Tag: Pape Matar Sarr

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Man City: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Solanke

My Spurs-supporting chum Ian can be an emotional sort of egg when it comes to all matters lilywhite, but even so, I’ve always found it a tad odd that he harbours a deep dislike of Dominic Solanke. In fact, so intense is this aversion to the chap that he typically refers to him as the English Dirk Kuyt – and let’s face it, there is really no interpretation of that particular moniker that can be seen as a compliment.

Anyway, I’ve personally always been rather fond of Solanke myself, probably to a greater extent than he’s ever actually merited, primarily on the grounds that, in terms of build, he strikes me as resembling a sturdy tree trunk. Some may shoot the unconvinced glass at that one, but AANP’s mind is made up. This is the quality to which all self-respecting centre-forwards should aspire, and it was on display yesterday for the first of his double.

Now every spare column inch going has been stuffed to the gills with praise for his second, and while I’m as happy as the next man to offer a generous hand for anyone who can backheel a volley mid-air on a Sunday afternoon, in truth it has made little lastingimpression upon me. It was all a bit improvised, and owed far too much to closing one’s eyes and blindly wafting. A Van de Ven length-of-the-pitch effort it was not. In fact, I consider Palhinha’s overhead the other week to have had more juice to it, that having been very clearly intended, having been a recognised technique and having been illustrated by history to have been a dashed difficult routine to execute.  

Whereas Solanke’s was the footballing equivalent of closing the eyes and swinging the bat. All good wholesome fun of course, but I suppose I just prefer my football to be a bit more obviously football-related. Solanke’s finish, while perfectly legal, seemed more something born of interpretative dance.

Over in this quarter, I was far more taken by his man-handling of the Khusanov chap, during the construction phase of his first goal. To remind, young Simons popped over one of those little outside-of-the-boot numbers, and Solanke set about gathering it in, with Khusanov dutifully trotting over to poke his nose in and try to interfere.

And it was at this point that AANP swooned somewhat, because Solanke proceeded simply to swat Khusanov aside like he was an annoying younger brother in the back garden. It may have lacked the finesse and gymnastics of the second, and been considerably more brutish and unrefined, but the ability to manhandle an opponent out of the way is one of the qualities I most deeply cherish in a striker.

Frankly, Solanke is so often absent that one rather forgets what qualities he does and does not possess, but there was certainly a warm reassurance about this display of brawn. I’m of the opinion that any striker worth his salt ought really to be able to muscle opponents out of the way and generally be a bit of a physical nuisance in the penalty area.

He had much to do thereafter, of course, and funnily enough I considered that his actual finish ought to have been flagged as a very 21st century transgression, and disallowed. Certainly, if roles had been reversed and Guehi had lunged through the back of his calf, I’d have howled for a penalty long into the night. But the goal stood, and a certain smugness descended onto the AANP features and camped in for the night, for as mentioned, I’ve a fondness for Solanke, and this brief combination of brawn and technique seemed to demonstrate what we’ve been missing atop the tree so far this season.

Of course, however, this being Spurs, Solanke’s evening ended with him traipsing off injured.

2. Simons

I mentioned above that he created our first goal with a little sprinkling of elan, and Simons generally bobbed about the place pretty usefully last night.

He deserves a tip of the cap in the first place for being the only one of our number who showed any particular lust for the occasion in the first half, but in the second, as everyone else bucked up their ideas, he put on another of those showings that does seem to emanate from his size sevens when the mood grips him and the stars align.

Being of slender build and not yet sufficiently ripened for the rough and tumble world of English top-flight jousting, Simons does still have a tendency to be knocked from his moorings and sent hurtling up into the air. As well as requiring a considerable amount more meat on his bones, I sometimes wonder if he might also adjust his mindset, perhaps to ready himself for incoming boots and elbows, and evade them as appropriate.

However, one can rarely fault his eagerness. Simons is certainly not one to seek out a quiet corner of the pitch and fade into the background. If the ball is in play, he will generally wave an arm or two requesting it be posted his way, and once it arrives he seems to brim with positive intent, being one of those nibs blessed with the bright idea that the best thing to do with a ball at one’s feet is start haring off towards the opposition goal.

There have been a few mixed reviews for the fellow so far, and I suppose one of those tough old beaks with inscrutable stares would judge that some days he’s been effective and other days entirely not so; but there seems to be enough about Simons to hope that in time he can bed in and become a useful sort of cog.

3. Dragusin

We probably ought really to give young Dragusin a hearty round of applause for having the gumption to pull on the shirt and trot out there to take on Erling Haaland of all people, in his first match in a year or so.

But we lilywhites are unforgiving folk, and at AANP Towers we’re the least forgiving of the lot, so the groans were sounding  bright and early in proceedings once Dragusin got involved, and frankly it all felt like he’d never been away.

With Cherki bearing down on goal for the opener, one might have hoped our man could have imposed himself upon the situation to some extent, or at least dangled a meaningful limb in the way of the incoming shot. Instead, the chap opted to try drifting out of existence altogether, and in a move that surprised precisely none of the gathered masses, Cherki belted the ball through him as if he weren’t there.

Shortly afterwards Haaland shoved him aside, in a neat precursor to Solanke’s Khusanov moment, before lobbing the ball onto the roof of the net; and our man then compounded things by spooning the ball straight to Silva, deep inside our half, for the City second.

To repeat, the whole sorry affair can probably be excused on the grounds that here was a vehicle clearly not yet ready for public performance; I suppose the worry is that even at peak fitness, he rarely seems suited for the rigours of the Premier League. Frustrating, because I recall Dragusin putting in a decent turn for Romania in the last Euros; and rather alarming, because the infirmary is spilling over with the walking wounded, at the latest count three of whom were centre-backs.

