Tag: Micky Van de Ven

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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

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

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

1. The Match Itself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Goal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The Goal-Line Clearance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Tottenham Have Won A Trophy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tottenham Hotspur, Europa League winners – absolutely marvellous stuff!

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

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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 1-2 Forest: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Not a Bad Performance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Tel and Odobert

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

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

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

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

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

3. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Eintracht Frankfurt 0-1 Spurs: Four 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. An Actually Impressive, Disciplined Performance

I have to admit that prior to kick-off, the AANP who surveyed the scene and weighed up the odds was not a genial and bonhomous soul. Think Macbeth in the latter stages, when he’s a bit down on life with one thing and another, and starts a gloomy solo about his despair, and you’re pretty much up to speed.

It was those rotten league showings that did it (ignoring the Southampton win on the grounds of pointless mismatch). That Wolves defeat in particular sapped the will to live, and even though these recent Europa jollies have shown a more sunny interpretation of things, it’s dashed hard simply to swat aside the woeful league performances when they stack up on all sides, popping up, as they do, every couple of days.

So when the curtain went up and the whistle sounded, I took my place with a sense of duty rather than the slightest hint of optimism. “If it were done when ‘tis done then best get a wriggle on,” was the sentiment, continuing the Macbeth theme.

But lo, imagine if you will the AANP eyes gradually widening, as the outlook unfolded before me in increasingly upbeat fashion. Admittedly, that one early ball played straight over the top and down the middle, absolutely scything apart our defence, had an ominous quality to it, but that aside, for about 80 or so minutes this was as accomplished a defensive performance as I’d seen from our lot in the Postecoglou era.

It’s a low bar, admittedly. Historically, opponents have not exactly had to over-exert themselves to fashion chances against our heroes. Simply ambling up from halfway whenever the fancy takes them has generally proved sufficient. They may encounter some waving arms and stern looks from various retreating lilywhites, but nothing that will actually inconvenience them, let alone block their path. “Drop in whenever you like!” has generally been the rallying cry from the Tottenham defence.

Yesterday, however, events played out in pretty sharp contradistinction. For a start, our midfield three of Bentancur, Bergvall and Maddison seemed particularly attuned to the notion that intercepting passes in the midfield third would save a heck of a lot of trouble further down the line. Rather than simply watching short passes whizz about them, these three were on their toes and ready to spring into action, and as a result, transporting from Middle Third to Final Third wasn’t quite the procession that Frankfurt might have expected.

(As an aside, with these three evidently now the preferred midfield combo of Our Glorious Leader, I’m inclined to give them an approving nod. A pleasing balance, wouldn’t you say? What with Bentancur patrolling the rear; Bergvall either carrying the ball at a hot scurry or passing quickly; and Maddison – when the urge grabs – seeking out a creative pass.)

The key to the tightened defence, however, seemed to be Van de Ven. His presence, and specifically his pace, seemed to my uncouth eye to allow our lot to play a relatively high line for much of the game, rather than defending the edge of our own area, and also meant that midfield and defence were in close proximity. Having VDV in attendance also meant that when Udogie was gripped by the urge to motor forward, calamity did not immediately ensue if and when he lost possession.

In general, this seemed to be a day on which, mercifully enough, the entire back-four appreciated the merits of wearing proudly their defensive hats, rather than seeing themselves as attacking sorts whose main remit was to do exciting things in possession.

Another pretty critical element was that the whole business of playing out from the back was quietly eased off the agenda until, by the business end of the second half we dealt almost exclusively in long kicks from Vicario. Whether or not it was by coincidence, for about 75 minutes I’m not sure Frankfurt were allowed a clean shot at goal.

The final 15 was a little fraught, and while I suppose it could have gone horribly wrong, on balance of play and chances made over the two legs, our lot seemed jolly good value for the win. Not only was the defence oddly compact, but we still managed to pose enough threat to have Frankfurt scrambling – and without the need for any suicidal pouring forward of every man in lilywhite. Attackers attacked, defenders defended and in general the balance was pretty solid.

2. Romero

Van de Ven’s mere presence might have instilled some much-needed calm about the defence, but by golly Romero alongside him picked a smashing time to deliver one of his better performances.

Much like his midfield chums, his reading of things was good enough to enable multiple timely interceptions, and whenever that Ekitike chap unveiled his dancing feet and started sniffing out a shooting opportunity, Romero was on him like Mary’s little lamb, close enough to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, whilst avoiding what was presumably, given the Argentine’s history, an almighty urge to kick a few lumps out of him.

Indeed, even when Romero did break ranks and stride up the pitch, he had the good sense to stay on his feet rather than go lunging in. In a moment of realisation so unlikely it made me feel quite dizzy, it dawned on. Me in the second half that Romero’s side of the defence was pretty much under lock and key.

In possession he was his usual eager self, happy to look for passes of a more progressive ilk when he deemed the occasion appropriate. Indeed, it was his flighted pass that resulted in Maddison having his head knocked off and our lot winning the penalty. However, as mentioned earlier, it was also a relief to see the realisation dawn upon the chap that he was there primarily to defend, and this he did almost flawlessly throughout.

I say ‘almost flawlessly’, because in the final knockings he could not really help himself, after a good 90 minutes of discipline. Some pent-up mindlessness eventually came flowing out when he went flying out of position and into a sliding challenge, that left his opponent spiralling off into the air, earned him a yellow and conceded an unnecessary free-kick in a dangerous spot. I understand that to err is human, but to abandon one’s senses and go hunting for blood seems a mite excessive. Romero ought to have known better; but by and large this was a humdinger of a performance from him.

