Tag: Micky Van de Ven

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Spurs match reports

Athletic Madrid 5-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Kinsky Episode

‘All action, no plot’ barely covers it, which is saying something. After the succession of fresh disasters that were Newcastle, and then Woolwich, and then Fulham, and then Palace, each somehow a lower ebb than the previous one, even the finest creative minds in the land would have struggled to magic up some new depths for our lot to plumb.

However, if four decades of disbelieving shakes of the head and rubs of the eyes have taught me anything it’s that Tottenham Hotspur’s capacity for disaster should never be under-estimated. Accordingly, just when it seemed the barmiest, most bonkers plot-lines had been exhausted, we somehow dredged up this nonsense with Kinsky, resulting in the substitution of a goalkeeper after 16 minutes having already shipped three goals. Only at Spurs, what?

First up, a few brutal home truths. Of course, supporting Spurs is not for the faint-hearted anyway, but nevertheless, it’s probably best at the point to insert one of those parental warnings that one sometimes sees paraded before a particularly edgy announcement.

And with that in mind, 3-0 down after 15 minutes is pretty first-rate bilge in anyone’s books. No PR company in the world can shove a positive spin on that and expect it to land without a few raised eyebrows about the place. Moreover, it creates a rather awkward narrative for whichever poor lemon happened to be between the sticks at the time. Concession of three of the finest in the opening quarter of an hour is not the bullet point anyone wants on their CV.

However, once this latest debacle had been digested, and on observing poor old Kinsky being yanked into an early departure, AANP donned the monocle and gave the whole thing a spot of scrutiny.

The first goal, it seemed to me, came about because Kinsky lost his footing. Not a great look, of course; but equally, not an event brought about by a particular level of ineptitude. To add a bit of meat to this argument, I direct you towards the second goal, for which VDV similarly lost his footing. Again, one no doubt turns the air blue at witnessing it, but it hardly goes down as a mistake on the chap’s part. Nobody suggested removing the chap from the premises.

Of course, the third goal was entirely on Kinsky, as he became all left feet and somehow tackled himself, in what will go down as one of the great adverts for the fate that will befall a man who takes his eye off the ball at the crucial juncture.

Nevertheless, by my count, that amounts to one mistake. An absolute rip-snorter of a mistake it was, granted; and one that compounded already farcical matters, no doubt; but only the one mistake nevertheless. Kinsky slipped; and then VDV slipped; and then Kinsky made a bona fide clanger – but I don’t particularly see how that one mistake merited a substitution of the chap.

At best it seemed an odd managerial decision, and it worst it lay somewhere between rash and petulant. Having brought the young whelp into the XI – and without uttering a word of explanation why, dash it – the decision to hook him was tactically rather rummy. Whether Tudor was admitting not to know the quality of his players, or admitting that he made a gamble and decided after just 15 minutes that it had failed, or was simply over-reacting, he doesn’t seem to emerge particularly well from this latest lilywhite farce.

By the by, I heard one of the bods on the tellybox burble about the substitution being disrespectful. This AANP does not give too many hoots about. Substitutions should not be paused for fear of hurting the feelings of the squadron, dash it. Take the hit and get on with life is just about the sum of the AANP take on that, and if they still feel disrespected then they count every last pound coin in their enormous salary envelope for distraction.

But as tactical, managerial moves go, I thought Tudor worked himself into a jolly squiffy corner with that substitution.

2. Porro

A little leftfield perhaps, on a night when there were all manner of larger problems over which to stew, but far more than the glut of early goals pinging in from all angles, the issue that grated to the core over here was the ongoing nonsense from Pedro Porro.

Yes, yes, the chap scored one and created another – and credit where due, he executed both with a dash of quality.

But Porro is first and foremost a defender, and just once I would like to head back to base with praise for his defensive contributions falling from my lips. Instead, we were treated to the usual display of Porro’s defensives negligence. Wing-back or not, his repeated insistence on shrugging off his defensive duties, and leaving the Madrid forward to enjoy the freedom of the left wing was maddening.

The biscuit was then well and truly taken by that astonishing sputtering of the Porro motor en route to the Madrid fifth, when he entered into a solid foot-race with Alvarez from halfway, gradually ran out of steam and then completely gave up altogether, dash it all. He simply abandoned the chase! It was left to Spence to motor along from a completely different postcode to try to add some respectability to the scene, but by golly, to see an international footballer puff and wheeze his way across the turf as if treading quicksand, was enough to drive one to distraction.