4. An Odd Second Half Turnaround

If you’ve reached this far down the page and are now licking your lips in anticipation of a forensic going-over of our second half transformation, I’m afraid I have bad news to impart. Fun though it was to watch our lot claw their way back into things, I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what specifically prompted it all.

It’s certainly not the first time this season that our heroes have waited until the opposition have run away with things, and the devoted followers have vented a decent amount of spleen, before sparking into life and belting out a few rousing numbers. I’m not sure I entirely endorse the approach, but I suppose a spot of second half vim is better than no vim at all.

The swapping of Romero for Sarr was the obvious tactical tweak, as we switched to a pleasingly old-fashioned 4-4-2, but frankly I’m not sure that this new-fangled formation was the driving force behind the comeback. This seemed more a case of our lot just racing about the pitch like their lives depended on it, and in a manner completely at odds with the first half.

There was much to admire about Connor Gallagher chasing down two City players and emerging with the ball, before doing some more haring – towards the area – until he could hare no more, and pinged his cross Solanke-wards, for our second. If you excuse me once again glossing over the Solanke acrobatics, the revving up of the Gallagher engine seemed to capture the essence of our second half performance. From nowhere, our lot just seemed to apply themselves rather more.

And while one wants therefore to applaud them all, and bottle that second half to uncork it afresh next weekend, the lingering poser does remain, of why they have to wait until half-time – and until trailing by two – before bothering to compete. I can’t help thinking that Thomas Frank is as clueless as I am about all this, but it’s another stay of execution.  

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Spurs match reports

Frankfurt 0-2 Spurs: Three (Tardy) Tottenham Talking Points

1. European Joys vs Domestic Woes

As distracting sub-plots go, this business of Sauntering-Through-The-CL-While-Falling-Off-A-Cliff-In-The-PL is rapidly gaining in intrigue.

First things first, and it should be meaningful handshakes and measured eye contact all round – both for the players who went out and ticked all the required boxes, and, I suppose, for Our Glorious Leader, who politely presents himself for the hurling of rotten fruit when things go awry, so probably deserves a nod of acknowledgement when we somehow emerge as fourth best in the whole continent, if you can rub your eyes and believe that.

The next thing to do would be to deal with the resident grumps who wander the joint tutting and shaking their heads at AANP as he tries to enjoy a long-awaited celebratory drink. This mob, last seen complaining that winning a European trophy didn’t count because the Final was a dull watch, have now piped up to moan that all the sides we played in this season’s European jaunt were rubbish, so really we should shut down the whole operation and hang our heads in shame.

With that out the way, we can try tackling square on the issue of why we stink in domestic competition, but shine pretty brightly overseas. For while Frankfurt and Dortmund are hardly tearing up the Bundesliga, one would think that if we can swat them aside gently enough then we ought to be able to find a way past Burnley, Wolves et al.

And the consensus here seems to be some rambling about the physicality of the Premier League. Whereas in the Champions League the loose gist is to make pretty patterns and then pop the ball in the net when the mood takes, the Premier League these days seems to resemble more closely one of those dreadful military workout sessions one hears about, in which burly men slog away at all manner of perspiration-drenched physical activities, with fun at an absolute minimum and the winner being whichever dull sap makes it to the end without dying. And our lot, bless their cotton socks, seem rather less inclined towards the rigours of the latter than the former.

It probably also helps that the CL gangs tend not to be so preoccupied with setting up in defensive formation and bedding in for the evening, but generally seem a tad more expansive in their outlook on life. Provides a bit more operating space once we are in possession, so the sages say.

This is all just fanciful, whiskey-fuelled conjecture from an amateur of course, and greater minds than mine have no doubt pored over the performances domestically and abroad, but the point is that the last couple of European jollies could not have been in greater contradistinction to the domestic ploddings. Night and day about sums it up.

2. Palhinha (and Others)

No shortage of bright and breezy performances on Wednesday night, what?

Young Spence’s impression of Gareth Bale continues in earnest if imperfect fashion. To be quite honest, the fellow seems to me to need to put in a bit more time studying his Substance-to-Style ratio, but with Frankfurt defenders obligingly missing their tackles and careering off in the wrong directions, Spence was generally able to enjoy himself, and that’s not something we say too often about our heroes these days.

Messrs Odobert and Simons similarly seemed to clock pretty swiftly that this was a night to make merry, so it was the care-free versions of both who scampered hither and thither. I did shoot a pretty withering glance in Simons’ direction for that curious dance, after the early, disallowed goal, his rhythmic swayings suggesting that he was putting a dashed sight more time and effort into celebrating goals than creating them. However, he gets a pass from AANP for spending the rest of the night displaying his better traits.

You knew that it was all a bit of a stroll when a persona non grata like Pape Sarr could be hauled back into action and generally looked not too far out of place. A little rusty around the edges perhaps, but he didn’t lack any of that traditional boyish enthusiasm, and on a day on which all but one of the subs were younglings, it was pretty dashed handy to be able to summon him back from whichever storage unit has housed him for the last six months or so.

Oddly enough, the chappie who caught my eye was João Palhinha of all people. Not that he was particularly exceptional (and indeed, he blotted an otherwise clean copybook with his late chopping of Frankfurt legs to earn himself a yellow card), or in any way more eye-catching than the rest of the troupe.

Rather, it was the fact that he drew the short straw and had to square peg his way into the right of the centre-back three that earned the approving AANP nod. Crucially, one wouldn’t really have known that this was not his natural habitat. One rather hopes not to notice one’s centre-backs over the course of a game, this generally being a useful indicator of the dirty work being done with minimal fuss; and thus it transpired.

When the occasional wobble did occur, it seemed if anything to happen closer to the Danso-Romero corner of the defence (such as the random one-on-one before half-time that hit the bar). Palhinha simply put his head down and neat-and-tidied the night away.

