dragusin, Davies, Gray and Danso manning the back-door, and while the latter pair in particular showed that they could just about keep their heads above water, there was an unmistakeable drop in quality.

That focuses on the centre-backs alone, but the point about the drop in quality – or the alternative, of running into the ground poor saps such as Solanke – suggests that ours was not a squad good enough to compete in two different competitions.

And, crucially, I see no reason why any new manager will find the situation to be any different when trying to balance Champions League with Premier League next season (plus a domestic cup or two).

As I saw it put neatly elsewhere a week or two ago, rather than changing manager, our lot would do well to improve the playing squad.

3. The Game Is About Glory?

A well-worn argument this, so if you think you’re better off skipping over this bit and casting the eye instead over the next chapter, AANP fully understands.

The nub of this one is that finishing 5th – or indeed 2nd – is all well and good, and buys the club a ticket to the land of milk and honey – but the satisfaction of scanning the league table after Matchday 38 and seeing the club in the top five rows of a glorified spreadsheet does not compare to the feelings brought about by that Wednesday night in Bilbao, or the Friday afternoon on the High Road.

I suppose going 17 years without a trophy added a certain colour to the moment – I can’t imagine City fans feel the same giddy ecstasy when they lift the PL pot year after year – but there are just no words to describe that unique sense of joy felt when we won the Europa League last month, what?

The point I’m getting at is that winning a trophy is, to an extent, the point of the whole thing. When the great D.B. rattle off that line about the game being about the glory, he knew what he was about.

So for those who click the tongue and point out we finish 17th – which, as alluded to above, is a robust riposte, which does merit a spot of animated discussion – I wonder where the line is drawn. That is to say, at what point is the absence of a trophy justified by the league position.

At this point, I like to grab a notepad, produce a pencil, and start to draw up these things systematically. Starting with the next spot up – 16th, and no trophy, is pretty obviously not going to cut it. A manager would need the world’s most extenuating circumstances, and probably a top of the range lawyer too, to escape the sack in that instance.

And one can shimmy up the table a bit further with the same conclusion. 11th or 10th, without a trophy, would almost certainly have seen Levy give his axe a merry swing, and I’m not sure too many of the diehards would have been able to argue against any such move (which might make Messrs Silva and Frank shuffle their feet a little nervously).

But what about 6th, without a trophy? This does of course simplify the argument rather deviously, for the Postecoglou trajectory has done little to suggest that 6th will be in the offing next season (although the squad depth argument could again be invoked here, as I genuinely wonder if the greatest managers in history of the game could poke and prod our current squad into a decent CL run and a 6th placed finish).

Nevertheless, the question remains of whether 6th without a trophy would have been acceptable. If in two seasons’ time, the new chap at the helm has on his CV a record of 5th – as per Ange – followed by 6th, and no trophy, is he treated to a P45 and bland social media announcement? Anyone waiting for Daniel Levy to open up and treat them to a detailed discourse on precisely which position is acceptable to him in these circumstances might be advised to pack some supplies and a good book. We’ve had all the explanation we’re going to get from that quarter.

Nevertheless, given that Ange’s decision to write off the league and win a trophy did not cut the mustard in the corridors of power at N17, the question of which league position would have been acceptable without a trophy burns pretty feverishly here.

4. Our Next Glorious Leader

The other gripe here at AANP Towers is that the names being touted do not exactly inspire confidence. The new chap will, of course, have the full AANP backing. Nothing but.

However, Frank’s recent finishes are 10th, 16th, 9th and 13th; and Silva’s are 11th, 13th and 10th, with nary a pot to wave aboard an open-topped bus between the pair. I confess, in a moment of weakness, I flung up a careless hand and declined to check the records of the other names being bandied about the place, but I’m willing to assert that they in terms of league finishes – and that seems to be the currency de jour – this mob are not exactly the new incarnations of Ferguson and Wenger.

Now, extenuating circumstances seep from the walls when discussing this lot. Weaker squads, limited finances, impressive over-achievement – anyone labelling either Frank or Silva (or Iranola or any of the other lot) as King of the Mugs would probably need a sit-down and a bit of a talking to. These are knowledgeable beans, and they’ve done pretty impressive stuff in their own little contexts.

Another point worth jabbing a finger at is that one M. Pochettino Esq. was hardly swimming in silverware and dripping with Top Four finishes when he rocked up in N17. And indeed, those who did arrive with gleaming CVs did not take the club much further than we had previously been.

Nevertheless, sacking one manager – who’s just brought in a European trophy – simply to eye up someone who’s best efforts are mid-table water-treading is a bit of a hard sell. AANP is not easily swayed on matters of importance. The argument for the next man in will need to be a convincing one.

5. Rebuild

On top of which, anyone expecting an instant and successful transformation probably needs a friendly hand on their shoulder, and a bit of an explanation of how life works at Tottenham Hotspur. And frankly, I do not have the moral fibre to sit through yet another dashed two-year rebuild.

The current squad might lack depth, but it is – or was – gradually being fashioned into a model that played a certain way. What formation will they all have to adapt to next, in the space of two months? Which poor eggs will find themselves surplus to requirements, having just spent the last two years pruning their deliveries to cater for the previous Big Cheese? If the contemplation of this sort of thing has you wearily reaching for a beakerful of something strengthening you are not alone.