3. A Quick Word on Maddison

There were cracking performances all round, in truth. Tel offered a threat throughout, and while he never actually delivered on it, one got the impression that the Frankfurt coves tasked with minding him did so with considerable caution. Brennan Johnson famously doesn’t really offer a great deal in possession, but for the second consecutive game he actually produced a spot of end-product to go with his pace, picking out a decent first half cross that Tel duly scuppered. Porro and Udogie found a pretty useful balance between defence and the occasional foray forward. Solanke only stopped running in order to pause before that expertly-despatched penalty. Kulusevski frankly did not look fit, but still gave a few pleasing reminders of how happy he is to assert a spot of upper bodyweight when the situation demands.

Maddison beavered away, in slightly peripheral fashion at times, not necessarily cutting to ribbons the Frankfurt back-line but not shirking the challenge either. However, where he really earned his corn was in that penalty incident, when, as alluded to, the goalkeeper well and truly mangled his timing, and rather mangled Maddison’s frame in so-doing.

Replays suggest that Maddison had enough of a peek, while the ball was airborne, to be fully up-to-date with current affairs, and well apprised of the circumstance that a great oak of a man was rapidly approaching from the north, to flatten him. And where some – and I name no names, but hint at our club captain – have regularly been spotted ducking out of any challenges with a hint of rough-and-tumble about them, Maddison was undeterred.

Having hatched a plan to deliver a pretty subtle header past the onrushing goalkeeper, he executed the first part as far as he was able, and for his troubles appeared to have every functioning part of him snapped in two. Little wonder that he wobbled off shortly after, but he earned the penalty, and frankly kept our season alive. If we do raise the shiny pot come late-May, look carefully and you’ll spot AANP giving him an understated but meaningful salute of appreciation.

4. Why The Hell Can’t We Play Like This Every Game, Eh?

Not wanting to take the sheen off things, but it was a sentiment that kept repeating in my mind as I watched last night unfold with ever-growing admiration.

I appreciate the mentality of wrapping VDV in cotton wool in between Europa dates, he being so critical to the whole operation, and without him the apparatus is arranged rather differently. Nevertheless, even sans VDV, approaching each league game with yesterday’s level of discipline and determination could not conceivably do anything other than bring about better league results. Wolves would not have stood a chance if we had unleashed last night’s fare upon them.

One would, of course, settle for winning the trophy – one would trade lesser-used limbs for it, in truth – but the nagging thought remains that we would be a dashed sight better off (and Ange a lot more secure in his post) if we mustered this level of performance every week.

Still, hats off to the lot of them. This was jolly impressive muck.

If you fancy a spot of Good Friday non-league football, AANP’s regular stint behind the mic takes in a relegation six-pointer at 3pm, between Enfield Town and St Albans City in the Vanarama National League South – feel free to listen in on https://mjl99.mixlr.com/

Categories
Spurs match reports

Chelsea 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Another Dreadful Showing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 AZ Alkmaar: Four 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. Son

I must confess to having rubbed the eyes a couple of times at seeing various esteemed Spurs-watchers opine along the lines that Sonny had put in a ‘captain’s performance’ (by which I presume they meant stroking some glorious cover drives on his way to a century, rather than honourably going down with a sinking ship).

Now credit where due, Son had a hand in all three goals, and this I acknowledge and applaud. There are some forwards who are praised to the rafters for popping up with a couple of goal contributions, when they’ve spent the remainder simply mooching around without any additional engagement at all. Chipping in with – or towards – goals ought not to be dismissed too airily, and especially not in order to bang on about deficiencies in other areas.  

However, watching events play in real-time, the white-hot AANP take was that once again, the Son on view last night was not the Son of yesteryear. Son 2.0 seemed not to have battery power of the previous incarnation.

Going into technical detail, when awaiting receipt of the ball, for example when Spence and VDV were busy trying to play out from the back, if Son were gripped by the urge to scamper into space in a frenzied fashion that would be hard for an opponent to keep up with, he hid it well. In fact, he hid this urge so well that he looked for all the world like he didn’t have any interest at all in scampering into space. “No scampering for me, tonight,” he seemed to be saying. His prerogative of course, but this struck me as not adding much bang to proceedings.

Similarly, when he did receive the ball, the punchline seemed rather off, particularly in the first half. Until the opening goal, in fact, he seemed to have little interest in attacking the AZ goal at all.

Here, I should point out, he was not alone, for the collective arrangement amongst our lot seemed to be that the urgent laying of siege to the AZ goal was a mug’s game, and what the evening really needed was a dirge-like procession of sideways and backwards passes. Only Bergvall showed any enthusiasm for actually addressing the deficit.

Back to Son, and at one point in that opening 25 minutes, a pretty firm difference of opinion was voiced between our captain and around 20,000 souls in the South Stand. Son, still firmly of the view that the road to Bilbao was paved with backwards passes, received the ball on around halfway, took in the sights – including a few progressive options further north – and then poked it backwards again. The South Stand, as one, voiced a bit of discontent, which is not unheard of these days, but what followed did make one buck up and take notice: for Son did not receive this critique too well, and responded with a wave of a pretty irritated arm back at them. It was not the exchange of a harmonious marriage. Trouble appeared to be brewing in paradise.

AANP doesn’t actually mind or even care too much for such lovers’ tiffs. Of more concern to me was the fact that even when Son finally did decide to run at the AZ defence, he seemed time and again to go carting off into dead ends – specifically by cutting inside onto his right foot every time, dash it.

The initial spadework was generally promising enough, in that he’d edge forward towards the AZ penalty area. Come the second part of the routine, however, Son seemed to fumble his lines pretty badly. This whole business of him cutting inside onto his right was about as predictable as night following day, and as such, when he tried then to finish things off by having a right-footed shot, it was no particular shock to discover that the AZ ramparts had already been constructed.

Another feature of Son’s night was repeatedly lapsing back into that most unbecoming habit of his, of slowing to a halt, standing over the ball and shimmying as if to move this way and that, without actually putting his foot on the pedal and going anywhere.

