Tag: Pedro Porro

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Bournemouth: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. The Utter Rot That Is Playing Out From The Back Every Blasted Time, Dash It

Forgive me if you’ve heard this before, but insistently playing out from the back at every bally opportunity is so utterly bonkers that those in the streets around AANP Towers may imminently be treated to the unbecoming sight of a one-man riot.

Honestly, someone make it stop. To peddle a few well-worn lines: the exercise requires at least three – and typically five or six – passes to be delivered, faultlessly, from locations of considerable peril, else the opposition don’t just have possession but they have possession within one pass of our goal; and the return on this riskiest of investments is generally negligible, as on most of those times we do successfully play beyond the initial press we then simply duff the ball up aimlessly around halfway and lose it anyway.

While I can accept that if executed well it can lead to our heroes suddenly tearing off over halfway in some variation of a three-on-three scenario, the aforementioned conditional “if” is doing so much legwork in that statement that it ought really to sit down in the boss’s office and negotiate a pay-rise.

Put another way I can barely remember playing-out-from-the-back resulting in a goalscoring chance for our lot; by contrast within the first five minutes today it had resulted in three goalscoring chances for the other lot. The legs weaken, and the hand automatically reaches for the beaker of bourbon-based life-giver, simply at the recollection.

Now I don’t really know how the assembled geniuses make decisions about these things, but if they gather around a laptop and pore over the stats, then ‘3 chances conceded in the first 5 minutes’ ought to make for an eye-catching, dual-axis bar chart.

Alternatively, if they simply sit back and drink in the live action unfolding before them, a few undecided voters ought to have been swayed by the sight of Vicario saving at point-blank range straight from kick-off (and then making several more last-ditch saves, whilst also scrambling to clear a miscontrolled pass from off his own line – all of which sandwiched repeated instances of those in front of him bungling their passes on the edge of our own area); while at the other end our lot mustered barely a shot on goal in the first hour of play.

The dashed thing does not work! Scrunch it into a ball, bung it into the nearest bin and let’s just restart each episode by slapping the ball forward, to a distance that at least precludes the instant return of danger.

2. Urgency (Or Lack Thereof)

Naturally, this being Tottenham, the return of Romero as much-heralded saviour of our defensive ills immediately brought about calamity.

Of course, passing out from the back was prominent in this hideous unravelling, but what also arrested the attention was the care-free attitude with which Romero kept stuffing up his lines.

There’s a sense in which I rather admire the casual approach to life. Breezing through the daily routines, without allowing any crosses and burdens to weigh upon the shoulders, is probably right up there amongst the experts’ suggestions for making it to the late eighties and beyond, alongside a brisk daily walk and plenty of olive oil. So in one respect, Romero ought to be applauded. Four-score and ten beckon.

However, while sixty or so years hence I might look back and think the fellow made a winning choice, by around 2.10pm this afternoon the mood within the AANP breast was simmering towards volcanic levels. The sight of Romero pausing to light a cigar and reminisce on the good old days every time he received possession fired up the passions of the invested onlooker.

Our Glorious Leader spoke after The Alkmaar Disaster about the need for an improved mindset, and greater aggression. Whether he simply forgot to pass on such crucial nuggets to his players or wilfully misled in his press conference, there was nary a whiff of either of the above on show.

Instead, where Romero trod, all others in lilywhite followed. And when I say ‘lilywhite’ I include yellow, because in a touching show of loyalty towards his on-field captain, Vicario gave evidence of having similarly committed to taking an age over each of his in-game contributions.

They all did, in fact. Anyone who received the ball seemed alarmingly content to suck all life out of proceedings, dwelling in possession as if the very aim of the exercise were to run down the clock in the most nondescript and incident-free manner possible. The option of bursting into life and initiating thrusts at the Bournemouth defence seemed to have been shoved a long way down the agenda.

If this is the template for the Europa parley on Thursday then that bourbon-filled beaker might need generous re-charging, because on present form we are sleep-walking to our doom.

3. Bergvall and One or Two Others

In casually tarring the collective with the Romero-coated brush I actually did a considerable disservice to one or two of the principals.

As seems to be the case every time he laces his boots and bounds into view, young Bergvall rather arrested the senses and didn’t let them go. The bounder rasped about the place with energy and intent throughout, and if Romero and chums were not observing his attitude and taking copious notes then they should blush with shame.

If one wanted to know what urgency looked like, or were curious as to what Postecoglou’s much-vaunted ‘improved mindset’ would comprise, they need only have cast they eye over Bergvall for five minutes. Every time he received the ball, he either looked up and ahead for an immediate passing option, or – more impressively – called upon the ghost of Mousa Dembele and took to wriggling betwixt a pair of Bournemouth’s finest. AANP was, again, charmed. If the lad does not start on Thursday, someone in the corridors of power will need their brain pickled.

More controversially, I actually gave the approving nod to Bissouma on a couple of occasions. Now, to be clear, he was as guilty as anyone else of treating the whole affair like a gentle afternoon stroll, designed to work off a sizeable Sunday roast without actually rushing to get anywhere.

However, where I did pause and scribble a complimentary word was when the thought struck him that it would be rather good fun to inject a meaty tackle into proceedings. If you’ve sipped at this watering-hole before, you’ll know that once the AANP juices are flowing I like nothing more than to berate our lot for their complete absence of commitment to the lost art of The Tackle. Bissouma, at least, had the decency to take useful steps in this respect.

Another who escaped the AANP Naughty List was that Odobert bean. A tricky little ferret, what? Admittedly sometimes so wrapped up in his tricks that he forgot how many feet he had and got himself into a tangle, and at one point I think I saw him literally turn inside out; but by and large one got the impression that the opposing full-back was enjoying his duties less and less because of him.

Odobert caused numerous problems, and even when not causing problems the very concept of him seemed to alarm those in opposition. Crucially, as well as the aforementioned trickery, Odobert was also in the market for a spot of end-product. His crosses might not always have struck oil, but they were at least delivered, and I came away with the notion that here was a chap who might grow into his role.

Young Spence was the other who stood out amidst the dross. Ironically enough, he is a fish about whom it was regularly whispered that the lax attitude was too prevalent, back in the days when he was persona non grata.

Clearly all rot, as he demonstrated again today. While those in other areas of the pitch seemed content to go through the motions, not caring too much whether their passes hit their mark or not (Senor Porro, I look, scathingly, at you), Spence at least seemed to understand that attacks would not build themselves, and accordingly scurried hither and thither as appropriate.