It should also be noted that the players have evidently been tripping over themselves to bash out their social media tributes to the previous incumbent. No doubt they’ll all line up to parrot the appropriate lines when the new fellow is installed, but even the most cynical amongst us will probably have detected that the current vintage had a fondness for Ange. A dashed shame that that now goes the way of all flesh – and I for one am a mite concerned that certain amongst our number might take this as a cue to jump ship, in what one might call a Ruddock-Venables Gambit.

6. Timing

I could go on – so I will. Having waited 17 years to win a trophy, we were only given 16 days to enjoy it, dash it, before this fresh hell was sprinkled about the place.

In truth, if you’re going to sack your manager, better to get a wriggle on pronto, as I believe Shakespeare more or less said. No point in letting the blade come down in early August if you can do it in early June.

What does peeve considerably, however, is that the finishing touches have evidently not yet been applied to the bagging of the new chappie. Who knows, perhaps the opening touches have not yet been applied either? Whatever the case, the absence of touches is disconcerting.

I cannot be the only lilywhite considerably stung by the farce of the post-Jose period, in which the good ship Hotspur careered rather wildly this way and that in search of a new manager, publicly courting and being rejected by one knowing soul after another.

Liverpool, Woolwich et al are already cherry-picking new blood for their squads, and meanwhile our heroes mooch around in limbo. (And if anyone mentions to me that Ben Davies’ contract has been extended they’ll be subject to one of my more withering efforts.)

However, in moments of trial and tribulation AANP has often found that the best course of action is to seek solace from the first two Terminator films, and while it’s not strictly true that there is no fate but what we make – our fate being pretty firmly within the paws of Grandmaster Levy – it as at least true that the future is not set, so perhaps we can contemplate the prospect of having even more glory shovelled our way next time out.

As for Ange, decades hence when lilywhite fans look back, maybe they will chunter about finishing 17th or maybe they won’t; but he earns his lifetime’s free drinks at AANP Towers for taking us on one heck of a ride, winning us a trophy and, for a few days at least, bringing a joy to the place like none I had previously experienced.

Need some Spurs-based reading material to see you through the summer? Want to relive the utterly bonkers ride that was Ange’s first season at Spurs? ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is available for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99) 

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-4 Brighton: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Bentancur’s Hangover Cure

I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn when I describe this one as “inconsequential”. The definition the nearest dictionary throws out me is “Adjective: Not important or significant”, and while I assume that professionalism forbad The Brains Trust from imparting such sage and accurate assessment to our heroes immediately prior to kick-off, the unspoken word was very evidently firing on all cylinders. Everyone knew. Never mind that a full house was in attendance, the outcome of this one was not really the key issue that had the masses gripped.

Nevertheless, before our heroes could provide cold, hard and shiny evidence of being trophy-winners and champions of Europe, there was a match to be played, so the appropriate pleasantries were undertaken.

And I suspect I was as surprised as anyone else in the auditorium when various members of the collective burst out of the traps. After events of the preceding 72 or so hours, sprightliness and energy were frankly the last things I was expecting to see. One did not have to be one of the great literary sleuths to work out that our heroes had flung heart and soul into enjoying the moment – and to a man, woman and child we applauded them and egged them on.

If AANP were asked to put a hand on the Bible and commit to telling the truth and nothing but, he would admit to having sucked of the sauce when circumstances demanded, and even of having over-indulged in this area on the rare, regrettable occasion. But it is with the benefit of this experience that I can assert with some confidence that while the imbibing of choice elixirs can be an absolute hoot in the moment – with the right company about, and the right concoction in hand – what comes to pass in the following days can prove seriously challenging to the constitution.

It was in this context that I expected a near-total absence of enthusiasm from our heroes. You can therefore picture my surprise on observing that Rodrigo Bentancur began the game as arguably the most animated of the entire gang.

Here was a man who seemingly had refused to stand upright unless clutching a vial of some description in the hand in the days following our win. By all accounts he also refused to sleep for a day or so after our triumph, evidently reasoning that Nature’s Sweet Restorer comes a distant second to immersing oneself in the joy of a European trophy win.

No blame attached there at all, but where he therefore found the vim to tear around the pitch from the opening whistle, flying into challenges as if his life depended on them, was beyond me. In my experience, a soft pillow and some closed curtains are the principal requirements after a few consecutive days on the bottle. The moral of that particular story seemed to be to find out the morning-after cure adopted by our Uruguayan cousins and cherish it as gold dust.

In fact, if anything, Bentancur was swanning about the place with a bit too much spice. An early challenge down by the byline seemed to have about it much of the two-feet-leaving-the-ground, and only a linesman’s flag for offside negated that at source as an argument, but shortly before half-time he did pick up a caution, as possibly his fifth full-length diving challenge of the afternoon delivered a harvest of Ball – None; Man – Plenty.

All this was particularly striking because although Bentancur is not exactly a stranger to a yellow card, his is a reputation that has been built more upon the cerebral and well-anticipated interception, rather than the crunching, not-too-many-damns-given flying boot.