In common with all around him, he improved in the second half. The Son-Spence Double Act, which had threatened to become one of the great missed opportunities of our time in that first half, finally clicked into gear in the second, not least through the well-timed overlapping runs of Spence. Son, to his credit, timed to perfection on repeated occasions the simple but devastatingly effective flick into the path of Spence, and it brought a rich old harvest, not least in that glorious third goal.

There was still time for Son to bungle an opportunity in the second half when he wormed his way through to the byline pretty effectively, but then completely lost all sense of geography, and gently dribbled the ball over the goal-line and out of play.  

As mentioned, he certainly contributed to all three goals, and when his head hit the pillow last night I imagine he’d have presumably reflected on his day’s work with some satisfaction, blissfuly unaware of the growing discontent at AANP Towers. I’ll be withholding the backslaps and bear-hugs though, and instead delivering a well-chosen word in his ear, should our paths cross before the next engagement.

2. Angeball When It Works

There were times in the second half when the stars aligned like the dickens, and our heroes produced football so dreamy one felt it ought to be accompanied by some angelic choir rattling off a bit of Bach in the background.

If our first goal owed much to Sonny going through the it’s-in-my-contract-so-I’ll-chase-down-this-laddie motions, our second and third had the grizzled features of Out Glorious Leader etched all over them.

It was the attack-minded content for which we’d be pining in the first half, and, indeed, first leg. And the last few months too, frankly.  But when it arrived, by golly it was like a few drops of celestial oil seeping through from the heavens.

I’d been giving Maddison a bit of lip for his pause-and-pivot-backwards routines of the first half, but in the build-up to our third, the manner in which he dipped the shoulder and rolled away from two flailing AZ types was positively Bergvall-esque – and praise doesn’t come much higher than that these days.

What was striking about both our first and second goals, and in such rich contrast to the first half garbage, was that in both instances our lot seemed oddly struck by the potential benefits of jimmying off in attack immediately, and at a rate of knots. Not a concept that had previously occurred, the difference made was considerable when they opted immediately to attack, either through The Swift Forward Pass, or the more individualistic art of Running With The Ball.

One acknowledges that the circumstances need to be right in order for any of this to work. No good trying the Running With The B. gambit, after all, when there’s a mass of congregated AZ bodies in one’s immediate path, hellbent on snuffing out whatever comes their way.

However, with the early second half goal, our lot seemed collectively to realise the manifold benefits to be had by unveiling a spot of top-notch Angeball. It felt like a glimpse of a ripping, if somewhat distant past – and potentially a glimpse into a brighter short-term future.

3. Van de Ven

Spiffing to have the old boy back, what? Seeing VDV rattle off his greatest hits – the covering, sliding tackle; the burst of pace to catch and dispossess an opposing forward who foolishly considered himself clean through on goal with nary a defender in sight; the bulldozing forward burst with ball at feet and not a cat in hell’s chance of anyone shrugging him off it – was enough to crack open smiles on even the maps of even the bitterest of Spurs fans.

Romero I can take or leave. Preferable to Dragusin of course, and he no doubt has a cunning forward pass in him, as evinced once or twice last night; but he also doesn’t mind fouling up operations by pinging the ball miles away from his own trusted allies and straight down opposition gullets. To say nothing of his defending, which while generally solid enough still leaves me clutching at the nearest bystander in alarm when his juices flow and he decides that the reckless lunges are the better part of valour.

Van de Ven on the other hand, could do no wrong in my eyes. I fancy I sleep more soundly at night, knowing that he is prowling the rear, engine revved and limbs poised for the sprint.

His withdrawal on the stroke of the hour-mark and not a moment later may have had a whiff of Cinderella about it, but that was fine by AANP. If the earnest squid is only just getting back to fitness then I’m all for yanking him out of harm’s way and treating him with the most delicate care until Sunday.

4. Odobert

For clarity, Bergvall was far and away the elite performer on parade from the AANP vantage point last night, but as I these days do him homage on a bi-weekly basis, a little variety might go down well, and last night young Odobert seemed to show signs of getting the gist.

I was rather taken by the fact that he operated from the right last night. Easily pleased, I suppose you might reasonably retort, but in a world in which Son and now potentially Tel already block the route of young Mikey Moore, the sight of Odobert putting in the willing dash from the right was a pleasant surprise.

He certainly adds a different certain something. Around 20 minutes in, when AANP was studiously tearing out clumps of hair at our lack of adventure, Odobert seemed unable to contain himself any longer, and set off on a mazy dribble infield that bought him four victims. It didn’t ultimately get very far, end-product lacking as I recall, but the very impudence involved in undertaking this act was a pretty welcome jolt to the senses.

While he did not quite hit such heights again, the AZ mob seemed to have got the memo, and accordingly reacted with a spot of concern each time Odobert got hold off the ball and surveyed his options thereafter.

One suspends full judgement, as I don’t remember him slinging in too many crosses, but with Porro in support I suppose last night there wasn’t too much need, from the right. However, simply for the capacity to take on and beat a man, I eye the chap with a frisson of excitement.

Moreover, he took his goals – and particularly the first – with a becoming assuredness, which is, of course, the whole point of the thing when you think about it. If his second were a triumph for popping up in the right place – itself a triumph for Angeball, which does rather rely upon one winger finishing off the crosses of the other winger – then his first was a welcome act of not messing around in front of goal.

As seems to be the case for a good half-dozen of our current vintage, a bright future seems to loom. More immediately, any suggestions of a resurgence still strike me as massively ahead of time, but there are at least a few shoots of recovery over which to goggle and chirrup.

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Spurs match reports

Villa 2-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Midfield That Will Not Tackle

No messing around yesterday, was there? Normally in these polite gatherings there’s a certain amount of harmless piffle spouted on both sides, as all concerned take a few minutes to adjust the eyes and get used to their surroundings, knocking the ball back to the goalkeeper and so forth while the assorted punters shuffle to their seats.

Not a bit of it from our lot though. Right from the starter’s gun, they seemed pretty intent on broadcasting to the watching world that they were absolutely and emphatically not in the market for any sort of midfield challenges.