A shame, then that he was amongst the chief culprits for the Bournemouth opener (alongside, of course, Master Porro), but that aside I thought he displayed a determination not to be bested when defending that actually reminded me of Benny Assou-Ekotto, once a cherished member of this parish. I refer to the sense that, irrespective of anything else, he took it as a personal slight upon his character if someone bested him in one-on-one combat.

Vicario, to give him his dues, made the standard handful of point-blanks saves that rescued us from humiliation, and I suppose one might point to the fact that we came back from a two-goal deficit and give their hands a gleeful clap or two; but AANP was not having any of it. This was another dire showing, and the sunny optimism that I had not so long ago radiated about our Europa prospects is fizzling into a state of considerable alarm.

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Spurs match reports

Man City 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Vicario

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

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

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

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

3. Bergvall (In The First Half At Least)

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Brentford 0-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Angeball

Had you been otherwise engaged yesterday, and happened casually to catch the final score without having cast eye upon the ceremony itself, you’d be forgiven to leaping to the conclusion that Angeball had re-engaged. 20-plus shots, might have been the thinking of the educated non-observer, with possession monopolised and perhaps a bravura goalkeeping performance to keep a sheen on things at the back.

Well – and this might surprise you like the dickens – as it turned out it was nothing of the sort. Precisely none of the above applied. Rather than being one of those rip-roaring binges in which we rain in shots from all angles, this was what you might politely call a more traditional away win, fashioned from hard graft and focused defending.

If it was laugh-a-minute entertainment you were after, the Tottenham Starting XI yesterday was not the place to be. Serious expressions and deep concentration were the order of the day.

Frankly, it was most peculiar stuff. Utterly marvellous, of course, and precisely the tonic, but as I observed Pedro Porro watching his attacker like a hawk, and our back-four repelling one cross after another, and various other visual anomalies, I did have to rub my eyes to make sure that it was indeed A. Postecoglou Esq. lurking on the touchline.

I should actually backtrack a few steps, because when I warbled earlier that the gag about monopolising possession did not apply, I did stretch the truth a tad. In the opening stages our lot actually had plenty of the ball. If you want the precise stats you’ll have to beetle off elsewhere, but sometimes the evidence of the eyes is enough, and as the first half sparring played out yesterday, the ‘Give’ and ‘Take’ columns seemed fairly equally matched.

The AANP take on this, by the way, is that it was down to Kulusevski. It usually is. Stick him in one of the central midfield roles and the effect is that of a switch being flicked. Things buzz into life and it’s not long before everyone around him is humming and whirring. With Bentancur and Bissouma doing a nice line in neat-and-tidy slightly south of him in midfield, Kulusevski was able to spend his afternoon collecting possession and dragging it forward, throwing in a couple of eye-catching little combos with young Mikey Moore for good measure.

With MM withdrawn at half-time and Kulusevski shoved out wide, it struck me as no major coincidence that our attacking verve dialled down a few notches in the second half, but by golly we defended well.

I don’t know about you, but I often find the commentary babble rather irritating, particularly when the chappies in question adopt a certain viewpoint as their opinion de jour and take to hammering it over and over again. It’s like having a mosquito buzz about one’s ear. Anyway, I muted the noise, as one would, but not before I had heard the assorted geniuses bang on a dozen or so times about how many crosses Brentford were tossing our way. It was as if they thought that this alone seemed to merit more than the zero goals they chalked up. There was a faint sense of moral outrage that they could bombard our area so, and still not score.

Anyway, that they failed to do so was an absolute credit to our heroes, particularly the four strung out across the back. Too often this season I have bemoaned one or other of our defensive unit switching off and failing to register some opposition sort tiptoeing into position just behind them; but yesterday there were no such failings.

As mentioned above, and to my continued surprise, Pedro Porro was fully signed up to the defensive drill, winning all manner of aerial challenges at the back-post, an area so frequently open for business for opposing forwards who fancy sauntering by for a goal bonus, that Porro ought really to have begun charging for the privilege.

You will hardly be shocked to know that the AANP spirits sank to irretrievable depths pre-kick-off, upon learning that VDV was nowhere to be seen and instead Ben Davies would be in the hot-seat at the back. Credit where due however, and gallons of the stuff, because Davies, alongside young Gray, was note-perfect all afternoon.

I suppose the back-four, Kinsky and one or two others might spontaneously have taken it upon themselves to pool resources and trot out our finest, most organised defensive performance of the season; but I’m rather inclined to think that The Brains Trust may have played a part in there too. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that there were some deep-rooted tactical approach underpinning things.

They certainly knew their onions when it came to batting away crosses, but on the floor too the cupboard seemed always to be stocked with sufficient pairs of legs to prevent Brentford having too many clear shots on goal. Nor was it solely the back-four, as all in natty light blue seemed pretty committed to the cause, the usual devil-may-care approach to ball retention and defensive responsibilities replaced by a commitment to the basics that I would scarcely have believed possible from the current vintage.

More of the same on Thursday night would be just the ticket, don’t you think?

2. Our Second Goal

As well as all the good and honest blood, sweat and blocked shots in defence, another feature that came to the fore yesterday, and that has hardly been a historical trademark of Angeball, was the game management displayed by our heroes in the latter stages.

Specifically I refer to a couple of mightily impressive passages of play in the last ten or so minutes, during which our heroes seemed driven by the impulse simply to keep hold of possession, without slapping too much custard on the whole business of bombing forward towards the opposition goal.

Just to drive home my point, the counter-example of this would be if our lot, having been starved of possession and forced to defend for much of the second half, upon finally winning possession immediately raced up the pitch as fast as their little legs could carry them, in a frenzied dash to score as quickly as possible.

There was not too much of that in evidence yesterday, however. It did happen from time to time of course – only human, after all – but, eye-catchingly, our lot also took the opportunity to knock the ball about amongst themselves. Upon reaching the middle third, rather than trying to force killer passes through gaps that just didn’t exist, they were just as likely to pivot and play short, square pass.

‘And why the devil not?’ I found myself murmuring, after something of a double-take, followed by a moment’s deep consideration. ‘We are, after all,’ continued the line of thought, ‘ahead on the scoreboard, so the priority is as much to retain possession as to go sniffing out another goal’.

Bentancur was to the fore in this respect. He seemed to see the value in pirouetting past opposing midfield legs in any direction, as happy to dance his way backwards as to scamper his way frontwards.