I noted too, that as soon as Alvarez had deposited the thing in the net, Porro immediately started devoting his energies to spinning around and waving his arms at anyone who caught his eye, as if to suggest that the fault for all this lay elsewhere. Honestly, if I’d been anywhere near the blighter I’d have wrung his neck and happily taken a stretch in a Madrid cell for the privilege.

And all this followed similar nonsense against Palace, when he again gave up the ghost when supposedly chasing down a forward before berating Vicario after the concession of one of the goals. There are a few rotten eggs about the place, on and off the pitch, but Porro cheeses me off no end.

3. What Might Have Been

As an afterthought, another irritation about the whole bally spectacle was that once the initial three-goal lead had been gifted to the other lot, our heroes actually plugged away with an element of decency for the remainder.

The obvious caveat here is that having given us a thrashing inside 15 minutes, the Atletic players were clearly laughing their heads off. One can listen to all the post-match interviews in the world about doing a professional job and whatnot, but AANP knows a team taking its foot off the gas when it sees one, and last night’s tormentors were a doing exactly that.

Nevertheless, I was actually taken aback by quite how many half-decent opportunities our heroes carved out. In addition to a couple of goals, we hit a post and had a pretty straightforward point-blank header saved, in addition to one or two other vaguely presentable opportunities. As ever, the bar is low, but this was a damned sight better haul than we’ve been used to in recent months.

It makes the opening 15-minute car-crash all the more galling. No knowing how things might have turned out if our lot could just have been normal for the opening stretch, and we might well have been hammered even without the slips and slides at the back. But having made a fist of things over the remaining 75 minutes, it is a wistful AANP who wonders “What if?” on this occasion.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-3 Palace: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Actually Less Bad Than Most Other Weeks

AANP took a deepish breath and drained a snooterful before settling down to pen this one, because last night struck me as a bit of a muddle.

The headline, of course, is the ongoing circling of the drain that leads down to the Championship, with barely anyone involved with the club trying to prevent this. And if one were to skim over the grizzly facts of last night, they might swiftly conclude that it fits the ongoing narrative – a red card, three goals conceded before half-time, a home defeat. “Spineless they were on Sunday at Fulham,” might be the murmured conclusion, “spineless they will continue to be next time out.”

But I actually thought that until the grey matter between the Van de Ven ears suddenly melted, our lot were making a vaguely presentable fist of things. Now the key here is probably to establish context. Whereas a couple of years ago a “vaguely presentable fist of things” would have involved monopolising possession but only winning by one, for the current vintage it broadly means not getting hammered.

And following the usual beginning to proceedings in which each of our heroes treated the ball as if it might suddenly explode in their faces, and forlornly chased Palace around our own half, I’ll be dashed if we didn’t actually start to edge into their half of the pitch.

Young Tel, rather charmingly still surging on the adrenaline of his cameo on Sunday, actually instigated the change in mood, by deciding, reasonably enough, to get his head down and dribble straight through the massed Palace ranks. This being Spurs it came to naught, but it did at least cause a bit of a ripple amongst his scattered chums, who suddenly seemed struck by the realisation that they could wander into the Palace half without bursting into flames.

One disallowed Palace goal later and our lot even had a lead, which is not something I remember saying for a few months now. And at that point, while one could hardly say that a sunny optimism descended on AANP Towers, I did at least get the sense that our heroes were, in laboured fashion, stumbling their way around a corner.

Then came the VDV moment, and somehow within the blink of an eye we had shipped three, which even for our lot took some doing, but there we go and here we are.

Again, at the start of the second half, while it is easy to bat it away within the wider narrative of doom and gloom, there was an unusual degree of punch about the lilywhite corp. Even though down to ten, trailing by two goals and in the midst of a 12-game freefall, our heroes seemed oddly possessed of the notion that a goal or two might shake things up. Credit where due, and while Palace admittedly seemed to observe this with curiosity rather than concern, I was all for it, if only because it punctuated the torture.

Anyway, that fizzled out within twenty minutes or so, and the remainder was spent resuming the gentle sleepwalk towards relegation, but the point is that as these soul-destroying, incessant defeats go, this was actually amongst the less abject.