3. Transfers (Or Lack Thereof)

So top marks to all concerned, particularly given that we were essentially down to the last 12 first teamers; but with the dust having settled – and indeed, even when the dust was still airborne and dancing about the place – the nagging question sprung to mind of how we had let it come to this.

And by ‘this’ I refer specifically to the situation of going into a match with only 12 first teamers to call upon. A charming throwback to the early ‘80s it might have been, but if another one or two of our lot had limped off stage early on in the piece we might have found ourselves in almighty pickle.

Injuries happen, of course, but I seem to recall that Vinai chap – our CEO, don’t you know – and perhaps one or two of cronies, suggesting at some point in the summer/autumn months, the general notion that wads of cash were going to be squirted at the squad as required. Indeed, I’m absolutely certain I heard talk, at one stage, of “competing on four fronts”.

This being the first January window of the new (or post-Levy) regime, I had peered with some curiosity towards the back pages, to see what this new approach would mean in practice. And while Connor Gallagher seems a decent sort of bobbie, who will constantly run if awake; and the 17 year-old left-back from Brazil presumably has a heartwarming personal tale to tell; I’m not sure that these two signings and an unsuccessful chat with Andy Robertson are really transforming the place as Vinai’s early-season witterings had hinted. Probably best for now just to bask in the Champions League glow for another day or two.

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Man City 0-2 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Sarr

There seemed to be pretty broad consensus that young Sarr was yesterday’s standout chappie, and who am I to disagree with the masses? Top marks to the young nib, as for the second consecutive game he took the opening whistle as his cue to break into a gallop, and didn’t stop until the credits rolled.

If you were the sort of busy cove who, finding your weekend diary packed full of frivolities, found only the team to catch the 5-minutes highlights package on Match of the Day last night, the principal evidence for Sarr’s non-stop running routine would have been his contribution to the first goal in particular. For this, to remind, he went bounding across the pitch to the right flank, on around halfway, all for the purpose of leaping a few yards vertically and applying a spot of the old loaf to the ball as it cruised by, sending it into the path of Richarlison, who combined with Johnson to do the necessaries.

And if this had indeed been all you caught of Sarr’s input, one could readily assure you that the moment was not just a triumph in and of itself, but also a most appropriate representation of the young scally’s overall performance. “Neatly encapsulating”, would be one way of describing it. “Summed up his afternoon’s work,” would be another. Or perhaps “Captured his performance in a microcosm,” if you wanted to add a scientific element.

While he obviously didn’t spend the entire 90 minutes creating one goal after another through his relentless pattering about the place, he did seem to spend the entirety haring about to every corner, chasing causes that were both lost, found and all points in between. It seemed to me that if the ball were in play, there was a strong chance that a quick scanning of the eyes a few yards to the left or right would reveal young Sarr to be in hot pursuit.

Pleasingly, this was not a performance that could obviously be labelled as distinctly ‘Defensive’ or ‘Attacking’ either, for it seemed to include generous helpings from both Column A and Column B. Admittedly the days of our lot being stretched at the rear and in desperate need of reinforcements to come haring back and straining every sinew to prevent disaster (or, for ease of communication, ‘Angeball’) are a thing of the past, but this was City away, and there was therefore understandable need for the midfield johnnies to don a helmet and muck in with their defensive chums. In this defensive respect, Sarr was present and correct whenever needed.

And yet, similarly, when the situation demanded that attacking apparel be donned, Sarr required no second invitation – as noted above, with that opening goal.

Another positive offshoot of Sarr’s mind-boggling stamina in charging about the place was that it allowed Bentancur and Paulinha to get on with their principal duties – which seemed to be interceptions and tackles respectively – without being dragged all over the place. At the risk of sounding like a commercial for a household appliance, Sarr did the running so that they didn’t have to.

2. Paulinha

On the subject of Paulinha, I was thrilled to my very core to see a fellow willing to embrace the oft-neglected art of the good old-fashioned tackle.

These days, with tackles from behind outlawed, and fouls awarded for tackles that actually win the ball but then crunch a leg or two as an afterthought, one would be forgiven for thinking that the powers that be are hell-bent on creating a world in which tackles are removed from the game altogether, and those purveying them are smoked out and publicly humiliated as enemies of the state.

All too often last season, AANP would look on with dismay as opposing sorts cottoned on to the fact that they could waltz unopposed straight through the centre of our team, encountering not so much a wall of steel as a soft underbelly.

With Paulinha at the heart of things however, there is a bit more resistance about our lot. The general setup is decidedly more circumspect, in fact. Where last week Gray sat, and Sarr and Bergvall beavered willingly further north, yesterday Bentancur and Paulinha seemed fully alert to the fact that their primary duty was to patrol the fences and wag a finger of censure at anyone who tried to slip through.

One hesitates to suggest that this was the perfect defensive midfield performance from Paulinha. Plenty more that could be done, of course, in various respects. However, I’m not sure any amongst us could fail to have been stirred by the sight of a fellow adorned in lilywhite (or, as the case was yesterday, that rather dreamy, plain black number) throwing himself with gusto into one meaningful and full-blooded challenge after another.

Paulinha and Sarr were also conspicuous by their participation in the high press, of which AANP is also a fully signed-up fan. If City must dominate possession – as they surely will, more often than not – I rather like the logic of letting them do so in their own penalty area rather than ours, and doing a spot of pack-hunting while they’re at it, just to keep them on their toes.

As an added bonus, Paulinha even found time for a goal, which was jolly good form. It came from more of that high pressing, so it immediately earned an AANP thumbs up, and while one might argue that there was nothing terrifically sophisticated about the young bean’s finish, I still give him credit for hitting the target when he had approximately half the City team stationed between him and it.