In fact, the very concept of a ‘midfield’ seemed to be one with which they played fast and loose. ‘Why begin things by populating the centre of the pitch’ seemed to be the collective murmur, ‘when we can scatter ourselves hither and thither just as well?’

And so it transpired that right from kick-off we were treated to the sight of Porro shoving all the way up the right wing, which meant that Bentancur dropped to right-back; while Kulusevski similarly headed North-West to double-up with Mikey Moore on the right; all of which meant that once Villa had triangled their way through us, young Bergvall was the only one in a remotely central position.

Wild positional sense aside, however, it was the absence of any semblance of a tackle that really caught the eye. Time and again, Villa were able to stroll straight through the heart of our midfield with the casual of air of dog-walkers in a park. And not one of those dubious parks either, populated by shifty-looking youths staring and spitting, and littered with unspeakable detritus along the paths. The type of park provided by the Spurs midfield was, by contrast, one of those pristine numbers in which anyone wanting a spot of calm and quiet could amble by uninterrupted for hours if they so wished.

Vexingly, those tasked with occupying our midfield positions simply would not put in a tackle. It was most glaringly illustrated in that wretched opening minute. During this episode, at one point five of our lot ambled towards the Villa man (Rogers), all five doing just about enough to register what one might classify as ‘passing interest’, but none extending themselves to the point of actually rolling up their sleeves and thrusting self into the face of the chap with a snarl and a bit of meaning.

It was almost as if they were under orders to avoid tackling, dash it! One could see in real-time as the play unravelled, moment by moment, each opportunity for a tackle; and every time the relevant lilywhite seemed struck with the notion of diving in with a bit of welly, before caution prevailed and he suppressed the urge, instead allowing Rogers to jink off a couple of more steps as he pleased.

Lest you need reminding of the gory details, that particular scene culminated in Villa scoring, but on repeated occasions thereafter, particularly in the first half, the pattern remained the same. In fact, at least in the opening minute, as mentioned, five of our number had the dignity to at least appear to care, by wandering gently towards Rogers in the first place, even if they applied themselves with all the energy and bite of a set of mannequins. In the half hour or so that followed, they didn’t even bother approaching the onrushing Villa forwards to make some preliminary enquiries. Villa were able to trot through completely unopposed.

AANP sympathised with our back-four, which, although far from flawless, seemed to have copped a pretty rotten deal, essentially being abandoned by their chums and left to fend for themselves any time Villa sent forward a swarm of attackers.

One might argue that things improved in the second half, as each of Bergvall and Bentancur were booked for utterly cynical, agricultural fouls in the middle. It was hardly the panacea for all previous ills, but I suppose it at least demonstrated a vague recognition of the need to delay Villa’s breaks over halfway.

Now AANP is more sympathetic than most when it comes to this issue of injuries, absentees and the tired bodies of those poor saps being wheeled out twice weekly for almost three months. As Our Glorious Leader was at pains to emphasise post-match yesterday, those out on the pitch are entirely out of battery power, and really all need a week or two on a sunny beach.

Nevertheless, tired bodies or not, this business of a midfield allergic to the sacred art of tackling is one that nags. I’m not entirely convinced that it can all entirely be blamed upon flagging energy levels.

The profiles of pips like Bergvall, Bentancur, Sarr and Maddison (and Gray once he graduates to a midfield role) are all of the neat-and-tidy-in-possession ilk. The sorts of chumps who are happiest when putting their foot on the ball, having a look about the place and applying a spot of technique to send it from point A to point B. More Redknapp than Roberts, if you follow. None are the sort one envisages brandishing a spear and leading the troops into battle, driven by a thirst for blood.

Bissouma is perhaps the only one of the current mob with a bit of bite in him, but he seems only to impose himself once every five or six games. The rest just aren’t cut out for a fight.

And for clarity, I’m not really suggesting that we need Romero-esque lunging challenges in every direction, uprooting everybody and leaving a trail of blood and destruction about the place. Simply positioning oneself to prevent free passage for the opposition would suffice. Block their path and force them backwards.

My Spurs-supporting chum Mark last week pointed out that Kieran Trippier was charging about the place, in the Carabao semi between Newcastle and Woolwich, like a man pretty hell-bent on preventing that rotten lot from advancing, and it’s a trait sorely missing at N17. Similarly, that McGinn rotter for Villa, although not a species of whom I’m too fond, doesn’t half set about each challenge like one whose life depends on it. Alarmingly, and one doesn’t really like to speak too loudly about these things, it’s been a feature of our teams for decades. I’m not really convinced the injuries can be blamed for that.

2. Kinsky: Brilliant or Rubbish?

Not for the first time, young Kinsky between the sticks seemed to swing wildly between extremes, with barely a jot in between. His is a marriage of the sublime and ridiculous. Nor is it one of those low-key marriages that dutifully ploughs on through the decades without too many dramas. His is more the sort conducted in Vegas, its every passing moment providing tabloid fodder.

His first touch of the ball was inexplicably sorry. The Villa laddie, benefitting from the usual Porro hospitality, had about an acre of space and plenty of time to go with it, but nevertheless delivered a pretty duff effort, high on power but poor on direction. Kinsky actually seemed to do the necessaries too, dropping to the requisite height and in the requisite direction, and essentially positioning his frame between the ball and the goal.

That he still somehow stuffed the pay-off therefore took some doing – but if his first month or so in lilywhite has taught us anything, it is that one cannot take the eye off Kinsky once the ball is near him. It was a pretty cruel irony then that he seemed to do precisely that himself, taking his eye off the ball and letting it somehow spin off behind him.

But, in a follow-up that was as baffling as it was entirely in keeping with his career to date, he followed up that ghastly clanger with a series of impressive saves to keep our heroes within a goal of parity.