Another well kitted out by nature for this sort of lark was young Bergvall. I mentioned how his half-time arrival meant the shoving-to-the-right of Kulusevski, which robbed us of much of our attacking thrust. However, where we benefited from the change, as well as in the defensive energy of Bergvall, was in his cool head in possession. Seeing him tootle over halfway, note that all around him – both friend and foe – seemed rather drained of energy, and accordingly put his foot on the ball and drink in the surroundings for a while made me think that here was a lad wise beyond his years.

Ironically enough, perhaps the best example of the game management on display ultimately resulted in our lot applying boot to neck and actually creating a goal. The one or two minutes prior to the ball hitting the net, however, involved a lengthy spell of keep-ball at its finest. My spies tell me that no fewer than 16 uninterrupted passes were booked in during this spell, involving every outfield player bar Spence. Watch it back in real time and you may well emit a satisfied purr or two.

As mentioned, its critical feature seemed to be the decided absence of hurry to force a route to goal. In its early stages, finding all such routes closed off, our heroes simply pivoted and sought out sunnier climes, waving aside the option of a further goal, in favour of simply hanging on to the merchandise a little while longer.

And the rummy thing is, having prioritised possession over everything else, after a while gaps in the Brentford defence simply started to appear anyway, organically, if you will. Bentancur chose wisely his moment to play a more aggressive pass, and while Sonny’s best days may be behind him, he still had enough going on upstairs to spot a goal-making-pass-into-the-path-of-an-attacking-midfield-burst when he saw one. In this age of social media and attention-seeking I suspect that goal and its 90-second, 16-pass genesis won’t attract too much outside noise, but at AANP Towers we’re playing it on a loop.

3. Spence

I complimented both Sonny and Bentancur for their roles in the goal, and Sarr obviously merits his post-match glass of something celebratory for bobbing from the halfway line to the six-yard box in order to apply the critical touch.

From my vantage point, however, much of the critical spadework was done by Djed Spence. As mentioned above, he was the only shrimp out there who didn’t apply boot to ball during the entirety of the episode, but I suppose as Barry Davies might put it, Sonny used him by not using him.

By which I mean that  when Son was weighing up his options having received the ball, Spence handily went off on the gallop up the left wing. It was a sprint of sufficient pace to attract the eye of the Brentford right-back, who understandably enough thought he had better tick that particular box, and accordingly retreated alongside Spence – crucially, in a rather wide area. This defensive adjustment meant that the gap in front of Sarr gave a considerable yawn. While it is debatable whether one might have driven a bus through it, one could certainly fit within its confines a sprinting Sarr.

Officially, therefore, the assist goes down as Sonny’s, but the small-print really ought to capture the contribution of young Spence.

This particular input occurred only a couple of minutes after Spence had also right-place-right-timed his way to a goal-line clearance, and as such neatly topped off what was, all round, a particularly impressive performance.

Moreover, while it would be understandable if it slipped from the memory, way back in the first half Spence was also proving a pretty key cog in the attacking mechanism. Within these environs he could be spotted not just lopping forward but drifting infield too, to pretty good effect. One would have to ask those on the high pay-grades whose bright idea that was, but it was certainly effective, providing a most useful additional outlet.

However, it was his defensive chops that really caught the eye. As he did a few weeks back with Mo Salah, so yesterday Spence kept his beady eye on the effervescent Mbeumo throughout. I recall one first half moment in which Mbuemo wriggled free, but that aside Spence seemed more or less to have his number, which takes some doing.

As mentioned above, the entire back-four brought their A-game, but Spence in particular ticked all his relevant boxes.

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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?

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Spurs match reports

Hoffenheim 2-3 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A Disclaimer: The Shonky Middle Period

Before we invite a dignitary to say polite words and spray champagne about the place, probably best to tap the mic and make one or two public service announcements. All in the name of context, you understand.

As such, any sparkling compliments thrown about the place for a job eventually well done and three points safely pocketed should exclude that 10 or so minutes leading up to half-time, and in particular that period after half-time that seemed never to end but which the official timekeepers clocked at about half an hour.

During that period our lot barely touched the ball, but spent the entirety stuck in and around their own area as if physically bound to it. If any member of the cast, upon blocking a shot or clearing the ball, felt inclined to turn to the nearest chum to slap hands and exchange congratulations on a defensive job well done, or even simply to rattle off the exhale-inhale routine a good half-dozen times to stock up depleted lungs, they were to be pretty swiftly interrupted and forced to wade straight back onto the front-line, for more shot-blocking and ball-clearing. It wasn’t so much that this happened repeatedly, as it became just one, uninterrupted, 30-minute sequence.

Moreover, if any of our number were looking to Richarlison for a spot of respite we could probably have told them they were in for a bit of a setback. I recall a while back my Spurs-supporting chum Dave, in one of those moments of exasperation that following Spurs will generate, once labelled Richarlison the least technically-gifted Brazilian ever, which although possibly a little dramatic certainly hits upon a notable point.

Richarlison ran the good race honestly enough yesterday, and had the occasional moment, but I suppose one might generously say he was a tad rusty in his first start after injury. The upshot was that if any of our number cleared to R9, the damn thing came straight back in less time than it takes to murmur “Hold it up this time and relieve the pressure, dash it”.

I’m not sure any amongst the massed ranks observing in person or via the telly-box were particularly surprised that the Hoffenheim assault led eventually to a goal. Nor will many of lilywhite persuasion have been in the slightest taken aback to note that at least one of the goals conceded came in the Pedro Porro Patrol Area. We might as well just chalk up a goal to the other lot pre-kick-off each game, to save everyone the bother, stipulating that it will be awarded to whomever is most likely to wander into the vicinity that Porro ought to be monitoring.

(Porro also might have made at least a token effort to prevent the cross for the first Hoffenheim goal, although the general blame for that one could be spread around a little more democratically.)

So while the AANP map was plastered with a coating of satisfaction and relief by 8pm yesterday, one probably has to acknowledge that slap bang in the middle of it all our lot spent a goodish amount of time up against the ropes and taking a pummelling. However, all the more credit to them for emerging from that period still ahead, and doing enough defensively to hang on to the win.

2. Maddison

While that middle third was a pretty ghastly spectacle, it should not be forgotten that back in the mists of time, our heroes started proceedings looking like they were having an absolute blast.