2. Alas, Van de Ven

Of course, it’s no good bleating that if such and such hadn’t happened then everything would have turned out tickety-boo. Instead of a cheeful jig up the High Road, it was the usual tortuous nonsense. This sinking into oblivion is, of course, very much a collective effort, but last night at least one could probably point an accusing finger at VDV.

I suppose one can imagine a title-chasing team having that same incident scrutinised and then waved away by the VAR intelligentsia, but nobody of sound mind is quibbling with the call.

One probably ought not to be too harsh on young Master Van de Ven, a chap who has managed to accumulate an enormous amount of credit here at N17, for deeds at both ends. Nevertheless, it was a stinker of a moment on his part, from its genesis in which he gummed up his clearance, to the dubious realisation that he was stationed at the wrong coordinates to go about his duties, to the entirely unsubtle wrenching of the Sarr upper limb.

He may, perhaps, have reasoned that if he began the arm-yanking outside the area then nothing more sinister than a direct free-kick would accrue; on the other hand, he may not have done. Either way, he forgot to let go, and by the time the protagonists had collapsed in their heap, the whole thing was reminiscent of a toddler being caught with their hand in the jar and chocolate smears around the face.

On top of conceding the penalty and really dropping last night’s operation into the woodchipper, the daft chestnut has also absented himself for presumably the next three outings, which will hardly assist Mission: For Goodness’ Sake.

3. Archie Gray

AANP has been pretty hesitant to sing the praises of young Master Gray so far this season. Last season I was most impressed by his ability to adapt to life as a centre-back, not least because he seemed to recognise that since his paper-like frame would not serve much purpose in physical combat he would be better off dining on interceptions and blocks.

This season, however, when asked to operate elsewhere, my overriding impression has been of a boy being trampled underfoot in a man’s world. Not his fault, of course. The young pipsqueak ought not to be near the first team at this stage. Five minutes here and fifteen minutes there, from the bench, would be a vastly more appropriate way to dripfeed him his Premier League education.

Instead we’ve been treated to the sight of him being shoved out of the way by Gyokeres a couple of weeks back, which struck me as summing up the current state of his career.

Last night, however, while his spindly appearance remained very much part of his makeup, young Gray bobbed and weaved about the place like a chappie willing to fight tooth and nail for the thing, and as such he earned himself a free shot or two at this particular bar.

His work to create the Solanke goal in particular was worth a pretty rousing ovation, not least because it seemed to involve defiance of the very laws of physics. Being hounded like nobody’s business by no fewer than two Palace rotters, and finding his only route was that towards the corner flag, I don’t mind admitting that I’d allowed the eyes to glaze over in expectation of matters gently extinguishing into a goal-kick.

I therefore cannot advise on what specific sorcery he used, but by some means or other young Gray somehow left both Palace bounders in his wake, just about kept the ball in play and even had the presence of mind to cherry-on-the-cake his work by laying it on a plate for Solanke. It was as startling a piece of nift as it was out of keeping with everything that has preceded it this calendar year.

Add that to his work on Sunday in creating Richarlison’s goal, and frankly AANP has found himself having to pen a letter of apology for all the criticism I’ve lobbed his way this season. Things might have been better yet, had one of his second half forays into the Palace area brought a richer harvest than a mere blocked shot. In general, young Gray seemed the most likely to prompt the unlikely comeback, so full marks to the young bean.  

4. Relegation, Dash It

So while the other mobs around us occasionally pick up a point hither or thither, one rather struggles to see quite how our lot will do likewise. Admittedly last night, until the red card, we were better than in recent weeks – a low bar and so on, but certainly not quite as bad – but even so, we’ve reached rather awkward territory. Relegation now seems inevitable.

Which would be bad enough, but given our season thus far has been characterized by a toothless, spineless and brainless slant, I don’t give our lot much hope of coming back up any time soon either. When thinking of relegation fodder, one generally closes the eyes and imagines a bunch who gamely battle away each week, but simply lack the quality. The concern amongst our lot is the complete absence of battling. I don’t give these poor lambs too much hope in the Championship.

Cursed by having been assembled by around half a dozen managers each peddling distinct philosophies, ours is a squad with no particular character, and a little too heavy on fairly average sorts who presumably were lured to N17 by the number of zeros on the pay-slip rather than any affinity to Bruce Castle Park and the surrounding environs. On top of which, none of them have been their particularly long, so can hardly be expected to have any genuine affinity for the club. One has yet to see them fight for the badge this season, so I do not count on it in 26/7.  