However, a midfield incarnation of Romero on his more hot-headed days was evidently the persona he wished to adopt yesterday, and that decision having been made he embraced it with gusto. Allowing for those occasional errant and mistimed challenges, this was a midfield performance that was pretty impressive.

2. Gray

Another who caught the AANP eye in that punchy first half was Archie Gray. His has been quite the character arc this season. As we all recall, having been shoved into central defence, and presumably advised to enjoy himself but keep mistakes to a minimum, he proceeded to flabbergast by patrolling the region like a seasoned pro, and was feted accordingly. When he therefore finally received his chance in his preferred midfield habitat, lips were licked and gleeful hands rubbed.

Alas, and as was again well documented, what had been presented as a pretty surefire winner, went alarmingly wrong. His performance in midfield against Liverpool in particular was pretty ghastly stuff, and while one might reason with some justification that he hasn’t been quite as bad in midfield since, this truth does nevertheless overlook the fact that he has not been particularly good in midfield since, either.

Until yesterday, that is, when in the first half I thought he pottered about with a bit of meaning. It was what one might have termed a pretty decent Bentancur Tribute Act. He intercepted, he picked passes and he tackled – the latter talent notably deployed in winning possession high up the pitch in the episode that immediately resulted in Tel scurrying into the area and winning the penalty.

The inconsequential air that hung around the place throughout meant that useful conclusions drawn were at a premium, and any performances, rip-snorting or otherwise, were best advised to be taken with a generous pinch of salt. Nevertheless, I was encouraged to see real-life evidence that, when the stars align, Archie Gray actually can hit various of the right notes in a midfield role.

3. Danso

Kevin Danso was another who, on a day and in a match of greater consequence, might have earned himself a complimentary inclination of the head.

The case of Kevin Danso specifically at AANP Towers has been a slightly rummy one so far this season, because practically everyone with whom I have conversed on the topic has rather brightly suggested that here’s a one with something about him, only to be met with one of my more dubious eyes. Which is not to say I thought he’d stunk out the place so far; more that I hadn’t really been bowled over by his defensive contributions. One of those non-committal shrugs accompanied by one of those non-committal platitudes summed up the AANP take on the chap to date.

That started to change on Wednesday night, when I thought he was note-perfect in his little defensive cameo, to help us see the thing home. It was not an occasion that called for vision and distribution, just clear-headed thinking and a willingness to fling all available limbs into the line of fire.

Having impressed thus, he was given a slightly different remit yesterday, tasked with overseeing defensive matters instead of rather than alongside Romero. With VDV given an hour on the left of the centre-backs, Danso was presumably required to do Romero-type things, such as winning headers and cutting out crosses, and in the first half in particular he impressed in these respects.

If this could be considered an audition of sorts, for the role of Romero understudy, one might suggest that he did enough to earn a couple more stabs. Faultless it wasn’t, but whereas for example Dragusin has sometimes given the impression of a chap who lied in his interview and is being found out now that the real stuff has kicked in, Danso at least gives the impression that he knows what is expected and has played the part before.

4. Tel

A quick word too on Tel, who put in one of those shifts that had me hesitantly hovering the finger over a few different categories.

On the one hand one could make a reasonable argument that, in the first half, the opposing right-back would not have been thrilled to discover that pretty much the entirety of the Tottenham game-plan involved switching the ball to Tel and letting him run. One did not get the impression that the nearest Brighton chappie punched the air and mouthed to his chums, “Leave this one to me” each time the aforementioned routine was put in motion. And if a player’s worth can be gauged by how little thrilled the opposition are by his inputs, then one might suggest Tel added value.

And to embellish the whole argument, one might also point to the fact that it was Tel’s fleetness of foot that won us our penalty. It was clumsy muck from the Brighton squirt, but all the more credit to Tel for enticing such clog-headedness.

On the other hand, however, the AANP map did produce a few frowns as the half wore on, because for all the service he was given, Tel’s ‘End Product’ sack looked pretty empty. The penalty earned is to his credit; but he seemed to have four or five other opportunities to run at his full-back and either tiptoe past him or set up an arriving chum, and I don’t recall him doing either.

Moreover, I do recall him wasting a glorious chance to put us two-nil up later in the first half. One suspects that our bleary-eyed heroes would still have found a way to fritter away such a lead, but nevertheless, it did not reflect too well on young Tel. The disclaimer, however, remains, that this was not really one upon which lasting judgements should be based.

5. The Second Half Hangover

One theory that has reached the AANP ears is that our heroes began the game with the adrenaline of the occasion still coursing through them. With the cheers of the adoring public still ringing in their ears, and the celebratory atmosphere still very much in evidence in the build-up to the game, it has been suggested that come kick-off a rush of euphoria inhabited our heroes, driving them in general, and Bentancur in particular, to impressive heights.

Mark the sequel, however, because the theory continues that by the time the second half scooted into view, that well of adrenaline had begun to run dry. And when that happened, the after-effects of the three-day party really did begin to hit our heroes.