The German mob might not have been toughest of nuts to crack, but that hasn’t stopped our lot struggling in the past. Yesterday, however, they slid through the gears right from the off.

Maddison in particular caught the eye in the early exchanges, as is inevitable, I suppose, when one scores one goal and puts in a decent amount of spadework in construction of another.

I actually still re-watch his goal and then remove myself to a quiet corner, to try to understand how he ended up depositing the ball high in the net as he did, as it seemed the sort of shot that should either have floated back down to earth or ballooned off into the atmosphere.

That, however, says more about AANP’s shaky grasp of physics than anything else. More broadly, I was most taken by the more attacking post that Maddison seemed to have adopted. Whether upon instruction or just his own whim, he seemed to dip a toe into Dele-esque waters, and finding that it rather suited him, spent much of the remainder as an additional attacking bean, the sort who would make a late charge from midfield into the area, to sniff around for treats.

One such burst brought him his goal, and but for a better-timed final pass from his colleagues he might have had a richer harvest.

It was impressive (while it lasted at least – as mentioned, any such attacking considerations were emphatically binned for a good old stretch either side of half-time), not least because the blighter has spent much of the season struggling to impose himself upon games.

Traditionally he seems to station himself a lot further south, and content himself with just ferrying the thing from A to B in short-range deliveries of 5 to 10 yards, which do little to impact the game. The one exception to this slightly impotent sort of showing was away to Man City, when after popping up with 2 goals (in the Dele role), he then dropped all the way back to his own area to assist with passing out from the back.

Yesterday, however,as mentioned, he was more advanced, and far more impactful for it. One for Our Glorious Leader to frown and gruffle about in the coming days.

3. Brandon Austin

Cast your mind back a week or two, and young Brandon Austin found himself thrust from the shadows into the limelight at home to Newcastle, acquitting himself most competently, before being rather cruelly shoved straight back whence he came, to those same shadows, from where he could only watch proceedings wrapped up in a snood.

Well the neat little cocktail of injuries and red tape meant that he was granted a sequel yesterday, and I thought he once again did all that the self-respecting modern goalkeeper should.

From memory, he seemed competent enough under crosses. He may have fumbled one, I cannot quite recall, but the general sentiment as things pootled along was that if a cross were to be launched of vaguely claimable pedigree, then Austin would march out and do his claiming with minimal fuss.

It might not sound much, but dust off the archives and you’ll note that in the latter part of last season, every corner conceded prompted a surge in blood pressure across N17, as Vicario made an almighty drama of such circumstances. No such concerns with Austin. The chap knows his airborne onions.

His shot-stopping too seemed at least adequate. There was precious little he could do about the first Hoffenheim goal, and while a less forgiving scribe might don the monocle and subject to closer inspection his role in the second goal, I’m inclined to wave aside any criticism there. Generally, if a shot were aimed within his wingspan, he extended the appropriate appendage at the appropriate time, and kept it out.

And while I do recall at least one pass of his from the back that missed its mark and prompted a sounding of the alarm, by and large he seemed happy enough to distribute from his feet. All in all, it was just about everything one would hope and dream from one’s fourth-choice ‘keeper in a winnable European away day.

4. Son

The performance of the on-field lieutenant had me scratching the loaf a bit though, and needing a little sit-down to collect the thoughts.

On the one hand, take what one might term the ‘Match of the Day’ approach. By this I mean that if you simply drink in the headlines, you might conclude that our captain has returned to the peak of his powers. Two goals – the second of which featured a spot of trademark activity involving a stepover and pinpoint shot – in a 3-2 win seems unequivocally to indicate that here was the game’s outstanding contributor.

However, shout that one from the rooftops, and you might swiftly find yourself being tapped insistently on the shoulder by an AANP armed with a most enquiring eye. From the off, and frankly at all points except in execution of his second goal, Sonny did not seem his traditional effervescent self. Ask a fancy AI tool for a visual illustration of what ‘Sonny off the boil’ looks like, and nothing would be simpler than to churn out footage of his every involvement (bar that second goal) from yesterday.

While in an attacking sense, in general our lot appeared to have eaten their spinach and rediscovered some swash and buckle, a certain stodginess manifested each time Son was invited to partake.

The thrilling yard or two of pace that previously allowed him to scoot away from his opposing full-back was absent, as it seems to have been all season. As a result whenever he glimpsed the whites of the goalkeeper’s eyes in an inside-left channel, he checked back infield onto his right foot, and momentum leaked from the attack.  

That he scored his first and our second owed a lot to the kind deflection that ensured physics was on his side. A couple of further opportunities that might have given us the four-goal cushion seemingly necessary every time we play, were also muddled rather than aided by his input.

5. Credit to the Players; BUT WHAT THE DICKENS IS HAPPENING WITH TRANSFERS?

Depending on the side of bed from which one rolled out this morning, one may either bob along with quiet satisfaction at an important win, or chunter away a bit at another unnecessarily complicated struggle.

The AANP take is that this was a game played by a cohort of players either drained of all energy or yet to start shaving, and as such that they found a way to win at all was a small miracle in itself.

There was plenty about which to nod in approval in the opening half hour, and actually a degree of common sense and resilience in the latter stages. Now, to suggest that a corner has been turned and all is rosy once again in N17, is somewhat premature. However, the drill yesterday was simply to find a way to win. That this was achieved through contributions of attacking elan, good fortune and some bloody-minded resilience is absolutely the ticket at AANP Towers.

So to the players a warm hand; and to the Big Cheese a cheery enough shrug, accompanied by a reminder that plenty more work needs doing in the next must-win game, on Sunday.

However, to whomever is responsible for signing off on incomings and new personnel, the sternest possible glare of incandescence awaits. The failure to sign any outfield players at all, over three weeks into the January window, is bordering on negligence.

Even should half a dozen new players arrive today, they would be too late for the last six fixtures, in each of which we were simply unable to rotate as was necessary for performance levels and injury prevention.

Nor, at this point, do we even need the sort of elite-level players who will fit the fabric of the club for years to come, those we’d eye up in the summer. Right now, an extra few bodies on short-term loans would suffice, players of a Reguilon or Dragusin level who could simply come on at minute 60 or 70 to afford a breather to the incumbents, and help prevent six-week muscle strains.

The whole narrative about squad depth began weeks ago, long before the January window came into being, so those responsible for such things can hardly claim to have been caught by surprise.