All rather ominous, what?

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Spurs match reports

Everton 0-3 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Formation

If you had caught a glimpse of AANP during the opening exchanges of this one,  you’d have spotted him viewing proceedings with eyes narrowed and brow furrowed; and if on the basis of the narrowed e. and furrowed b. you’d inferred that he was having a dickens of a time trying to work out the formation adopted by our heroes, you’d have been bang on the money. Which, ironically enough, is precisely what AANP was not bang on when trying to decipher that set-up.

The first thought that floated between the AANP ears was that Our Glorious Leader had gone with two right wingers at the same time. Which, if true, would have been Thomas Frank’s prerogative, of course. He’s the shot-caller, after all. If he wanted to go down the Not-Typically-Done route then he had every right. As long as it works, went the AANP take, then do your damnedest.

But while I was lustily supporting this little tactical quirk, it dawned on me that whatever our formation was, it wasn’t one featuring two right wingers. The next notion to spring to mind was wing-backs, but this did not seem quite right either. Spence, perhaps, was adopting wing-back-like poses on the left; but out on the right, Johnson didn’t really appear to be signing up to the “back” part of the wing-back arrangement.

And what, I asked myself, was Kudus? Or perhaps more pertinently, where was Kudus? Because for what I assumed was a Number 10 sort of role, he seemed to be drifting out to the right an awful lot.

Anyway, the main takeaway of all this was that it’s a good job I’m not a manager, as I’d have spent most of that first half simply goggling at the lilywhite formation rather than doing anything useful.

With the dust settled, I guess it was a 3-2-4-1 sort of get-up, in possession at least – with Spence and Johnson up the flanks, and Simons and Kudus inside them. Frankly, the label matters little at this point, for the gist is that it ought to have provided a few more passing options whenever we advanced up the pitch, as well as the standard defensive stability of the Palhinha-Bentancur double-act.

I suggest that it “ought” to have provided more passing options going forward, because in practice the quick passing routines didn’t really register. Not that it mattered too much today, given that our set-piece sequences were immaculately choreographed, and all defensive parts in fine working order at the other end. But I nevertheless noted, with a sigh that was two parts patience and one part disappointment, that despite a Spence-Simons-Kudus-Johnson line supporting Kolo Muani, we remained a little light on the old whizz-bang when trundling forward.

2. Set-Pieces

One can’t have it all, however, and to criticise in the slightest a 3-0 away win at a mighty imposing estate would be pretty off. With two goals nodded in from set-pieces this had the Frank fingerprints all over it.

I view set-pieces much as I view technology, in that it ought to supplement rather than replace the honest sweat and endeavour of the good souls involved, and our heroes used it marvellously today, supplementing things like billy-o.

There was the delivery, for a start. The Porro corner for our second contained a level of spite that ought really not to be allowed before the watershed. It absolutely fizzed into the area, to such an extent that had it not been converted one would really have had no option but to launch an independent enquiry to understand why not. Mercifully, Van de Ven had the good sense to give the ‘keeper a knowing shove and then angle his head appropriately, but while it was the Dutchman who drank in the plaudits, the AANP glass was raised to Porro.

While the delivery for the opening goal (courtesy of Kudus) did not necessarily carry quite the same level of menace, it being swung a tad more gently towards the far post for Bentancur, I did nevertheless applaud its accuracy. A yard higher or lower and the whole operation would have crumbled in its infancy. Kudus, to his credit, dropped the thing at the designated coordinates, and at the designated time and – critically – at the designated height.

Interestingly, although that aforementioned D.H. was, specifically, head height, Bentancur took it upon himself to improvise a little. And there was no harm in that at all. If a little innovation was good enough for Thomas Frank when doodling his formations, then it was good enough for Bentancur when arriving at the back-post. One might well have spotted Bentancur mouthing the words, as he shimmered towards the back post, “Just because it’s called ‘Head height’ does not preclude me from using my shoulder, what?”

The moment of improv. worked swimmingly, and VDV’s head-angling got its first taste of action. And let’s face it, if the t’s are crossed and i’s dotted on set-pieces as meticulously as that, then there is a little less pressure on the front five to string together too many slick passes.  

3. Danso

As mentioned, VDV knew a good thing from approximately two yards out when he saw one, and full credit to him, but with Romero again missing – that innocuous pre-match ‘knock’ of last week proving a dashed sight more sinister than we had initially been led to believe – I once again adjusted the monocle and subjected young Master Danso to feverish scrutiny throughout.