3. Kudus

A brief congratulatory word too, for young Master Kudus, for reasons that it would be easy to overlook. Following his presentations against PSG and Burnely I burbled away with some satisfaction about the strength and skill he demonstrated whenever he strode forward.

While these facilities were once again on show intermittently yesterday, what really caught the AANP eye was Kudus’ very obvious eagerness to come bounding back and muck in whenever City advanced upon Porro in or around our own area. Who knew that a fellow as fond of the glamorous, attacking side to life as Kudus, would be quite so dedicated to the grubbier parts of the job?

And yet this was no perfunctory contribution on the part of Kudus. He did not simply amble back to the general vicinity and watch on with limited intent as Porro did the dirty work. Kudus veritably sprinted back to assist, on several occasions.

These are, of course, early days, and one waits to see how long this eagerness to please his new employers remains a defining characteristic, but by golly I gave an impressed whistle or two as I watched it unfold.

4. Vicario

Part of what made this quite such an impressive win, quite apart from the obvious elements of the opposition and venue, was the fact that this was not one of those bashes in which our lot hung on for dear life inside our own penalty area and survived a bit of an onslaught at the end. Far from it.

In fact, close the eyes and whizz through proceedings in your mind, and you’ll struggle to pick out more than three or four clear chances conceded. We almost gifted City a goal in the second half, when we gummed up one of those dreadful short goal-kick routines; and Haaland headed over from close range at the end of the first half; but aside from those I only remember two Vicario saves of note.

However, those two saves were of the highest order, and simply to gloss over them on the grounds that City created little else would be to do a disservice to our regular overseer of the rear.

For a start, both saves were made at 0-0 in the first half, at which point, had he failed to do his shot-stopping duties, the whole pattern of the game would have turned on its head. We may, of course, have concede one or both of these and still gone on to win in handsome fashion; but on the other hand, we may not have done so.

The first of those saves saw Vicario make the sagacious decision to depart his goal-line at a pretty nifty lick, and head out to the right corner of the 6-yard box, to do a spot of healthy smothering of an incoming shot from a narrow angle. It was the sort that, I suppose, one would have been mightily disappointed to have gummed up and allowed in, but nevertheless it needed saving and save it Vicario did.

The second was drizzled in a bit more glamour, that Marmoush character finding himself clean through and at a much more welcoming angle. Those who enjoy a flutter every now and then would presumably have taken one look and shoved their chips in on Marmoush, for the odds were heavily in his favour.

Vicario, however, sped from his line and then spread his frame like a champion – arms outstretched, legs splayed and frame upright. The collective effort of these body parts proved sufficient. Marmoush’s effort was repelled, quite possibly by the chest or neck of Vicario, and parity remained.

To stress, this was not one of those afternoons in which Vicario could be spotted hurling himself this way and that every five minutes to keep City at bay – but what he had to do he did most effectively, and if after a moment’s thought Our Glorious Leader saw fit to pat him on the back on the way down the tunnel, it would have been an act of congratulation with which I could only have concurred.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-0 Burnley: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Exuberance of Youth

Young people, eh? A pretty unfathomable species at the best of times, the evidence of Saturday also did much to confirm that they are blessed with absolutely boundless energy.

Being a pessimistic sort when it comes to all matters lilywhite, I’d have pursed a brooding lip or two if our newest Glorious Leader had run by me pre-match his plan to stock our line-up to the gills with youthful sorts. A midfield of Sarr, Gray and Bergvall struck me as a little too green behind the ears.

Not for the first time already in his nascent reign however, Herre Frank proved himself a dashed sight more knowledgeable about these things than AANP, for the Sarr-Gray-Bergvall arrangement proved most effective, and chief amongst its attributes was a pretty eye-watering indefatigability amongst the protagonists.

One could probably sum up their contributions by noting that if the final whistle had not sounded around 5pm on Saturday they’d probably still be scampering about the pitch now.

Sarr had spent much of pre-season getting to know the sights and sounds of the upper end of the pitch, having been slightly curiously deployed as a Number 10; but on Saturday it was the more familiar environs of the middle third, and a general instruction to hover busily on the lookout for any loose balls carelessly deposited about the place.

He proved something of a master of the art. There was a long-ish period before half-time when our overall play stagnated somewhat, as we tried and failed repeatedly to pass from the back over halfway, but that aside, and when we were a little mor front-footed, Sarr was exactly the right man for the role of tidying up behind his more illustrious colleagues.

As an added bonus, he also delivered a doozy of a pass for our third.  AANP does love a perfectly-weighted pass inside a full-back, and Sarr’s offering on Saturday was one I’ll happily replay in the mind’s eye in the coming weeks.

As for Gray, it would be no dramatic stretch to suggest that this was his finest afternoon in central midfield in our colours. Now the caveat here is sizeable, for there is barely any competition in the field. Gray’s previous excursions in central midfield, at least in our colours, have been fairly calamitous, the sort of rot from which rabbits in headlights could learn a few things.

On Saturday, however, he seemed vastly more at ease. He offered positional discipline, if you don’t mind a spot of technical jargon, holding his positionally centrally and at the base of midfield and popping up to offer a spot of disagreement whenever Burnley looked to push forward, as well as providing an option for whichever of our lot were in possession. The second coming of Dave Mackay he might not quite have been, but he played his part.

And further forward, seemingly with a bit of licence to go haring off in whichever direction he happened to be facing, was Bergvall. The curious young egg seemed to have adopted that mindset that if the ball was in play he might as well tear off after it, followed by the sub-heading that if he then happened to get hold of the thing he would simply continue scuttling about, bringing the ball with him.

Within 20 seconds of kick-off he had popped up in the 6-yard box to force a save from the Burnley goalkeeper, and one imagines that the Burnley mob in general would have been sick of the sight of him by the time the credits rolled.