Impressed though I was that none of them actually collapsed on their backs and declared that they had had enough, or crawled over to the nearest lavatory bowl into which they could stick their head, I nevertheless received the distinct impression in that second half that the race was run. The pungent aromas of the previous days’ festivities almost visibly began to creep up on them. While substitutions were made, the fact that those entering the fray had themselves left mountains of evidence of their revelry rather suggested that their impact would be minimal, and so it proved.

However, in the manner that some modern films now do when they try too hard to be clever, I return to the opening line of all this, and stress that this was all pretty inconsequential. Put another way, in years to come, I’m not too sure that many in lilywhite will introduce this as the day on which Spurs lost 4-1, or excitedly babble “I was there on the day we shipped four in the second half alone.”

But “I was there on the day Spurs paraded their European trophy around the pitch”? It’s one to remember.

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

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Aston Villa 2-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1.

Apologies for the tardiness, you know how life is. However, even two sleeps later, one struggles to nail down the silver linings from this one.

Admittedly, this was another fixture quite unashamedly shoved into the “Doesn’t Matter, Don’t Care” pot by Our Glorious Leader – and after the Dejan Kulusevski Episode against Palace the previous week, one did understand his thinking.

Now it is true that our players don’t actually need to be playing competitive matches to pick up their injuries. For instance, our newly-minted Player of the Season, young Bergvall, apparently rolled his ankle on the training pitch. A few months back Solanke’s knee fell off whilst similarly scampering about the roomy pitches of Hotspur Way. One might therefore argue that it was all well and good slapping Romero and VDV in cryo-chambers during the Villa game, and sealing closed the lids, just to make absolutely sure, but merely removing them from the Premier League arena is no guarantee that a piano won’t fall from the sky and onto one of their heads between now and Wednesday night in Bilbao.

However, one still understood Ange’s mentality, having seen the Kulusevski frame irreparably damaged 20 minutes into a meaningless fixture last weekend. With all eggs firmly wedged in the Europa basket there was no way he was going to risk his most prized – and brittle – assets in the final meaningless fixture before Wednesday. Any slightest inclination he might have had towards giving Romero and VDV a chance to break sweat on Friday night would have gone up in a puff of smoke the moment Kulusevski limped off.

Thus it transpired that Mikey Moore was ushered back into the first team changing room. If anyone amongst us had ever taken a look at a new-born foal clambering gingerly to its legs, and immediately written off its chances of surviving more than five minutes in the unforgiving surrounds of the Serengeti, they would have known how to feel when watching young M.M. take to the pitch for kick-off.

Similarly, Sergio Reguilon was reawakened from hibernation, dragged back into the sunlight and told to lace up his boots and blend in with the others as best he could for an hour. Ange could not have made it more obvious that he was fielding the reserves if he had taken out a double-page spread in The Times to advertise the fact.

As it happened, in the first half this assorted crew of outcasts and reserves muddle through. Note the absence of adverb, mind – it would be a stretch to suggest that they muddle through ‘with elan’, or ‘exceptionally well’. One might suggest that they held up an end, if you don’t mind a spot of cricketing parlance. They spat on their hands and toiled away.

To their credit they carried out instructions about as well as could have been hoped, preventing Villa from scoring, albeit this also owed something to some errant finishing and one or two smart-ish stops from young Kinsky. But if the last words ringing in their ears prior to kick-off had been “Try to avoid complete humiliation” then they could probably have patted one another’s backs at half-time on a box emphatically ticked.

In fact, if anything we looked slightly likelier than Villa to score in that first half, in one of those quirks of football that come about when you defend deep for 10 minutes at a time. Every now and then when we cleared our lines it transpired that the Villa mob had inadvertently wandered so high up the pitch that there were actually inviting counter-attack opportunities. Our attacking mob being nothing if not blessed with a spot of pace, this caused a spot of panic for Villa as they rushed back and our heroes came within one well-picked pass of taking the lead.

In a nutshell, that first half struck me as the sort of thing one would get if Nuno were back in charge and had the troops well drilled. Rather a far cry from Angeball, but this is where we find ourselves, what?

The wheels came off somewhat in the second half, as some rather basic defensive lapses let Villa pinch their goals and kill things off. One can wheeze on a little longer about the performance, but it would be pretty redundant because this was never really about the performance itself, but about the wider context – viz. injuries, and, frankly, the general passage of time until Wednesday night.

2. Son

I alluded above to the sense that there were so few silver linings that one could count them on the fingers of one hand and still have surplus. However, AANP is the sort of chap who likes to dwell on the positives, and in the extended cameo from Son one could probably puff out the cheeks with a bit of relief.

For a start, when exiting the stage he was able to do so of his own means and without the need for any medical interjection. ‘Sportsman Leaves Pitch Unaided’ might not sound like the most gripping headline to hook the masses, but at N17 these days it is a bit of an event, and given that this was only his second match back the odds on him emerging unscathed were short enough to have onlookers holding their breath.

And frankly, simply making it that far without slumping to the turf with some unspecified ailment would have sufficed. He need not have touched the ball at all throughout his innings. Walking off unaided having scampered around for an hour would have been marked down as a firm win by the club’s data analysts and medical team.  