A critic might sniffily point out that in launching himself full-stretch and palming long-range stingers this way and that, he was merely doing his job. And it would be a reasonable point I suppose, but still needed doing – and AANP certainly still shudders to recall the latter stages of Monsieur Lloris’ career being peppered with instances of him simply crouching and watching as balls sailed past him into various top corners.

So Kinsky’s shot-stopping, whilst generally a firm positive, had cast over it throughout the lurid spectre of that opening-minute faux pas of the ages. As for his distribution, again, one struggles to land on a firm and satisfactory opinion.

With ball at feet, Kinsky seems increasingly beset by nerves. At least once a game now, he seems possessed with the conviction that the ball will at any minute come alive and start leaping about the place.

This is rather a shame, because in his calmer moments he has demonstrated that he has within his repertoire a useful enough range of passing, both short and long. It didn’t help against Liverpool in midweek that each time he launched the thing it came back with interest off the loaf of Van Dijk, and yesterday similarly there seemed precious little harvest when he pinged the thing towards Tel.

But mingled with this ability to hit a fairly accurate 40-yarder lives the tendency to chip a short pass straight to onrushing opponent, or to misread the situation completely and aim a pass towards a defender who, though placed near enough, is being hunted by forwards and is not actually looking, which does throw a sizeable downer upon the whole operation.

It all leaves one sinking the head into the hands and yearning for a day on which his involvement is so low-key that one forgets about his very existence. I suspect with Kinsky we won’t get too much of that. There appears to be a pretty handy bean lurking in there somewhere, but at present we’ll also have to accept that amidst the solid saves, smart passing and confident catching there will, from nowhere, occasionally spring up – unannounced and completely unexpectedly – some random malfunction that costs pretty dearly.

3. Sonny

Nothing says ‘Off the boil’ like the gurning of a straightforward one-on-one from point-blank range, and Sonny duly slapped his opportunity straight at the ‘keeper when the rest of us had already adjusted the scoreboard in our heads and were considering how the goal might change the game’s pattern.

Even the best of us can pickle an easy chance I suppose, so I won’t hammer the poor chap too heavily for that one – and similarly I suppose that even the best set-piece merchants can chip a critical last-minute delivery straight into the hands of the ‘keeper. One looks to the heavens and unleashes a few choice oaths, but one understands.

More concerning is that Sonny’s little legs seem to have given up on him. Of the burst of pace that used to see him whizz past defenders in a bit of a blur, all the way from halfway to the penalty area, there is no longer a rack.

Whether that is due to a temporary impediment – a niggling injury, for example – or a general gathering of rust about his hinges is unclear, although the AANP dollar is on the latter.  Either way, however, that handy 20-yard burst seems ever less likely to be an option.

As such, with a view to the future, it seems as good a time as any to think about winding down the fellow and gradually easing him out of the picture. Odobert’s trick of arriving and promptly collapsing into a heap has rather sullied that particular operation, but as he returns to fitness I think it might be best for all parties if a gradual handing over of the baton were effected, this side of May.

As concerning in the shorter-term is this business of Sonny as captain. By all accounts he’s a thoroughly lovely chap, a story which is pretty believable and to his credit. The world needs a few good eggs about the place, after all. What the world doesn’t need, however, is any such good egg leading our lot on the pitch. As ranted about above, a major failing amongst our mob is the utter toothlessness and lack of fight on show, and when one considers that the on-field lieutenant is renowned as one of the nicest chappies in the game, it’s fair to say that things rather start to make sense.

Not that there is an abundance of likely candidates to replace him. Romero may be the most aggressive, but his playing career does seem riddled with questionable life choices. Maddison, the other vice-captain, like Sonny is one I can’t actually remember every attempting a tackle, let alone winning one.

Kulusevski and VDV strike me as likelier sorts to lead by example, but irrespective of whomever actually wears the armband – and frankly, as a fashion statement, I don’t give too many hoots – the broader point is around a lack of fight and leadership in our ranks.

The club’s recent policy of bringing in one promising young thing after another certainly has its merits, but a couple of nibs with a few years under the belt, to whom the kids might look for inspiration, would not go amiss.

Still, apart from a midfield that can’t tackle, a goalkeeper liable at any moment to gift possession to the opposition and a star player whose powers are on the wane, things aren’t so bad. The absence of a midweek game this week finally allows the usual suspects a proper rest (and again next week), whilst various of the invalids are set to return – all of which means that Ange will soon have a fit-for-purpose squad from which to pick, and we’ll finally be able to gauge whether or not he is actually any good at this management lark.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-0 Elfsborg: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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1. Young People

I don’t know if you feel the same way, or if you’ve even noticed – because it does slightly creep up – but generally when the credits roll on a THFC performance these days, I drag myself away feeling like someone who’s just witnessed the public beheading of a cherished friend. A tad gloomy about things, I mean. A twinge of regret about how things have panned out.

With all that in mind, I was as shocked as anyone else to find myself toddling off last night with a pretty satisfied smile across the map. Goodness knows we needed a lift – it’s all very well one bleating about taking the rough with the smooth, but that does require a little smoothness every now and then.

The surprise of it all, of course, was that the good news came in the form of three of the more junior members of the ensemble.

1.1 Scarlett

Scarlett seems to have been knocking around the place for an eternity, without ever having actually interrupted any conversations in order to announce himself. Just sort of lurked in the background. Truth be told, having learnt that he had left his teens behind, and noting that his various loan spells had underwhelmed, I’d gone in for a spot of the old Judge-Jury-Executioner and written off the poor squirt as biffing along where Parrott, Coulthirst and Mahorn had gone before.

Last night does not necessarily change that particular narrative I suppose, but irrespective of whatever happens next, seeing the young fish take to the air, make his connection and dash off for his knee-slide certainly made one rise from the seat and offer some pretty heartfelt congratulations. Impossible not to be delighted for the chap.