Not really being privy to the inner workings of either transfer deals in general, nor the club’s policy in this area specifically, I have no idea which specific individuals are to blame further down the chain of command – although the buck presumably stops with Grandmaster Levy. Either way, the absence of a single outfield signing absolutely boggles the mind, and ratchets up the incandescence with each passing day.

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Spurs match reports

Everton 3-2 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. The New Formation’s Perks

With the infirmary tent now bursting at the seams, Our Glorious Leader had what by his standards was a fully-fledged breakdown, and tweaked his tactics. Out went the 4-3-3, and in came an intriguing get-up that had a 3-4-2-1 sort of look to it.

On paper it actually made perfect sense. Square pegs and whatnot, don’t you know?

Ben Davies has spent half his life on the left of three centre-backs. Any self-respecting taxonomist would take one look at Spence and Porro and classify the pair as wing-backs. Kulusevski and Maddison are both, in theory, the sorts of beans who are happiest honing their sights on the opposition goal. Dragusin has many, many defensive weaknesses and precious few strengths, so why not surround him with as much defensive-minded assistance as possible? And so on.

And actually, if you don’t mind me punctuating the doom and gloom with a spot of sunny, glass-half-full cheer, in an attacking sense it wasn’t too shabby at all. Sonny was presented on a silver platter with a couple of the more straightforward chances we’ve had all season – tips of the cap here to Davies and Porro, for the rather dapper long passes that set these up.

We also might reasonably enough have had a penalty. While AANP, as ever, accepts the referee’s decision with a stiffened upper lip and some stoical resolve, next time I need to submit a video application for the award of a foul, I may well use the clip of Sonny being unceremoniously bundled to terra firma inside the area by that Everton nib. It did appear at first – and indeed second, third and various further glances – to be a fairly straightforward little number.

So on the front-foot, whilst hardly the best we’ve played all season, there was enough in the first half-hour to suggest that the new formation had some shiny attacking components.

2. The New Formation’s Woes

Further back, however, it’s fair to say that our lot fashioned quite the pig’s ear. If you’ve ever drunk at this particular cabinet before you’ll know that the tactical side of things is not really the AANP forte, so take the following with a generous pinch of salt, or splash of bourbon, or just let the mind fog over for a few paragraphs; but it struck me that each of Gray, Dragusin and Sarr were playing their own individual matches, with nary a concern for the roles of those around them. Communications and teamwork was at a minimum.

Take the second goal conceded, for example. Everton were biffing the thing around inside their own half, as was their prerogative. Young Gray, seeing this and not taking too kindly to it, opted to leave his right-of-the-back-three post, and make a few brusque enquiries. Reasonable enough, one might have noted. One of the delights of a back-three, of course, is that any given member of it, at any given time, has the licence to stretch his legs further north, safe in the knowledge that the defensive cupboard will remain well-stocked behind him.

So off Gray toddled; but trouble began to brew when, alongside him, Sarr seemed gripped with a similar idea. Identical in fact. Actually, the pair came close to tinkering with the fabric of the universe by very nearly occupying exactly the same space at exactly the same time.

One could have advised that this would not end well. With Gray having rushed 20 or so yards out of position, our lot really needed someone to drop into the spot he had vacated, or at the very least station themselves within 10 yards of him, to mop up the mess.

The most obvious candidate would have been Sarr – but Sarr, as mentioned, had been gripped by precisely the same idea as Gray. Poor old Dragusin was the next to whom we all looked for a spot of useful input, but he was so far behind play one struggled to pick him out with the naked eye.

The Everton laddie set off around halfway and kept going, utterly unopposed. In fact he made it all the way to the penalty area, and even then young Dragusin was not really in the market for decisive interventions. He hovered in the vicinity, lost his bearings and I think almost fell over, but by then the Everton chap was already unveiling his celebration.

From what I could make out, the underlying problem here was absence of a basic level of communication between the protagonists. Idle chit-chat. Even just a pointed look, and knowing nod. Either way, the constituent members of the back-three seemed not to let each other know what they’d be doing.

3. Bergvall

With three goals having been shipped and Dragusin having been clouted about the loaf, one hardly batted an eyelid when Our Glorious Leader reverted to 4-3-3 type for the second half. One may have wanted to clear the throat and politely mention something about horses bolting, but nevertheless the switch back to the familiar seemed judicious.

Whether it was the formation, the fact that Everton already had three goals in the bag and eased up a tad or any other reason, our lot at least had the decency to look like they cared in the final 20 or so.

Young Bergvall, however, did not seem to mind which formation he was dropped into. He just set about doing one decent thing after another. It’s taken a couple of months, but the chap seems to have found his feet, and by my reckoning was amongst our best-performing squirts yesterday.

There was one fine sliding tackle early on in the piece, the sort that tends to prompt a nostalgic sigh as well as a nod of approval from this quarter; and halfway through the second half he pinged a dreamy 50-yard pass, up the right flank and perfectly weighted inside the full-back, to an onrushing winger.

And beyond these little highlights his overall contribution was neat and tidy as a minimum. Here is a chap fully aware of his responsibilities in chugging back to help out around his own penalty area, whilst also needing not too many invitations to pick up the ball and go wandering beyond halfway to see the sights.

4. Spence, Kinsky, Moore

As mentioned above, Spence was quite the attacking threat. As with Bergvall, one can imagine him impatiently waving away any instruction about formations and the like, preferring instead just to get his head down and gambol forward.

I’d suggest that he did not have his greatest day defensively, although plenty others also wore that particular badge yesterday. Going forward, however, Spence seemed to develop something of an obsession with the concept of weaving his way into the Everton penalty area and making merry.

A slight shame that his delivery for Sonny early on was not quite into the latter’s path, but if one can survey the entirety and conclude that we did not massively miss Udogie’s forward contributions, then there’s a feather for the Spence cap.

Young Kinsky once again did what could reasonably have been expected of him. Experts in the field might suggest that he went to ground a little early for the second goal, but that aside he produced more than his fair share of full-stretch, leaping saves.

This business of insisting on short passing from every goal-kick does, of course, drive to distraction most right-minded lilywhites, but it is presumably a tactic that is here to stay, and on instruction from above. Kinsky did foul up his record book with one particularly ghastly pass from the back, early in the second hlf, but by and large he seemed comfortable enough with the ball at his feet.

Nor is he a cove who sees the ball up beyond halfway and takes the opportunity to indulge in forty winks. Nice and alert throughout, he had to race from his post once or twice, to extinguish a couple of threats caused by those in front of him.