And once again – for the third time in a week, in fact – the fellow emerged with a laudable report card. One doesn’t have to search too hard to find a fish of lilywhite persuasion who will fold their arms, tilt their head and remark sadly that the absence of Romero deprives us of some incisive passing from the back, the undertone being that we might as well all pack up and go home in the absence of such line-breaking gold. AANP, however, is a more traditional sort of egg, brought up to believe that a defender’s purpose in life is to defend, and it was with this anthem on my lips that I meted out the approving nod and slapped the approving thigh each time Danso unveiled another of the defensive basics.

I think I heard within the post-match burble that Danso rattled off more clearances than anyone else in the vicinity, and while I couldn’t put a hand on the Bible and swear to it, I certainly would not be surprised. He seemed fully committed throughout to the basic notion that Ball Near Goal was Bad, and Ball Away From Goal was Good – and frankly it was an attitude that I could get on board with.

He might not necessarily be the sort of fish we want manning the helm when Europe’s elite come to town, but for an hour and a half in the pouring rain in Everton, he put the fevered mind at ease.

4. Vicario

A congratulatory word also for our resident back-stop, who had seemingly been convinced that the final whistle at Monaco still had not sounded, and consequently just carried on where he left off there.

Two second half saves in particular were of the absolute highest order. Admittedly I say that from a position of general ignorance when it comes to this goalkeeping lark, but to stick out a paw from point-blank range when the opposition chappie is pulling off an overhead kick seemed to take some doing; while the save from a shot that took two deflections really did have me purring in admiration. Reflexes, one was inclined to murmur, maketh the top-notch save.  

My views on Vicario at corners remain a little more mixed – for every successful punch to the edge of the area there seemed also to be one rather sorry attempt to propel himself forward that was aborted midway through when he ran into a jungle of bodies. However, this was a day to salute, again, the fellow’s fine shot-stopping, and those two second half saves were essentially worth goals.

A second clean sheet, on the road, within three days, is not to be sniffed at, and certainly provides a useful base upon which to build a hale and hearty future; concerns about creativity can wait for another day.

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Spurs match reports

Bodo-Glimt 2-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. General Guff About “Character”

Now you can call me a massively ungrateful wretch who should be thankful for what he’s got – and you wouldn’t be the first – but when I hear the Big Cheese, and various other luminaries clad in official Team Hotspur training gear, banging on about the “character” shown last night, I do rather get the urge to pickle my own head.

The nub of my grievance is that we should not have to keep needing late, late rallies in order to salvage a point against teams that are decent but hardly world-beating. And a delicate nuance attached to that same nub is that banging on about character seems a little too conveniently to sweep aside the glaring issue de jour, with an innocent whistle and the hope that everyone forgets it ever happened at all.

So while I grudgingly offer a brief round of applause – one of those perfunctory numbers, utterly devoid of sincerity – it’s only a precursor to a spot of prime finger-jabbing.

The real issue I took back to AANP Towers last night is that we should not be two bally goals down to Bodo-Glimt in the first place, in any circumstance. Nor for that matter should we be two down to Brighton or trailing to Wolves at home in added time. Never mind that we manage to slink our way out of these scrapes – why the devil are we in them in the first place?

However, if there is one thing said about AANP it is that he is an absolute model of fairness, calm and sunny optimism, and as such I can rein in the vitriol for 20 seconds or so, and give our lot their dues. And in this spirit of acceptance I acknowledge that a Champions League draw is better than a Champions League defeat, and that many a previous vintage has simply accepted their fate with a resigned shrug when faced with a 2-0 deficit away from home. So well done Spurs, for drawing with a team worth £50m.

2. A Spot of Porro-Bashing

The niceties concluded, we can get down to brass tacks, and interrogate why our heroes were second best to that mob, almost throughout.

Consistently failing, to a man, to string 10-yard passes together was a pretty core element here; and out of possession, while there seemed a pretty firm understanding that packing seven or eight across our own area would help prevent unwanted intrusion, the tendency of our midfield simply to melt away rather played into Bodo’s hands.

This is one of those occasions on which I could jab a finger at just about any of the eleven and launch into a bit of a rant, so one ought not to read too much into the choice of Senor Porro for the initial blast of both barrels. Nevertheless, the thought does spring to mind, time and again, that for a defender he’s really not so hot in the defending department.