As it happened though, Sonny delivered far more than this. He actually displayed a burst of pace that had the opposing full-back regularly panicking – and if that statement has a slightly retro feel to it, it will be because it’s one of the phrases I pulled from the attic and had to blow the dust off before using, having last written it some time back in the 2024/25 season.

And yet there it was, in glorious technicolour, and on more than one occasion. Son would be released around the halfway line, and in rather charming, nostalgic manner, swiftly went through the gears until he was tearing away towards the Villa penalty area.

Admittedly, he tended to make the wrong decision once he reached his destination, his attempts to crown proceedings with an appropriate coup de grace tending to result in a pass behind the accompanying strikers and a lot of arms flung in the air from all concerned – but one thing at a time, what? Having spent all season moaning that the chap’s inner fires have diminished alarmingly, and that he seemed barely able to accelerate beyond a trot, the sight of him whizzing up the flank again was as encouraging as it as startling.

3. The Formation

Beyond the healthy return of Son, however, there was precious little else about which to register signs of life, let alone enthusiasm. Kinsky, I suppose, performed reasonably enough, which is to say that he made saves one would expect a sentient goalkeeper to make. Danso, although hardly the second coming of Toby or Jan, seemed at least to understand the basic requirements of the role.

As mentioned above, poor old Mikey Moore had a tough time of things as the realisation quickly dawned that being a boy in a man’s world is not all japes and frolics. Moore’s struggles to make any sort of imprint on the game without being promptly swatted away by a burly Villa sort struck me as a useful salutary lesson, not just for those amongst us who have called for his regular inclusion (a group amongst whom I often number), but also those who, in a fit of pique and despair, stamp their feet a bit and call for the regular mob to be jettisoned and the kids to be given a chance.

As much as anything else, casting the beady eye over Friday’s proceedings had me wondering quite what formation will be adopted on Wednesday night. Ange seems to have struck oil in Europe with the deployment of two holding midfielders in front of the back-four, roles performed with surprising authority by Messrs Bentancur and Bissouma.

The problems begin, however, further north. With Maddison and Kulusevski out of the picture, the question of who else to throw in there has the brightest minds chewing the lip and scratching the old loaf. Sarr is presumably the next cab on the rank, but an attacking, Number 10 sort of fish he most decidedly is not; so if he played, what would this do to the formation?

A case could be made for dropping Sarr deeper and deploying Bentancur in the more attacking spot, as I recall he did reasonably well in the last World Cup for Uruguay; but this would represent a rather sudden and experimental deviation from the norm.

At times against Villa we appeared to morph gently towards a rather old-fashioned 4-4-2, with Tel supporting Odobert in attack. While this has a certain charm, it again would represent one heck of a gamble. I mean, unveiling a shiny new formation, barely tried and expected to produce the goods in a Cup Final, seems a bit rich, don’t you think? Moreover, donning the tactical hat, a 4-4-2 could potentially leave our heroes outnumbered in midfield – and let’s face it, our midfield has not exactly been Fort Knox even when manned by a trio.

And yet, in terms of personnel, we seem best stocked for some such Two-Upfront jamboree, with either Richarlison, Odobert or Tel at least available to support Solanke. Put another way, the cup overfloweth with forwards, whilst in the realm of attacking midfielders we are decidedly less well equipped.

I don’t really envy Our Glorious Leader having to rearrange the pieces for this one, as whatever he chooses it seems likely that he won’t be able to avoid having to gamble with someone or other in an unfamiliar role. The post-semi final optimism at AANP Towers took a bit of a battering with the injuries to Maddison and then Kulusevski. It’s hope rather than expectation over here.

All pretty dashed exciting though. A European final, and against an eminently-beatable – if challenging – opponent cannot fail to get the juices flowing. For the next few days at least, we can all wave away the League concerns and managerial grumbling, and instead rub the hands in glee and do a spot of dreaming.

COYS!

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 0-2 Palace: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. More Garbage, and a Binary Choice

The same old, same old, what? No surprises here. The performance was, I presume, precisely what we’d all expected, and the battle-lines were drawn long ago. Those whose motto is “For the love of God, go!” – a quorum one might term, ‘The Majority’ – stand on one side. Actually, come to think of it, they stand pretty much everywhere you care to look.

A quieter brigade, more inclined to wait and see how Ange would fare in a third season and with a squad a bit fuller on substance, lurk hither and thither.

And various others make up the remainder, they being the souls for whom articulation of their position requires a pad, a pen, and a few minutes to scribble out the implications – whether or not we win in Bilbao; how much weight should be placed upon European performances; how much one can stomach of the weekly, abject surrender in the League, and so on.

I’m not sure we really need a show of hands at present, but one comment on the airwaves that caused me to scratch behind the ear and ponder was that we Spurs fans have lamented – and other dastardly sorts have mocked – over the years, as we’ve finished anywhere from 2nd to 5th, and bemoaned the fact that Champions League qualification is all well and good, but there are no trophies. Those seasons in which we finished 2nd and 3rd in particular, with nothing to show, still keep AANP awake and grinding the teeth a bit at night, dash it.