And in the latter stages we were treated to a cheery little cameo from young Mikey Moore. It’s a low bar, but he seemed to cram more into his 20 minutes than Sonny has produced in his last half-dozen games out on the left.

My Spurs-supporting chum Ian did note that Moore’s presence might actually have stifled Spence somewhat, the pair seeming to occupy the same lane if you get my drift, but on a day on which we made Everton look like Barcelona I’m hardly about to chide Moore for that.

He shows a directness of intent that is complemented by the trickery in his size eights, and as he demonstrated at the death, is well capable of delivering a cross of the delicious, convert-me variety.

5. Midfield Bite (Or Lack Thereof)

One can bang on until blue in face and coarse in voice about injuries and fatigue of course. One can find a way in which to voice the sentiment, preferably in a catchy, rhyming verse, that the manager ought to be removed.

However, the AANP gripe de jour is about our midfield. It’s actually a gripe that has bubbled away beneath the surface for a while now, but shot to prominence again yesterday as I observed various Everton bods amble unopposed from midway to our penalty area.

Expressed in the most basic Anglo-Saxon, our midfield desperately lacks a spot of back-door security. This could take the form of a tough tackler, although I’m not convinced we even need to make tackles. Someone who races around harassing and intercepting would suffice. Just to stop opponents waltzing straight through us, you understand.

Now credit where due, it seems that whichever lilywhites are picked in midfield will scurry urgently enough from Player A to Player B. No shortage of willing. The issue is that it’s all to no effect. Opponents simply pass around us and escape, without too many beads of perspiration spraying about the place.

By contrast, when, for example, Maddison takes possession for us, more often than not the opposition will close down the space and force him backwards. When I see such an episode play out, I do shoot a rather covetous glance at the opposition. That sort of thing would help our defence in spades. If our midfield can’t make tackles – and it’s always seemed a big ask at N17 – could they not at least prevent opponents advancing, and force them to pause and go backwards?

Each of Bergvall, Sarr, Maddison and Bentancur have their merits, but none seem particularly well sculpted for the aforementioned defensive roles, and I’m not sure it’s something that Bissouma on his own can carry out. It does seem to need a spot of collective effort.

Just another one for the Postecoglou in-tray I suppose, but this is an issue that has existed throughout his time around these parts, and frankly for most of the decades I’ve been watching our lot. Hoffenheim, Leicester and Elfsborg now become pretty seismic fixtures, which dulls the sense like you wouldn’t believe, but there we go.

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Spurs match reports Uncategorized

Arsenal 2-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

Even Duo Lingo stuck the knife in after this one.

1. Kinsky

After his opening bows, against Liverpool and Tamworth, I’d rushed to shove in all my chips with young Kinsky. Here, after all, appeared to be a man who could gather in-flung corners like one plucking apples; spread every available limb when faced with a shot to stop; and of course, most notably, casually ping the ball from either foot, to chums stationed in all parts of the pitch.

As such, the applause with which I greeted his every input in the opening minutes yesterday was pretty enthusiastic. Might as well encourage the lad, after all, what?

Admittedly he seemed to take the whole ‘Comfortable with the ball at his feet’ maxim and stretch it to the very edge of decency, but he dealt with the first half-dozen or so corners pretty admirably, and that struck me as particularly important against this mob of all mobs. Woolwich would adopt their stances; the dreadful telly-box commentators would fawn over their record from such situations; and Kinsky would take a stride or two and punch the thing from amidst a gaggle of bodies.

I continued to trumpet his abilities accordingly. “Marvellous stuff, old boy”, was the summary of comment from this quarter.

However, by the time the half-time whistle tooted, I have to confess to a pouring a generous dram and taking a moment to reflect. Could I really continue to laud this young bean’s every act, I asked myself, when he is actually beginning to stuff things up a jot?

Take the passing from the back. As mentioned, he seemed convinced that the path to success in this field lay in maximising every last second available, which I suppose is theoretically sound enough; but where one draws the line is when he starts using additional seconds that actually aren’t officially available.

Put another way, he dwelt so long on the dashed thing that Woolwich bods started tackling him, or at least deflecting his attempted passes at the point of contact.

Now, AANP is a generous sort, and will grudgingly accept that we mortals all err from time to time. As long as the lesson is learned, and one doesn’t err in precisely the same way a second time – and sure as heck not a third time – then it’s fine by me. Even Homer nods.

The problem with Kinsky was that he seemed not to learn his lesson, at any point throughout the game, no matter how often he made the same mistake. When it came to dwelling on the ball, he did not just err twice or thrice, he seemed to do the same thing literally every time he received the ball, dash it, as if contractually obliged.

On top of which, for their first goal, he then also made a pickle of that business of dealing with corners. Where previously he had quite merrily identified a route through the bodies and applied a solid fist or two, for the first Woolwich goal he back-pedalled, neglected to check his rear mirror and ran into a whole heap of traffic within the 6-yard box. The upshot of it all was that he was nowhere near the ball, and in no fit state, nor appropriate position, to deal with the messy goalbound effort.

And then just to add serious question marks to AANP’s judgement in backing a horse, he even bungled the previously reliable area of shot-stopping. Trossard’s effort just before half-time was solid enough, but by no means one of those unstoppable effort that zing into the net before you’ve even adjusted the eyes.

Indeed, Kinsky seemed to have matters well in hand to repel the effort. He effected the first part of the operation swimmingly, by lowering himself appropriately and extending the correct limb the correct length.

Maddeningly, however, he undid all these ticked boxes by allowing himself to be duped by the bounce of the ball, of all things. While one allows that the laws of physics will dictate that footballs bobble, I’d expect a goalkeeper worth his salt to be sufficiently alert to read the bounce and adjust the glove accordingly.

Not that the disastrous performance in its entirety was the fault of Kinsky and Kinsky alone, of course. I will, however, allow myself a judicial clearing of the throat and a moment’s reflection before I next laud him as the solution to all our goalkeeping ills.

2. The Older Heads

It says much about the frankly awful guff being exhibited by so many of our number that rather than hone in on them one-by-one for a spot of full-blooded character assassination, it would actually be easier simply to shove them into a single sack, pick up a blunt object and give the sack a bashing.

The contents of that sack are pretty multicultural in nature, featuring a Spanish full-back, Korean forward, Welsh winger, Swedish forward weaving between the centre and the right, and so on. Full marks for diversity, then, but that’s about as much praise as can be heaped upon them.