For my part, having soaked in an hour and a half of the midfield three racing around like small children on a diet of fizzy drinks and sweets, I rather fancied a quiet sit-down in a darkened room, with just a bourbon for company. Simply watching the young people was tiring enough for me. Marvellous work though.

An honourable mention too for young Spence. At 25 he is a few years the senior of the midfield three, but I’ll bung him into the same bracket, primarily on the grounds that he too was a bundle of energy throughout.

Technically, I suppose as this was a 4-2-3-1 sort of setup, one might have labelled Spence as an orthodox right-back, but he seemed to treat any such suggestion with a care-free shrug, and simply cracked right on with that business of scooting off into the opposition penalty area whenever the situation demanded, looking every inch a wing-back.

2. Richarlison

I’m not quite sure at what point isolated statistical occurrences become a trend, but it’s now two pretty dashing Richarlison performances in a row, and the regulars are starting to whisper excitedly.

After peddling some rousing fare in midweek against the other champions of Europe, Richarlison’s newest trick on Saturday was to dispense with any attempts to control the ball, and instead simply leather the thing first time. It was a stroke of genius. Seasoned Richarlison-watchers will be well aware that while hardly lacking willing, he can occasionally be stymied in his performances when it comes to some of the operational basics – such as being able to control the football.

However, at the weekend, he hit upon the idea of skipping from step 1 to step 3, as it were, and dispensing with the troublesome middle part. When Kudus crossed invitingly, any suggestions of trapping the precious cargo were dismissed from Richarlison’s mind. Instead, in a sequence that seemed to sit with him far more comfortably, he took to contorting his limbs at all manner of acrobatic angles, and thumping the ball into whichever corner of the net took his fancy.

It was a trick I remember him unveiling with similar aplomb at the last World Cup, since which occasion I have pretty regularly chuntered along the lines that he never produces such fare in lilywhite.

Well that particular wait is over. That second goal was a humdinger, attracting admiring noises from the gathered masses each time it was replayed on the stadium screens.

Frankly, after a pair of goals of that quality, Richarlison could have spent the rest of the afternoon quietly leaning against a nearby pillar watching everyone else work up a sweat, and he’d still have been feted from all corners. As it happened, he trotted out another pretty impressive all-round display, doing all the necessary running and shielding and buffeting one would hope for from a fine, upstanding centre-forward.

All of which does make one return to the original question with a pensive stroke of the chin – are these two isolated statistical occurrences, or have we stumbled upon a better, stronger, faster version of Richarlison?

3. Kudus

However, for all the merry chatter about the bright young things, and the reborn striker at the apex, it was Kudus once again who came across as the headline act.

The fellow’s sheer strength continues to make one goggle a bit, and will take some getting used to. Indeed, my Spurs-supporting chum Ian let pass from his lips the name Mousa Dembele when remarking upon Kudus’ brawn, and one takes the point, for the former was similarly possessed of a robust frame off which opponents simply bounced.

As well as which, young Master K. has all the party tricks to attract the wide-eyed admirers, coming replete with stepovers, feints, close control and whatnot. The moment in the second half when he controlled the ball with his left foot tucked behind his right standing leg certainly attracted the sorts of gasps and applause that would not have been out of place a magic show, but it was the neat shoulder-dip and burst from a standing start, to create Richarlison’s second, which earned him the decisive AANP stamp of approval. Trickery is all well and good for a social media post, but ultimately we’ll need Kudus to create and score goals. The chap seems fully to understand the remit.  

As an aside, the potential prospect of both Kudus and Eze in the same line-up would prompt a smacking of the lips, but AANP has learned to frame these transfer rumours with caution, ever since the days of Rivaldo. For now I’m simply grateful that Kudus is a fully paid-up member of the gang.

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Spurs match reports

PSG 2-2 Spurs: Six Tottenham Talking Points

1. Formation

Trophy-winners though we might these days be, AANP was still steeped to the gills in the old, familiar dread before kick-off, and I’m not sure the teamsheet did much to soothe the frayed nerves.

Our newest Glorious Leader had unveiled what appeared on first glance to be a goalkeeper and eight defensive sorts for this one, and while one tries of course to be reasonable about these things, I must confess to reacting with a widening of the eyes, a murmured “What the dickens..?” and a few wildly quizzical looks.

More fool AANP. Fast forward 90 or so minutes and the 3-5-2 turned out to be a tactical masterpiece. “Balance” was the word I heard bandied on the telly-box, and while those commentary sorts can spout all manner of gibberish when they’ve got a mic thrust in front of them, on this occasion the chappie in question had stumbled upon the mot juste.

With a back-three in situ, one never really felt that our lot were outnumbered and straining every sinew to put out fires at the back. Gone was that sense of desperate last-ditch life-saving, and the frantic haphazard retreats that had become a bit of a hallmark in recent years.  

With this 3-5-2, we were, defensively a different beast. Which is to say that we were a beast with a few more bodies at the back. If, say, a Danso were turned and outpaced, a Romero could be relied upon to appear stage left and uproot a tree or two in clearing the danger. Should Doue or whomever start unfurling stepovers on the right, the reassuring sight of at least two in lilywhite would materialise to suffocate him.

PSG had it in them to one-touch our lot to death – and in such circumstances one accepts with a gracious shrug that that’s the way of things – but our lot were not be found wanting for numbers at the back, and this in itself was rather reassuring.

And in fact, much the same could be said of the midfield, where a triumvirate was deployed to similarly successful effect. Now Paulinha, ironically enough for a laddie who appears to AANP to be precisely what the doctor ordered, appears pretty desperately undercooked at present. Not his fault, he having barely laced a boot over the last 12 months by all accounts, and to repeat, I see him in time metamorphosing into an absolute pitbull in front of our defence.