Amidst all the noise, I’d also hammer home that it was a pretty accomplished header too. Goodness knows there have been plenty in lilywhite over the years who have adopted that sort of location and then completely sloshed the coup de grâce, directing the thing upward or westward or anywhere else but the net. Scarlett did a nifty job of getting on top of the ball, and then putting a few more eggs in the ‘Direction’ basket than the ‘Power’ one.  

1.2 Ajayi

Young Ajayi was one whose name I knew, but beyond that drew a bit of a blank. I must confess that it was therefore with a bit of a shrug that I greeted his arrival, wishing him well of course, and all the other pleasantries, but devoting more effort to a brief analysis of Richarlison’s latest pitch.

I suppose if one were of stony heart and cantankerous nature one might opine that Ajayi failed to read the mood of the room by some distance, for his immediate decision to put his head down and weave straight through the heart of the Elfsborg defence was pretty significantly at odds with what had gone before.

It was pretty sensational stuff, and from a most unexpected source. The Swedish mob seemed to have settled into a rhythm by that point, evidently pretty confident that whatever we lobbed at them they’d happily enough catch and lob straight back out at us. The use of Kulusevski through the centre struck me as making a significant difference (oh that he might have played there more in recent weeks), but in general Elfsborg gave the impression of being capable of batting until close of play without too many scares.

So I suppose when the orators murmur about the fearlessness of youth, they have in mind specifically the mazy little dribble of Ajayi last night. I’m not really one for pyromania, preferring a whiskey and an improving book for my evening entertainment, but I imagine that if one were to sprinkle petroleum about the place and throw a lighted match, the effect amongst those in the vicinity would be pretty similar to that of Ajayi’s run at the Eflsborg defenders last night. In short, wild panic ensued.

Yet another tip of the cap to Scarlett, for knowing exactly how to deliver his lines, prodding the ball back to Ajayi in what turned out to be the perfect one-two. Ajayi’s adrenaline took care of the rest, and once again, that rather avuncular pride took hold of AANP. Another, I mused, who, until the day he dies, can always boast of having scored for Tottenham Hotspur, lucky blighter.

1.3 Mikey Moore

Mikey Moore’s effort was very much ‘icing on cake’ stuff, the returns by that point being pretty much in. Unlike the other two, MM’s involvement in first team affairs for the foreseeable seems a given, so if he hadn’t scored last night one would have batted it aside. Plenty more opportunities, would have been the gist.

Still, he seemed to enjoy the moment, and it was well worth the wait. It’s not a huge stretch to say the young bean has been threatening something of that ilk for a while now.

It was a goal that showcased numerous different impressive qualities. In the first place he displayed a spot of upper-body ballast of which I hadn’t thought him capable, in winning a brief, preliminary wrestling match just north of the centre-circle.

He then channelled his inner Ajayi to go tootling off past flailing Elfsborg lower limbs, and mercifully slathered enough precision on his finish that the slightly below-par power levels were but a footnote.

1.4 The Future?

Ajayi’s goal in particular was a real triumph for the virtues of fresh-faced sorts waltzing in and doing as they please. There was a distinct sense, as he set off, that here was a youthful sort happy to take a risk, without feeling weighed down by the prospect of lusty advice raining down from the South Stand should he soil the operation.

There will presumably now be a bit of a movement for binning the old guard and shoving all chips in with the young people. AANP, being an understanding cove, would patiently hear out this argument, whilst sipping from one of the older bourbons in the collection, before politely suggesting an alternative. Rather than swinging wildly to the extreme of a Moore-Scarlett-Ajayi front-line to see us through the upcoming February crunch, I’d probably advocate for throwing them on late on, initially at least. If, as seems to be the case with Mikey Moore, they seem able to cut a rug at the top level, then by all means shove them in at the deep end.

The case of Will Lankshear strikes me as the cautionary tale in amongst all this, in that the young egg is currently undercooked. I’m not sure anyone would benefit if, for example, in the absence of Solanke, he started every game; but using him, Scarlett or AN Other specifically as a late sub might be worth a whirl.

However, rather than bog oneself down in all that speculative muck, far better for now simply to bob along on the unexpected success of last night.

2. Van de Ven

The other roaring success, which has been rather elbowed off into the background, was the return of VDV.

And golly, what a return. It has, of course, been an absolute age since he roamed the corridors a robust picture of health, so the memory actually fogged over rather, when picking up the threads of his storyline. I therefore expected to see him bounding off in a whirr of legs every now and then, and not much else. Speed, the recesses of my memory informed me, was pretty much the essence of Micky Van de Ven.

So you could have knocked me down with a feather when young Master VDV started showcasing a whole reel of impressive character traits, none of which actually had anything to do with jet-heeled pace.

I simply had no idea, for a start, of quite how strapping and weighty a chap he is, but before he did anything else he could be seen trotting along towards an Elfsborg forward and administering a shove with sufficient meaning behind him to uproot the poor soul and leave him scrambling to stay upright. I suppose it might be that these were particularly lightweight forwards, but even so, I did widen the eyes a bit.

I was also rather taken by VDV’s penchant for sniffing out danger from about a mile off, and tearing up into midfield to add a layer of protection. If, for example, our forward mob over-egged things outside the Elfsborg area, and the ball was cleared up towards the middle third, where Ben Davies or Bentancur or someone were walking a bit of a tightrope, from nowhere VDV would hurtle into frame and clear things up pronto.

This might not sound so remarkable I suppose, particularly as it tended to amount to little more than throw-in, or a square pass infield; but the contrast with what happened after half-time, and indeed what has been happening for several weeks previously, was pretty stark.

Dragusin is an earnest enough fellow, but in the last three months or so I don’t really remember him reading danger from afar, and then doing the necessary mental arithmetic to arrive on time in midfield to intercept danger before it even begins. More of a one for hanging back and chewing furiously, is Dragusin.