Worth noting, at this point, that on last inspection there still aren’t any trophies – but if we are to win next week, I for one will pretty happily sacrifice a proud league position in the Top Five for it (the fact that it would also earn CL qualification is not really the point, so I’ll place to one side for now).

Now finishing 17th is certainly stretching the definition of ‘Sacrificing a proud league position in the Top Five’ to its absolute extreme. Not really what anyone had in mind, admittedly. But still, the point remains that I’d probably accept finishing outside the CL spots as a one-off, if it hooked us a shiny pot.

And once the old cogs started whirring, there was no stopping them. The next thought that had smoke billowing from the ears was that, given that the last time we reached a European final (Poch, Ajax and all that, in 2019) we again finished some way off the Top Four, I’d also venture that our squad simply isn’t – and never has been – equipped for the rigours of a campaign that is successful on two fronts. The 60 games required for a successful European mooch has left our lot gasping and wheezing.

Where the fault lies for that one is a debate for which I’ll quietly exit the room, allowing others to roll up their sleeves and crack their knuckles, but the when the dust settles it does seem to appear that a trophy – and particularly a European one – is only earned at the expense of Top Four league form. It’s a binary choice. Top Four/Five, or a European trophy, but not both.

The plot no doubt thickens when domestic trophies are introduced, as one could feasibly pick up one within half a dozen extra games. Palace certainly made our lot blush with shame with their demonstration of how to approach a Cup Final appearance.

The Europa run, however, evidently requires a bit more fuel than an FA Cup run – and our lot simply  haven’t eaten enough spinach to make it through 60 games. Either the first-choice mob collapse in a heap to the soundtrack of yelps of pain, or the second string come in to relive them and promptly engineer a monstrosity of the ilk seen yesterday.

And yesterday was, yet again, as wretched as these things get. Defeats happen, one can grudgingly admit, but performances that play out as the 90-minute equivalent of a stifled yawn ought to elicit some wild and draconian punishment.

As has been parroted on a weekly basis, no matter the quality in Europe, motivating the players for the other stuff is the responsibility of Our Glorious Leader. For every impressive Europa performance he oversees, he seems intent on undoing any goodwill and pronto the following Sunday.

2. Kinsky

On the bright side, that Kinsky bean can probably look back on his afternoon’s work without the same sense of disgrace as just about every one of his chums. It’s a bar so low that it simply lies on the ground, but he was probably the standout chappie.

Mind you, even he had his wobbles, as tends usually to happen to him at some point between 1 and 90. Still possessed by a level of confidence in his kicking ability that I’m not convinced is matched by the output of his size nines, he once again made the AANP heart skip a beat or two when surveying his options with ball at feet yesterday. Not one to rush into a pass if there remains an option to use up every available nanosecond, his dubious tendency to wait until an opposition striker was almost upon him, and then slightly stuff his pass anyway, was once again on display.

There was also one uncomfortable moment in which he made quite the production of what appeared at first sight to be a straightforward shot aimed low to his left, in the first half. I might do the man an almighty injustice here, I suppose. It might be that the ball spun and spat with the vicious unpredictability of one of those mystery spinners from the sub-continent that one hears about on TMS. However, it looked to my untrained eye as if Kinsky dropped himself down as per the textbook instruction, and then paddled around a bit once there, patting the ball back out to his right, for all nearby to engage in an almighty scramble to get there first and have their way.

He remedied it in the end, helpfully enough, so one need not dwell, and as mentioned, he did everything else one would have expected of him, and threw in a few bonus saves too. Back in that glorious era when the game was still alive, the scores level and the faintest whiff of competitive interest still hung faintly in the air, Kinsky seemed convinced that much depended on keeping Palace at bay, and extended all available limbs to their limits in order to achieve this.

One save in particular, from close range in the first half, prompted an impressed murmur of “Golly”, from the AANP lips, it involving the young cove extending himself in all directions at once, in a manner of which any passing spider would have been proud, and somehow repelling a shot from a distance of approximately three yards.

It says much, of course, about the output of the collective when the Outstanding Performer Gong is won by a comfortable mile by the goalkeeper, and even then when flaws can be easily spotted in his performance. But still, might as well celebrate the wins, what?

3. The Rollcall of Ignominy

Because everywhere else one looked one was tempted to shake the head in a manner intended to sting.

I’ll start with that midfield. Bentancur, Sarr and Gray ought to be a triumvirate that elicits expectant nods and maybe even a gleeful rubbing off the hands, when announced pre-kick-off. There isn’t a lilywhite amongst us who hasn’t been eagerly awaiting the emergence of Gray as some species of midfield prodigy, following the quietly impressive way in which he handled himself at centre-back.

And it’s not so long ago that Sarr was the bright young thing in midfield himself, an all-singing, all-dancing ball of energy who just needed the furniture around him to be arranged correctly in order to dash about the place running operations. With Bentancur showing in those Europa jollies a capacity to steady ships and give sensibly, there seemed much to look forward to.

But these three seemed to be of the opinion that if you’re going to let down your paying public, you might as well do so spectacularly, for as unit they simply melted away whenever Palace had the ball. Messrs B., S. and G. allowed the other lot to wander as close as they pleased to our goal, without any hint of stopping them to carry out some spot-checks and ask meaningful questions.