Last night, however, the chap did appear to wheeze and puff his way through things somewhat. But lo, once again the use of a three-man construction came to our rescue, for that midfield also featured Messrs Sarr and Bentancur, both of whom came across as specimens at their absolute physical peak. (As an aside, it warmed the heart to observe Bentancur strutting about with fitness levels off the charts, following the near constant stream of batterings and bruises he’s collected over the past two years).

The presence of Sarr and Bentancur, essentially doing all the running so that Paulinha didn’t have to, meant that in midfield as in defence, we rarely looked outnumbered, and frequently showed sufficient appetite to snaffle possession from PSG and dance off over halfway.

Of course, any 3-5-2 lives and dies on the quality of its wing-backs, and here we really are blessed. One can only imagine the disbelieving glee with which Porro would have rubbed his eyes in the changing room beforehand when informed of his role. After two years of inverting and drifting infield, he didn’t need asking twice to bomb up the flank, and within about 30 seconds of kick-off could be spotted patrolling the corner of the PSG area with a glint in his eye.

Both he and Spence out on the other side gave fair indication of having not only received the memo, but taken to heart its contents, adopting the principles of top-notch wing-backery as their mantra for 90 minutes. The pair managed to tick boxes in both directions – and it was little surprise that when they (along with everyone else) ran out of steam in the final 20 or so, and they stopped advancing up the pitch, segueing from wing-backs to deep full-backs, our strategy rather fell apart at the seams.

So the 3-5-2 received a big fat tick at AANP Towers. I’m not sure that the same level of caution will be required for the next meeting with Tamworth – or even Burnley at home – but for a first innings of the season, against probably the best team in the world, and with a side shorn of its key attacking pipkins, 3-5-2 turned out to be just the ticket.

2. Richarlison

In rattling through the roll of honour of those who made the 3-5-2 work it is only right that I add to the Hall of Fame young Richarlison. For someone long established in the AANP rankings as the least technically gifted Brazilian to have kicked a ball, he delivered one heck of a tap-dance.

Drinking in this performance with some astonishment, I was reminded of a chappie I knew at the old almer mater, who one term returned after the summer hols with a new blonde haircut, a complete change in attire and announcing himself to the fairer sex as “Surfy”. In short, the curious fish had for some reason reinvented himself, and so it seemed with Richarlison last night.

Gone was the moody wretch possessed of two left feet and half-hearted chasing of lost causes, to be replaced sharpness of touch and a stirring line in winning possession on or around halfway.

One of the fellow’s first touches of the ball was a first-time effort from a good 20 yards out, by which this absolute interloper seemed to be saying “Forget what you thought you knew, for I am now Richarlison, doer of the impossible (or at least attempter of the improbable”).

With Kudus happy to buzz around alongside him, it all made for a most useful apex to the 3-5-2.

I suppose the question now is whether the transformation can last. That self-styled ‘Surfy’ chap from university binned the new image after a few weeks, so one treats these episodes with some caution; and moreover, if Solanke is fully fit – and the indications are he’s on course for it – then a pretty clear hierarchy emerges.

So call me a cynic, but given that last night’s shindig will have been watched by a near global audience with little better to do, I’m inclined to suggest that this is the optimum time to slap a hefty price-tag on R9 and shove him into the arms of the highest bidder.

3. Kudus

AANP is not one of that breed who spends his leisure hours studying footage of West Ham United, and as such I couldn’t have told you too much about Mohammed Kudus beyond his Fantasy League stats before he pitched up at N17. But by golly, if last night taught me anything it was that here was a fellow who knew how to make a first impression.

Specifically, that first impression seemed to consist of displaying the strength of about a dozen oxen. Of course, it is a prerequisite for the modern-day footballer to display a physique like one of those sculpted marble statues of the Greek gods, but even allowing for that I would not have cast the eye upon Kudus and immediately placed him as a 12-round heavyweight.

And yet, in glorious technicolour last night we were treated to the sight of a PSG sort clambering all over Kudus and pretty much bouncing off him, then to be joined by a second PSG sort, and sometimes even a third – but with their combined mights having minimal impact upon the chap.

Given his nomination for Strongest Man Alive one would have understood if, upon then emerging from the ruck with the ball at his feet, Kudus then displayed the touch of a malcoordinated donkey – but it turns out that on top of everything else he also skips about the place like a lissom cage footballer, turning his opposing full-backs inside out and painting pretty patterns with his feet.

I suppose if one were to be hyper-critical one might suggest that he could put in a few more hours in the back garden working on his weaker foot, but that’s one for another day. It’s unsurprising that in just about every pre-season game so far the primary tactic has been “Give It To Kudus” because in just about any circumstance he can not only shield the ball to afford everyone else a puff of the cheeks, but he’ll also then embark on one of those mazy ones and create a spot of mischief.

4. Sarr

With Kudus deployed yesterday in a role that was nominally supporting striker, but often morphed into right winger, young Sarr was accordingly re-jigged into a slightly more traditional midfield role. In case you missed the last few weeks, he has spent much of pre-season operating behind the front man, in the ‘Number 10’ role. Not one I’d have pencilled him in for, I must admit, but our new Head Honcho seems to think that his run-and-chase routine has value up the top of the pitch, so one sees the logic.

Anyway, back to last night, and Sarr’s remit had decidedly less glitz and glamour. “Mop up the loose ends”, was about the gist of it. And frankly, if he had reacted to this instruction with a darkening of the brow and a moody stare, one would have had a degree of sympathy. Chasing shadows against a team that has dished out a 5-0 tonking in the Champions League final of all games, is hardly the stuff of dreams.