2.1 Son

Mis-hit, deflected goal or not, Sonny was once again massively off the boil. It’s not that anything he tried failed to work; it’s more that he didn’t seem to try anything in the first place. I can barely remember him touching the ball apart from his goal.

Peak Son has been a thorn in the side of this lot in particular, offering a welcome outlet at the Emirates through his pace on the flank, and fleetness of foot in the penalty area. Last night, however, he retreated into his shell and remained there for the entirety, breaking the routine only once, to score (or contribute towards) our goal, before disappearing once more to the comfort of his carapace.

2.2 Kulusevski

Kulusevski at least seemed willing to take to the stage, rather than fade into the background. Unhelpfully, his every contribution ended in failure, as he trotted out a series of attempted dribbles that resulted in him being tackled, and attempted tackles that resulted in him conceding fouls.

2.3 Porro

Porro, meanwhile, reinforced the notion that while he is a reasonably talented footballer, the well runs dry when it comes to exercising the grey matter. If there were a market for poor decision-making on a football pitch, this chap would be one of those billionaire oligarchs one hears about who parties on super-yachts with much younger female models.

He adopted ill-considered positions, as is becoming his trademark, and as was most notably illustrated in the second goal conceded, when he was found, naturally enough, 10 yards too far forward. His distribution was also fairly shonky, be it in the short-pass or whipped cross categories.

Nor is he the most reliable defender around, although I did sympathise that on one of the few occasions he did get his defensive affairs in order, blocking a cross and winning a goal-kick, the decision not only went against him but also resulted in a goal.

2.4 Johnson, Egads

Johnson, as one rather expects these days, added so little of value that I now wonder whether his half-time introduction actually happened at all, or was instead one of those mirages that one finds is occasionally induced by times of high stress and fine bourbon.

2.5 Maddison

Maddison at least rarely wants for effort, but last night gave ample exhibitions of his slightly irksome tendency to take up a useful position, make all manner of arm-based gesticulations and then decide it’s all pointless anyway, and knock the ball sideways or backwards. His limited-value distribution reminded me not for the first time of how Gary Neville once stumbled upon a truth, intoning that the modern team seems more inclined to take risks in defence than in attack.

2.6 Bissouma (And Dragusin While I’m At It)

A brief word too for Bissouma, whose form I have actually mentally categorised as ‘Not Too Shabby By Half’, in recent weeks. Having seemed willing enough to roll up the sleeves and muck in, he made a dreadful pig’s ear of things in Minute 44, in the moments leading up to the second goal conceded.

To remind, we were going through yet another one of those painful dances out on the left – you know the sort? I refer to those awful stews of our own making, in which we try to play out from the back, but all concerned take too many touches, and those not so concerned don’t bother to avail themselves.

Anyway, the wriggling-free was actually almost accomplished, with Spence having done a spot of give-and-going. All that remained was for Bissouma to feed the ball back to him and off we would jolly.

Bissouma, however, in common with most in our colours last night, opted to use his moment in possession as a cue to pause and dwell on how his life had treated him in the two or three decades so far. Instead of nudging the ball straight back to Spence, he paused and reflected, and swiftly found himself swarmed upon. Before one could even check the clock to see how long we had to hold out until half-time, we were behind.

(A clip around the ear too for Dragusin, for almost visibly mouthing “It’s not my job, guv” as Trossard ambled forward without anyone racing to cover.)

And with that many of the senior players firing blanks, or opting not to fire at all, or failing to realise that they were allowed to participate at all, it is little wonder that from start to finish our lot stank the place out.  

3. The Younger Heads

It really shouldn’t happen, but the standout performers amongst our lot were a couple of the young chappies whose principle life concerns are about how to cover up their spots and whether the good bar-staff of North London will ask for proof of age.

Bergvall did so well in so many positions that he ended up playing as three different midfielders simultaneously. Despite being seemingly tasked the outset with playing furthest forward of the midfield three, he was as prominent as anyone in dropping deep to receive possession.

I am particularly taken with his tendency, demonstrated at least once per game in each of his recent starts, to collect the ball roughly halfway inside his own half, and simply run with it until halfway inside the other half. Sounds dreadfully simple, and possibly a little underwhelming I suppose, but it’s a heck of an asset when materialising in real time. It was like watching Mousa Dembele without any of the muscle or shoulder-dips. Bergvall strips the whole exercise down to its basics and goes from there, with the result that the entire game-situation is shoved about 50 yards up the pitch.

Then in the second half he drew one heck of a short straw, when being having an Australian index finger thrust at him and being told to protect the back-four single-handedly.

This he did rather better than anticipated. He might not quite exhibit a Graham Roberts-esque capacity for the crunching tackle, but more often than not he could be spotted racing back to add to numbers inside our own area, more than once doing enough to slow down a Woolwich attack while reinforcements arrived.

Not the worst fellow to have around when Kinsky had used up his allocated dwell-in-possession time and needed a passing option, either.

Vying with Bergvall, however, was young Gray. By golly I can’t praise this chap highly enough. I get the impression that those peering in from beyond N17 (such as the lamentable folk on the telly-box) take one look at the Goals Conceded column and conclude that Gray isn’t much cop. More fool them, is the AANP take. Gray strikes me as a national treasure.     

His barcode, once scanned, might state that he is a midfielder, but I’m fast becoming convinced that he ought to be first-choice centre-back. I certainly feel more at ease seeing his bright-eyed features adorn the back-four than the more grizzled Romero, and the impulsive, brainless decisions that go with him. I doubt we’ll ever see Gray and VDV partner up at the back, but I don’t mind gazing wistfully into the mid-distance at the thought.

Perhaps, though, we might one day instead see Gray and Bergvall partner up further forward.

4. Fatigue? Tactics?

Quite what the hell went wrong last night is beyond me, but our lot looked thoroughly undercooked from first whistle to last. That we scored, and that Solanke might have had a couple from close range but for timely defensive interventions, were frankly pretty misleading (ditto the phantom conrer). There was no semblance of control from our lot at any point, either in or out of possession.

The initial AANP take was that it came down to fatigue. It’s a pretty tired line of course, but the whole chorus about a thin squad, injuries and inability to rotate is the easiest one to bleat.

Alternatively, it might be something around the tactics, as we seemed unable to play out from the back, let alone reach the halfway line or beyond. Long balls towards Solanke similarly met with little joy, and I struggle to remember any move involving two or three one-touch passes at any point. One found oneself simply puffing out the cheeks and wondering what the devil was the reason for such underwhelming dirge.