The one time I do recall him trying to step up and usefully intervention, he rather butchered his lines, in the league game against Liverpool just before half-time, mistiming his forward charge and leaving a seismic hole behind him.

Another bonus of having VDV in situ was that Leicester-esque situations could be avoided – by which I mean the defence, lacking pace, stationing themselves so far back that the distance to the midfield mob required packing some supplies and factoring in a break for refreshment. When Porro and Bentancur muddled their passes on Sunday, the Leicester lad was able to stroll about 15 yards unopposed. No such risk of that when VDV is around, as his pace seemed to allow him to hover a bit closer to current events.

3. Son

Another element that could pretty easily fall between the cracks was that in the first half Sonny had an absolute blast against the poor old Elfsborg right-back. When I say that the young twig was twisted in every conceivable direction, and regularly deposited on his derriere, I’m not sure I even begin to cover the facts sufficiently.

If the score had not still been 0-0, and our lot not been in the middle of an almighty slump, one might have quietly tapped Sonny on the shoulder and asked him to dial things down a little. For the sake of dignity and whatnot. Few people on the planet could have been as relieved as that right-back to see Sonny removed at half-time.

The curious thing about Son’s performance was that one would hesitate to describe it as a return to form, per se. A return to form would, I fancy, carry the implication that at some point Son’s lightning pace was to the fore.

Last night, however, pace didn’t really enter into things. It is true that having twisted his man into a sackful of knots and left him on the ground, Son did then scuttle off towards the byline; but this tended just to be a burst over 5 yards, and with the defender already writhing cluelessly on the floor rather than setting off in hot pursuit.

And given that the whole game was played in the Elfsborg half, this was not a game in which Son raced from halfway onto a pass played into space, like the Son of old having been picked out by Kane.

That Son repeatedly skewered his man is true enough; but to suggest that it was a return of the good old Sonny of yesteryear slightly misses the target.

Either way, however, it was pretty riotous stuff to behold – and all before the cheering finale provided by the youth choir.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-6 Liverpool: Five Tottenham Talking Points

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1. Disclaimer: Liverpool Were Jolly Sharp

Before working up a head of steam on this one, I’ll rattle off a few disclaimers. Frightfully dull, I know, but better to be honest about these things upfront, I find.

So in the first place, one sometimes just has to get down on bended knee, remove the hat and give a spot of deference to the other lot. Hold up the hands, I mean, and admit they were better. Even though the cheeks may burn with embarrassment, every now and then it’s an unavoidable truth, and yesterday by golly Liverpool were on form. Best I’ve seen this season by a country-mile.

Had we been at full strength, and well rested, fed and watered, and had none of our lot thrown in any individual gaffes to smooth their path, I still fancy that they’d have bopped and swayed to a win pretty comfortably. Their one-touch game, and energy in and out of possession, were both about as high as the charts allow for these things. And with that said, there’s no real need to bang on much further about them.

A second point I’ll flag in the preface is that we’re still playing an 18 year-old midfielder at centre-back, such is the crowded nature of the N17 infirmary tent. The tagline about 10 players missing is perhaps a bit thick, given that it includes such squad-fillers as Mikey Moore and Odobert, but there’s no getting away from the absence of goalkeeper and both centre-backs (and, yesterday, left-back).

Even accepting that this simply means that the power-that-be ought to do a better job of fattening up the squad, the ongoing absence of three key starters creates the dickens of a challenge for any manager come matchday.

Now personally, I’d stop here. Two large caveats seems plenty to me. Go beyond that, and one starts to lose the goodwill of the audience.

As such, I’ll distance myself a little from the other bleatings. I’ve heard it said that Liverpool, due precisely to their squad depth, were able to rest 7 or 8 of their lot midweek, and had an extra 24 hours to snooze it all off – AANP shakes a brisk head when subjected to that sort of whining. Who amongst us, after all, does not have the occasional cross to bear?  

Over here, the line that really arrests the attention is that first one – Liverpool were just too dashed slippery. Best in the country, and quite possibly in Europe. As such, I’m taking yesterday’s bash as something of an isolated incident.

We appear to be in the territory now of every defeat being used as an opportunity to sharpen the nearest knife and go hunting for the head of Postecoglou; and while the Bournemouth and Palace losses were pretty grim to wade through, 3-6 to Liverpool is one I’m waving aside.

For what it’s worth, I’m curious to see how Our Glorious Leader fares when the squad is eventually bulked up sufficiently to outrun opponents twice each week, with all concerned fully drilled in the art of Angeball. Or, in other words, I’m inclined to be patient.

2. Individual Errors

Irrespective of how good Liverpool were, our heroes still seemed a tad too generous in their work.

To repeat, even if Team Lilywhite had been near flawless I suspect we’d have ended up second best, but this was an afternoon on which every now and then our lot switched off, gave a dozy yawn and allowed Liverpool to stroll forward and help themselves.

Take the opening goal. Liverpool had certainly hammered away in the preceding 20 minutes, and the cross swung in by Trent A-A was undoubtedly a doozy, but the shake of the head with which AANP greeted the marking at the back post was laced with meaning, make no mistake. Not a week goes by, it seems, without an opposing attacker wandering into Pedro Porro territory and being allowed an unhindered effort on goal.

Not that this one was necessarily the fault of Porro alone, or even Porro in part. While the header was deposited in Porro’s vicinity, the chappie who delivered it (Diaz) was pretty clearly under the guardianship of Sarr, as the goal’s opening moves were still being constructed. When Diaz tiptoed off into the area – the moment at which most right-minded defensive bods would strap up and pay particular attention – Sarr simply stopped moving and waved him along, dash it.

Porro might still have taken an emergency measure or two, having seen all this play out right in front of him; and Dragusin did not cover himself in glory by losing track of his own man in the same area; but Sarr’s was the crime that would attract the judge’s eye.

While some might quibble that picking one goal from six conceded rather misses the point of things, I wave an indignant fist and argue that the opening goal was a pretty crucial one.