For the first disallowed goal, the midfield three were stranded miles up the pitch. Gray, in fairness, was loosely in the vicinity, but not really offering much in the way of assistance, while Sarr and Bentancur seemed to have more pressing engagements up around the halfway line.

Of the two-man protective shield that has been in evidence on Thursday nights, there was no sign. Bentancur at least had the dignity to use possession well when he had it, but defensive duties just weren’t on the menu.

Nor did things improve in the second half, when Bissouma replaced Bentancur. Bissouma wasted little time in picking up one of his utterly fat-headed bookings for dissent, and then seemed to consider that his afternoon’s work was done. For the second Palace goal, both he and Gray had ample opportunity to break into the trot necessary to prevent Eze having an unhindered pop at goal, but neither bothered.

Gray’s distribution was often wildly awry, and Sarr seemed, not for the first time, not really to know the specifics of his job or the more general question of what sport he was playing.

Those elsewhere did not cover themselves in glory either. Young Spence was similarly caught upfield seemingly every time Palace attacked. It was little surprise that the Palace right-back Munoz had an absolute whale of a time, because every time his colleagues attacked he was happy to stretch his limbs and yell for the ball, safe in the knowledge that Spence was a good dozen or so yards out of position.

Spence did actually look pretty useful coming forward in possession, particularly in the second half, but to have been so far out of defensive position on so many occasions did boggle the mind rather.

As for the attacking mob, once Kulusevski limped off to be replaced by the rarely-spotted Mikey Moore, a collective ripple went about the place that we looked awfully short of upper-body muscle, and Messrs Odobert, Tel and Moore dutifully spent the next hour or so demonstrating precisely that.

Moore gave the odd fleeting glimpse of that trickery for which we all pine, and I suppose all three of them might benefit individually if utilised within a strong XI that plays to their strengths. But none of these criteria seemed to apply yesterday, and after a while the whole thing looked like a Bryan Gil tribute show.

All rather a shame, because in the opening few minutes Kulusevski gave the impression that he planned to make a bit of mischief. Nice to see Sonny back I suppose, although he’ll have to deliver one heck of a performance to convince me that a return to his heights of yesteryear is simmering away beneath the surface.

I remain yet to be convinced by Danso, although one does understand why he has his backers. With a little spit and polish he could turn into a dependable sort; but anyone who has to spend their afternoon alongside Ben Davies and behind a midfield who check out and don’t return, will find the odds stacked against him.

Depressingly, we can presumably expect more of the same against Villa, when Our Glorious Leader faces the unwelcome conundrum of whether to field VDV and Romero (plus Solanke and various others), in order to keep their engines running ahead of Bilbao, but in so doing risk yet another key injury.

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Spurs match reports

West Ham 1-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A 90-Minute Shrug of Indifference

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

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

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

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

2. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Bissouma, and Various Other Appreciative Nods

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Man City 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Vicario

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

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

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

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

3. Bergvall (In The First Half At Least)

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Liverpool 4-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Dreadful Stuff

AANP has been under the weather, don’t you know? The immune system having adopted a Conte-style approach, of just sitting back under attack from all sides and muddling through, I had hoped that last night might provide some external relief. As it happened, there was a degree of consensus amongst my coterie of Spurs-supporting chums that we would concede three or four; the question was whether we would have our attacking onions sufficiently in order to make a fist of it.

Now AANP is generally a pretty forgiving sort. When, at the start of this season, our lot shoved all chips into attack, at Leicester and Newcastle amongst others, and somehow still stewed the operation, I waved the forgiving hand. Keep playing like that, went the line, and we’ll more often than not win in style, or else go down in a blaze of glory.

So by the time last night swung into view, my hopes of actually winning the tie might have been subdued, but I did at least look forward to a spot of entertainment in seeing our heroes go out swinging.  

Fair to say then that the garbage peddled last night was therefore an almighty let-down. The general sense was of a rabble who didn’t appreciate having their evening stroll in the North interrupted by such business as a football match, and they dashed well weren’t about to get involved in the finer details – accurate passes, and the winning of 50-50 challenges and so forth. Not last night’s crew. Simply registering their presence seemed sufficient, and if the other lot were going to best them in literally every aspect of the game, that was just one of the little inconveniences of life that would have to be accepted.

There was barely a hint of attacking intent throughout. Now one might generously excuse this, on the grounds that Liverpool can rather swallow up their opposition when on song and make it difficult to burst into possession-based patterns. However, there is no such clause exempting the cast members from flying into tackles like their lives depend on it.

On reflection, rather than one single causal factor, there were probably several different elements at play.

1.1: Tactics

This one lies with Our Glorious Leader. From kick-off the plan seemed to be to adopt the approach that had served pretty well against Brentford – and is currently being adopted at the AANP sick-bed – of sticking to the spot and absorbing everything flung their way.

The fiercest loyalists may argue that this approach was not without its merits, doing the trick for a half hour or so; a pretty swift rebuttal would be that it resulted in a goal conceded before half-time, and another not long after.