Sarr, however, responded to the call like an absolute champion. If there were a loose ball to be seen just about anywhere inside our own half, he was onto it with the alacrity of one of those sizeable wild cats in the nature programmes leaping onto its prey.

It made sense, as he’s always been one of those beans so energetic that one feels rather exhausted just watching him, but his presence added a most welcome layer of security at the back as well as in midfield. Sarr regularly hurtled across the penalty area to stick out a well-timed limb if PSG threatened to find a yard of space, and by the time he was withdrawn I was pretty clear in my mind that there stood the game’s outstanding performer.

5. Spence

On the topic of outstanding performers, however, an honourable mention to young Spence. It remains most perplexing to me that this chap, ordained by nature as right-footed, should so regularly appear vastly more accomplished as a left-back than as right-back, but nature does occasionally throw up these quirks I suppose.

And last night, Spence rather hammered home the point that left wing-back is the life for him. Going forward he was a nuisance, providing an attacking outlet all the way into the PSG area, and as such doing a fair bit to nullify the threat of Hakimi.

Had this impressive front-foot display been to the detriment of his defending we might well have exchanged knowing looks and clicked the tongue a bit – but as it happened, he covered all of his defensive duties in watchful manner throughout.

It was rather a shame that the PSG equaliser emanated from a cross from his side, because for most of the game Spence had his defensive area under lock and key. Udogie will presumably consider himself the first choice in the role, but Spence comes across as a chap who clearly knows his onions.

6. Defeat

Having feared a hammering (particularly in the wake of the Bayern debacle) I was most pleasantly surprised at the general to-ing and fro-ing on offer last night. PSG were seemingly not at the peak of their powers, but our lot did not seem inclined to pause and debate this, and instead just got on with matters. A dashed good fist they made of things too.

However, while no points were lost, all manner of positives were snaffled and the consensus was that we deserved a little better, I reserved the right to head for the exits with a spot of chuntering on my lips.

The bone of contention was that our lot need to find ways to win shiny pots. We did it in Bilbao, and I was pretty miffed that we failed to do it last night. The whole attitude of puffing out the chest and saying we were jolly good sports is not enough. It grates. Our lot should not be content with making it to finals, and from 2-0 up after 85 minutes we ought to have seen the thing through. There was a trophy of sorts on offer, and a cracking opportunity to turn that sort of thing into a habit.

Categories
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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 0-2 Palace: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. More Garbage, and a Binary Choice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Kinsky

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The Rollcall of Ignominy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

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/

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Spurs match reports

Villa 2-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Midfield That Will Not Tackle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Kinsky: Brilliant or Rubbish?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Sonny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Leicester: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Maddison

Of course one likes to approach things with an open mind, but when I tell you that an hour before kick-off I was already letting loose some choice grumbles, you get the sense of the sort of afternoon that was in store.

The pre-match gripe centred around the omission from the entire squad of James Maddison. You might think there was enough fodder amongst those who actually took to the pitch, but on hearing the official reason for Maddison’s absence – “A bit sore” – I took to chuntering away like nobody’s business.

A bit sore? I mean, really. AANP has experienced a bit of soreness, after an hour of honest sweat on the 5-a-side pitch, for example, or after an evening of whiskey-based snifters at an obliging watering-hole, but I still have the decency to haul self out from under the covers and make at least a perfunctory stab at the next day. Being sore is no excuse.

One appreciates that young Maddison put in the full 90 minutes on Thursday, and a pretty decent 90 m. it was too. One of his better efforts, no doubt. And I genuinely do sympathise with the fact that there were not even 72 hours between the culmination of adventures on Thursday night and the start of the brand new episode on Sunday afternoon. If there were the option to cock the sympathetic head and offer the sympathetic shoulder-pat I’d have been front of the queue. Forget the business of these fellows being millionaire prima donnas, the human body can only take so much, and the scheduling of these games is pretty unforgiving.

Nevertheless, Maddison was not the only one dealt this rotten hand. Bar Reguilon and Kinsky, I think everyone on parade yesterday was involved on Thursday night. And while my medical expertise is pretty minimal, I’d hazard a guess that most of them were also sore in places after Thursday. The difference between the rest of them and Maddison is that the rest of them seemed to have rolled up their sleeves and dashed well got on with it, sore bodies or not.

If the official explanation had been that Maddison had a dead leg or scraped knee or dicky tummy, one would have bemoaned the luck about the wretched place, but accepted it and soldiered on. “Another blasted injury,” one might have muttered. However, when the party line been trotted out is that he is “A bit sore”, the conclusion seems to be that in the club’s hour of need, this chap didn’t fancy it. And against his former team, forsooth.

Even availing himself for 15 minutes off the bench in case of extreme circumstances would have been of use to the collective, because as it happened, when we hit the 15-to-go mark yesterday, the circumstances were about as extreme as it gets. At that point we were absolutely crying out for one of Maddison’s more useful cameos.

And aside from the principle of a footballer just deciding that not to bother, tactically our lot were absolutely screaming out for something different in midfield. Each of Bentancur, Sarr and Bergvall – and indeed young Master Gray, when he was eventually shoved there – are pretty much the same sort of midfield spade doing the same sort of midfield thing. The sort of egg who sits deep and nudges the ball left or right a few yards, in risk-free fashion. A ‘Number 6’, as I think the younger generation call it.

The point being that yesterday we had precious little attacking spark in midfield, every plan of note in this regard involving a pivot out to the wide positions and cracking on from there. Absence of course makes the heart grow fonder, and there’s a reasonable chance that if Maddison had been in operation he’d have spent his afternoon rolling his foot over the ball before giving up and passing backwards, but I’m still mightily irked that he slunk off into the shadows instead.