The chap’s tendency to dangle the most ineffective leg whenever an opponent attempts a cross has been well documented on these very pages previously. Last night he took that same principle of waggling a limb without the slightest conviction, and applied it when the opposition nib was lining up a shot.

I struggle to remember a time when Porro actually did block a shot. I certainly remember countless moments when he has dropped to one knee to create that cricket-style long-barrier approach. He does that every game, pretty regularly, and it looks terrifically neat and tidy, quite the feat of construction and aesthetics. Unfortunately, it’s useless.

The Bodo fellow wandered into the area for yesterday’s second goal, so Porro instinctively dropped to his knee, in response to which the Bodo f. promptly danced around him – as one would when presented with an inanimate and entirely superfluous object in one’s path – and lashed the thing in.

And this, lest we forget, followed the opener, in which Porro when faced with one attacker in possession plus his overlapping chum, wandered the way of the overlapping sort, neglecting to communicate any of this to the assisting Johnson, with the result that the attacker in possession did not even have to dip into his bag of tricks in order to find room for the shot. He simply wandered straight into the space vacated by Porro and BJ and let fly. The AANP mood darkened.

Porro, of course, played a critical role in our comeback, his absolutely gorgeous delivery presenting on a plate the goal for Micky van de Ven. A particular word of approbation to PP for striking the ball so sweetly when it had been rolled backwards to him, and as such would have been a strong contender for scooping upwards and off into the gods.

So no real complaints about the fellow’s attacking onions. But to repeat the intro line – he appears to be a defender who cannot defend, and as such is at least one of the causes of our lot needing to resort to “character” to do that skin-of-the-teeth routine at the death.

3. Danso. And Spence. And All The Rest If I Had Time.

AANP reserved a special eye or two for young Herr Danso for this one, this being his first start of the season and whatnot. While there has generally been a whiff of optimism accompanying the reports of my Spurs-supporting chums when opining on the fellow since his arrival last season, I’ve been a bit less convinced to date, still waiting for his big signature tune, if you know what I mean.

And given the platform yesterday to stride out and blow us all away, I thought he spent his 90 minutes resembling a balloon from which air was slowly escaping throughout. His actual defending was fairly unremarkable – not quite Porro-esque levels of negligence, but neither did he come across as some heaving colossus towards whom opponents took one look and instinctively back off a yard or two to ask their commander if there were any alternative routes to goal. On spying Danso, one got the impression that the Bodo lot turned to one another and murmured “Sure, I’ll have a crack at this one.”

But what really irked the AANP soul was the sight of Danso on the front-foot, seemingly convinced that his inner Beckenbauer was ripe and ready for channelling. We all flung up our hands and yelled a choice curse or two at Bentancur for his runaway-plough routine that conceded the penalty, but Bodo had possession in the first place because Danso had gone galloping up the pitch, only to dwell too long and be robbed inside halfway.

This was an act he repeated a few times, either getting caught in possession or launching a flurry of the most aimless forward passes conceivable, the sort that rather apologetically slow down near the opposition corner flag, leaving even the opposition a little irritated at having to fetch the thing from no man’s land.

It was a tough gig for Danso, I suppose, being dropped into the frontline without any meaningful football behind him and on a plastic pitch and whatnot – but the above errors were nevertheless avoidable fare. We may have two pretty high calibre centre-backs in situ, but the first reserve does seem to represent a dip in quality. Covetous glances continue to be glanced in the direction of Selhurst Park.

And as mentioned, there are plenty others who deserve a fair amount of opprobrium for last night’s bilge. Spence might be an excellent one-on-one defender, and doubtless boasts a few tricks when on the forward march, but yesterday he was regularly to be spotted miles out of position while all around him retreated at breakneck speed back into position (or rather he was not spotted – if you get my drift).

On top of which, that lackadaisical air of his, which seems to lurk never too far from the surface, was on show again for the Bodo second, for which he rather carelessly miscontrolled on the corner of his own area to gift possession their way.

It was that sort of night, errant behaviour on show from those in natty black shirts everywhere one looked. Late comebacks are all well and good, but midfield creativity and general sharpness have been sorely lacking from our mob in recent games, and it’s one Our Glorious Leader will need to un-muddle pronto.

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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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Uncategorized

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.