And while piping up on the subject, there was a fairly significant difference between the Brentford and Liverpool games, in that Brentford spent most of their afternoon swinging in crosses for our lot to head clear without too many alarms; whereas Liverpool’s approach was somewhat more nuanced, and a dashed sight more taxing for our heroes to handle.

Either way, the official party-line seemed to be that defending deep and grimly hanging on was the route to success. It rather gave the impression that an Ange directive of exercising a little caution was rather wildly misinterpreted by the players, who instead opted to write off the Liverpool half of the pitch as forbidden territory.

When Kulusevski went on the charge up the right, and skulked around the place for a good 5 or 10 seconds, surrounded by about half a dozen red shirts but with nary a lilywhite in sight, the walls of AANP Towers reverberated to a deep and troubled sigh. High-octane entertainment this was not.

1.2: The Mentality

If the tactical setup could be pinned on the Big Cheese, the lackadaisical approach to settling on-field disputes was firmly on the players. Out of possession in particular, Liverpool seemed to appreciate that few things in life are gained by simply turning up at the appointed hour and holding out an expectant hand. In order to win a semi-final, they seemed to tell each other, a rolling up of sleeves would be required, as well as a stretching of sinew and clobbering of tackle.

By contrast, our heroes seemed to baulk at the notion of devoting every last ounce to the cause. Token efforts were the order of the day, and if an opposing rotter happened to barge them out of the way then they would deliver a look of irritation, and possibly an audible tut, but little more.

It’s an attitude that has been absolutely ingrained in our lot for as long as I’ve been watching, and frankly makes one despair.

1.3: Injuries

I saw it expressed somewhere or other last night, that every time Kulusevski set off on a run he looked like he was dragging a car behind him. One understood the sentiment. This chap was our pride and joy in the opening months of the season, an absolute menace to all who encountered him, due to a handy combo of bulk and pace.

Apparently he’s featured one way or another in every one of our league games this season, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that record extended to all other competitions too. Little wonder then that he now chugs about the place like a hollowed out shell of a man, barely able to accelerate beyond third gear.

For clarity, I zoom in on Kulusevski in purely indicative fashion. The whole bally lot of them are by now exhausted. One could rattle off the names of those who have played twice a week, every week, for the past couple of months; or similarly one could list the absentees – the gist remains the same. And I therefore wonder to what extent the above failings – of poorly-judged defensive setup, and absence of fight – could be attributed to a general lack of puff amongst those on display.

2. The Newbies

If, as seemed to be reported, Mathys Tel spent much of last week letting ‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would’ regarding his move to N17 – he being the thoughtful sort apparently, who takes pretty seriously these life choices – I can only imagine he spent the journey home from Anfield immersed in contemplation and quite possibly regret.

The good news for him is that one would hardly expect most of his assignments in lilywhite to resemble last night’s. Starved of service and repeatedly required to have a pop at outmuscling Van Dijk on halfway, the poor gumball would have been forgiven for wishing he had chosen any other option except lilywhite.

From memory, he fashioned for himself one half-chance from a fairly tight angle out on the right, which earned a corner, and creditably so to be honest. It was nice to see a little spunk, even as the walls came crashing down around him. That aside though, he spent his evening chasing shadows and waving at teammates. However, with Messrs Solanke and Richarlison having various bandages applied, one would expect more opportunities for Tel as the focal point of attack in the coming weeks.

As for Danso, this was probably 6 out of 10 territory. Having spent the last month or so beseeching the board to bring in anyone fit and able to assist in defence, I’m simply grateful that we have an actual centre-back in situ. He’s no Van Dijk, but seemed willing enough to do the basics, and perhaps most eye-catchingly seemed rather taken with the notion of bring the ball out of defence and casting a beady eye about the place further north.

I suppose time will tell whether he’s up to much, but a serviceable centre-back is better than nothing.

3. Richarlison

These days a Spurs match is not credibly recognised as such unless one of our number withdraws with some species of malady, so not an eyelid was batted when Richarlison limped off before the midway point.

Richarlison in particular is proving himself to be quite the expert when it comes to going to ground with a wince, before limping off with a forlorn rub of some lower limb. The pattern into which he has comfortably settled since arriving in the corridors of N17 seems to have been to punctuate an absence of around three months with two or three substitute appearances. At this point, he goes to ground once more with another wince and the whole pattern starts again.

Now on a human level, one sympathises. It must drive the poor chap potty. I’m sure that from his perspective all he wants to do is lace up his boots and charge around the pitch like a rabid beast of the wilds, ploughing into opposing defenders and scowling away, without the inconvenience of various body parts going ‘twang’ every five minutes.

However, from the point of view of the long-suffering supporter, I do find myself rolling the eyes and thinking about the most polite ways to phrase some fairly brutal sentiments. Put another way, I think it’s about time we cashed in on the chap. Shake his hand, thank him for his efforts and send him elsewhere, shoving into the back-pocket however much the most willing bidder will offer.

At the best of times we can’t really accommodate a lad who seems to be made of biscuits; and even more so at the current juncture, when all the regulars are injured and poor old Solanke is being flogged into the ground until he collapses.

Richarlison will presumably stick around until the summer, but with Tel now on board there’s a good excuse to elbow him aside at the earliest convenience.