By all accounts Sarr was not fit enough for duty, but still obediently trooped up anyway. He had a stinker, as it happens, but 10 out of 10 for effort. Maddison has comleted 90 minutes on only two or three occasions this season, a record that in itself prompts a major arching of the eyebrow. It does make one ask a delicate question about the fitness of this chap, who every now and then ends up wearing the captain’s armband. His cheeks should burn with shame.

2. Porro

There’s a train of thought that all this time Pedro Porro has actually been a right winger, and is merely pretending to be a defender. Not really one of those revelations that will rock society to its very foundations, admittedly, but the case for the prosecution continued to stack up yesterday.

On the bright side there was his cross for our goal, which by anyone’s standards was an absolute doozy. It’s a strange quirk of the way our lot play, that if you take away set-pieces, we tend not to send in too many aerial crosses. Consider that we have in attack a sizeable unit such as Dominic Solanke, and it’s even stranger. Aside from that headed goal vs Newcastle a few weeks back, I can barely remember one all season.

Anyway, Porro set about correcting that towards the end of the first half yesterday, and a fine job he did of it too. No doubt about it, the chap’s forte is his attacking beans, and he gave rich evidence of it with that particular cross.

A brief tip of the cap I suppose to Richarlison as well, as he did have to contort the frame a fair bit to get all the relevant body-parts pointing in the right direction. Would have been easy to duff up the chance, is what I’m getting at. His movement to get there in the first place also merited a tick. He contributed precious little else, and being a pretty fragile sort had to be removed before the hour-mark, but at least he did the goalscoring bit, what?

Back to Porro, and just to emphasise that he’s happiest when lurking about the opposition area, he also fizzed in a shot that stung the relevant palms, late in the first half.

So no doubt there. Porro likes to attack. What remains as maddening as ever is his tendency to give the shoulders a bit of a shrug and indulge in a spot of motions-going-through when it comes to the defensive lark.

The point was rammed home at one point in the first half, when after arranging selves for a corner, the ball squirted out to the flank and young Gray, rather than Porro, found himself in the right-back spot. What happened next was instructive. As the Leicester chap embarked on a little dribble, Gray stuck to him, block the cross and then cleared up the line.

Not too much in that, you might suggest. ‘Defender Blocks Cross’ is hardly headline stuff. However, contrast it to the usual m.o. of Porro and it stands out like a flare in the night sky. Porro seems utterly incapable of preventing crosses, so much so that when someone else steps into his role and does exactly that, the jaw drops to the floor and the eyes are rubbed in disbelief.

As well as his chronic inability to defend in the conventional sense, Porro was also guilty of absolutely gifting possession to Leicester for their second goal. Lest you missed the detail, imagine a handsomely-paid professional footballer trying to pass the ball 5 yards but making a ricket of the operation, and you’ll be up to speed.

Mightily unimpressive stuff, but at least one was able to console oneself with the notion that when we tried to lather on a spot of pressure at the end, it would play to Porro’s attacking strengths. Even here, however, he took to misfiring. Too many attempted crosses sailed beyond the gaggle of willing takers, for a start.

Then, late on in the piece, he wriggled free and headed towards the byline, with Gray to aim at by the near post, and Mikey Moore unmarked at the far. For reasons best known to the man himself, Porro instead opted to thunder the ball as hard as he could into the side netting. It was an act of daring with which the South Stand failed to wholly buy into.

3. The Current Pickle

It says much about our performance that when preparing for Nature’s sweet restorer last night, and reflecting on the day’s events, my attempts to dwell on the positives draw a pretty firm blank.

Mikey Moore’s willingness to motor down either the outside or inside was vaguely encouraging, and I suppose one might argue that besides the goals Kinsky didn’t have much to do – but even that latter point is fairly brutally negated when one notes quite how easily Leicester were allowed to fashion those two goals.

It’s a pickle of the highest order. The eleven on the pitch would normally have been comfortably good enough to create 20 or so chances against this lot, and would just have needed a modicum of clinical finishing (as was the case in the reverse fixture at the start of the season, when we hammered away but contrived to miss every chance and draw).

Fast forward to the present day, however, and our heroes are no longer creating 20 chances. They are barely running 20 yards before pulling up lame, or at the very least needing a few restorative gulps of oxygen. I struggle to remember the last time we unfurled a press worthy of the name and won possession high up the pitch. Anyone left standing is completely out of steam.

Any goodwill left in the Postecoglou account is draining by the week, which is to be expected if the on-pitch luminaries roll over and have their tummies tickled by as wretched a mob as Leicester. For every triumph of a defensive tweak against Liverpool there’s a calamitous formation change against Everton. The man’s reputation is taking hits from all directions.

One appreciates that the inner corridors of N17 are strewn with mangled limbs and snapped hamstrings – and James Maddison feeling sore – all of which massively limits Our Glorious Leader’s options. AANP sympathises with him more than most, and is still keen to see a fully restored squad peddle Angeball once more and create 20+ chances per game.

However, it’s not enough for the manager simply to shrug the shoulders and write off all matches as lost causes until some time in late-Feb, when the A&E brigade bound back to life. It’s still the manager’s job to find a solution.

No signings are forthcoming, which suggests that the decision-makers no longer trust Our Glorious Leader, but they seem reluctant to dispense with him until our Carabao Semi-Final fate is known. This strikes me as equal parts cruel and thick-headed, seeing as it achieves neither one thing nor another, but I suppose the nuances of all this are above my pay-grade.

Sacking the chap at this stage and replacing him with some other well-meaning soul would not achieve much, as even Bill Nick would struggle to get a tune from the existing cast of eleven exhausted bodies.

So the current plan of action, as far as I can make out, is to trust that we sleepwalk to victory against Elfsborg; write off Brentford as a loss; and shove every available egg into the basket at Liverpool next week, praying for Romero and other members of the gang to be up to speed and eke us through. Dare and do, what?