And while on the subject of picking out crucial goals from six conceded, I’d also give a bit of airtime to the one just before half-time, which turned a hopeful-looking 1-2 into a rather deflating 1-3.

That third really ought to have been avoided if young Dragusin had managed to dredge up a brain cell or two from within the empty recesses between his ears. To remind, a hopeful clearance was lofted into orbit around halfway, and Dragusin could pretty easily have simply stood where he was – even putting his hands on his hips, if the mood took him, and watching from afar as the Liverpool forward worked up a sweat bringing the thing down.

Instead, Dragusin was briefly possessed by the ghosts of Romero, Dier and Dawson, and abandoning his post he raced up to halfway to challenge for a header for which any bookmaker would have made him comfortable second-favourite.

Well, of course he lost that particular duel, taking a solid headed swat at thin air, and coming back down to earth a good 20 yards from where the ball would land. And if you want a sense of where the ball did land, it was precisely the spot from which Dragusin had set off in the first place – that spot on which, in a parallel universe, he stood waiting with hands on hips.

To repeat, such was the Liverpool performance that one suspects they’d have found a way even if Dragusin had channelled his inner Ledley, but it didn’t stop some choice Anglo-Saxon emerging from the AANP lips on the stroke of half-time.

I’ll actually show a bit of leniency towards all involved for the second half goals, because by then the state of the game was such that our lot were rather desperately flinging forward every fit and available man in search of goals (of which, in fairness, they found a couple) and were consequently absolutely ripe for the slicing when possession was lost.

I also jabbered above about the absence of both centre-backs and goalkeeper, and while this situation undoubtedly does disrupt things, one probably ought to acknowledge that even with Vicario, Romero and VDV in situ, our defence has hardly been watertight. The view at AANP Towers remains that our first-choice defence is populated entirely by personnel whose primary assets are their attacking instincts. One can well imagine Romero, for example, making precisely the same botched call that Dragusin made for that third goal. What I’m getting as is that if Ange decided, when all were fit and ready, that a VDV-Gray pairing were the way forward, I’d give him an audience.

3. Son

There’s something a little off about Sonny, wouldn’t you say? Not quite the talismanic and near-unstoppable force of the recent past, I mean. And not just yesterday, either. The chap has looked distinctly par-boiled all season so far.

There has been at least one injury this season, and it might be that his pistons are yet to fully fire. One might also pretty reasonably argue that in the first half in particular yesterday, few amongst our number seemed to make things click as required when in possession.

But nevertheless, where once he would receive the ball two-thirds up the pitch and one could assert with some confidence that he’d produce some impromptu delight, now things tend as often as not to fizzle out a bit when the ball is at his feet.

Time, of course, will do that. Even the fleetest of foot specimens eventually slow down, so it might simply be a creaking of the hinges. At present though, I can’t quite work out whether this is one to file under ‘Temporary Blip’, or a more dramatic heading such as ‘Beginning of the End’.

Whatever the diagnosis, I thought that Werner introduced a spot of much-needed pep when he came on. It’s not that he necessarily tore up the Liverpool defence and ran the game; but rather his direct running offered a new and slightly more direct threat. It made a useful change from the little variety of cul-de-sacs that Son seemed to have found all afternoon.

4. Kulusevski Central

It also struck me that our attacking play as a whole went up a notch or three once Kulusevski was switched to the centre, in the second half.

You’ll have noticed by now that it’s a big day for disclaimers at AANP Towers, and the latest of these is that Kulusevski’s – and the team’s – increased productivity might as legitimately be ascribed to the fact that Liverpool went 5-1 up and relaxed, as to the fact that Kulusevski moved from right wing to centre. That, I suppose, is one for public debate.

From this corner of the interweb, however, it seemed that those monitoring our general level of Attacking Thrust would have been jolted into life when Kulusevski made his move.

The whole business of Kulusevski’s virtues when operating centrally as opposed to the right wing is a topic on which I have, intermittently, banged on about for a good season and a half now. And if a shifty-looking lawyer were to knock on my door and hand me an envelope marked ‘Confirmation Bias’, I’d grudgingly give them a knowing nod.

Nevertheless, what is an incontrovertible truth is that our first goal came from Kulusevski pressing Liverpool from a position that was more Central than Right-Wing (the Liverpool bobbie collapsed in a Kulusevski-induced heap outside the D, and Maddison did the rest).

Indeed, all three of our goals owed much – either in creation or execution – to Kulusevski barrelling straight through the centre of the pitch like some particularly irked species of bull. One understands that the current limitations around the squad, combined with the desperation for Maddison to become a string-puller-in-chief, often means that the easiest way to rearrange the pieces is to shove Kulusevski wide.

However, the chap seems this season to have been our most creative attacking eel, and as such I’d knock on a few doors to campaign for starting with him in the middle and fitting the other pieces around him.

5. Spence

Before wrapping up, a brief word of congratulation for young Master Spence. I can well imagine an exasperated muttering or two from those reading that particular line. Spence was, after all, part of a defensive unit that conceded six, and was amongst the party that failed to clear the crucial header in the build-up to the second goal. One might be within their rights to take AANP aside and quietly suggest a sit-down, and a restorative beaker of something or other, until restored to full sense.

I’ll continue to bang the Spence drum however. I don’t really want to dwell too long on the whole business of passing out from the back, but he does play the game in this respect.

More impressive to me, though, were his contributions further forward (including a hand in one of our goals yesterday, as well as the pass for Solanke’s in midweek), plus a pretty firm commitment to the defensive cause. Where Porro is frequently out of frame in the replays for our goals conceded, Spence was at least visibly involved, playing the role of Last Man Back on each of the second half goals conceded.

I’m still not sure what the objections were that prevented either of Conte or Ange picking him for a couple of years, but he seems a most useful and diligent sort on the evidence of the last week or so. As with the broader Ange-overseen project, I’m all for a bit of patience.