Still, one never really know what our lot will come up with next, when one reflects on the week’s worth of results just passed. On to Sunday then.

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-0 Liverpool: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Kinsky

Not lacking in confidence, this one, eh? His first involvement as a Spurs player – that moment in which he decided to chip the ball into the air with his feet, rather than just taking the regulatory catch on offer – was admittedly a slightly zany way to introduce himself to the massed hordes, but thereafter young Master Kinsky seemed hell-bent on showcasing himself as everything the young, modern goalkeeper should be.

Most obviously, Kinsky seemed pretty determined to make clear to the watching world that he fancies himself with ball at feet. The faux laid-back air with which he carries himself when picking a pass can probably be ignored, as it seems all goalkeepers these days like to present themselves as achingly laid-back, even if utterly incapable of passing along the ground.

However, this young fellow was evidently able to walk the w. as well as talk the t., as evidenced by a capacity not only to play the ball with either foot, but also to impart backspin and stun his passes and all sorts of other nuanced techniques, to make life that bit more comfortable for his chums. A considerate egg, this Kinsky.  

On top of which he also channelled his inner Beckenbauer to ping a few 60 yarders just as a lark. As these things go, it was ripping stuff. AANP was all for it. Picking the appropriate, short pass from a goal-kick is a sine qua non in the world of Angeball; but augmenting these short passes with an occasionally defence-splitting long pass really does sharpen the wits of all in attendance.

However, if it were that simple we’d just stick Bentancur or Maddison in goal and be done with it. There is, of course, also the delicate issue of stopping shots and preventing goals, and here Kinsky passed his first test soundly enough.

That one moment in the first half, in which he allowed a shot of the meat-and-drink variety to squirm away from him and reappear behind him like some uncooperative small child, was a little concerning. If he’s going to make a production of the basics, I caught myself thinking, things might quickly take a turn for the farcical when the real business kicks off.

I needn’t have worried. He swallowed up most other ideas from the other mob, and when called upon made a particularly impressive stop early in the second half, when a Liverpool sort had a close-range ping on their right and Kinsky dutifully remembered to stay relatively upright, spread his frame and put in place various other wholesome initiatives.

The Hollywood moment, however, came late on in the piece, when Nunez contorted himself to get a close-range volley away, and Kinsky was hit with something of an emergency. The shot, as it turned it, was whistling off to his right; and the critical factor here was that he himself was already putting in motion plans for a day-trip off to his left.

The episode required quick thinking, and some rearrangement of limbs at an equally healthy lick. Kinsky delivered all of the above like a champion, extending an important paw, and keeping his record unsullied.

One can bleat about Liverpool being under-par and remixing their personnel, but this was still the best team in the country and arguably the continent, the highest scorers in the country and with all manner of star-power out on show. On top of which, I honestly can’t remember if our lot have kept a clean sheet at all this season, such has been our general porousness. Defending has not, one might diplomatically offer, been our forte.

I still await evidence around the young bean’s handling of crosses, particularly at corners and whatnot – an area in which Austin, B. proved himself most competent at the weekend. As such, I’ll hold fire on the cork-popping and garland-streaming for another game or two, but for the second game in succession, one can cheerily note that the new chap between the sticks seems to know his apples well enough.

2. Bergvall

Fair to say young Bergvall did not quite hit the ground running in his lilywhite career in Kinsky-esque fashion, memories of him being shoved aside in various Europa ties still lingering in the mind’s eye.

Last night, however, he rattled off the latest rather shiny recital, picking up where he left off in his last turn against Liverpool. At kick-off he seemed tasked with scampering forward with gay abandon whenever the mood took him, with Messrs Bentancur and Bissouma further south being the more natural, reserved sorts.

The horrible Bentancur incident brought about a reshuffle, but if the appearance of Kulusevski in the central midfield three were supposed to dim the Bergvall light, I’m not sure anyone actually passed the memo to the chap himself. “Kulusevski or no Kulusevski”, seemed the Bergvall train of thought, “I’m going to keep haring about the place anyway, and if that takes me right off into the final third then so be it”.

And a cracking fist he made of it too. Full of beans, as these young people tend to be, he also seems to have learned a fair bit about how to handle oneself when great brutish lumps like van Dijk are swinging muscular limbs about the place. No longer simply one to be pushed into the background, Bryan Gil-esque, Bergvall did plenty of useful things both in and out of possession.

A winning goal always adds a layer of garnish, of course, but even before that he rather caught the eye.

As for the whole yellow card issue, by golly watching the Sky Sports coverage back made me wonder if some crime had been committed and the whole bally thing ought to be brought to the House of Commons for a proper debate, and quite possibly reinstatement of the death penalty. Anyway, the AANP take for several decades has been that the referee’s decision is final – be that allowing Jota to stud Skipp in the head and prance off to score a last-minute winner, or waving aside Bergvall’s flying lunges.

3. Spence

One admittedly dreamy pass from young Archie Gray seems to have won over the hearts of the nation, which I suppose was only a matter of time. As secure as ever when doing the defensive thing, that little dribble and outside-of-the-boot-don’t-you-know pass in the second half was a pretty pointed reminder that he’s a midfielder first and foremost. However, as I prattle on about the chap every week, and one doesn’t have to go too far to find wordy serenades about his work last night, I’ll push on to young Spence instead.

What the hell happened in the first four months of the season to prevent him even being considered for selection is a mystery that deepens every week, because his performances since returning to the fold have been mightily impressive, be they right, left or centre.

It was only when he beat his man, scurried to the line and then doubled back on himself rather than crossing, in the first half, that one was reminded that his left foot is primarily in situ for balance and decoration, such was his comfort at left-back.

A different type of beast from Udogie, no doubt – less about him of the bludgeoning instrument when on the forward march – but Spence in his own way is a handy nib when going forward. Moreover, if anything I feel slightly more reassured when we’re on the backfoot that he’ll actually be present, rather than marooned 20 yards too far north.

I suppose because we keep leaking goals, not too much has been made of him beyond the confines of N17. However, I certainly do hope that once the walking wounded shed their bandages and bound back into action, Spence will remain part of the general setup.

4. Ange Postecoglou, Tactical Genius

The key to muzzling Liverpool, it would appear, is to stick someone on that Gravenberch chap. Kulusevski seemed tasked with it last night, obediently putting his head down and charging towards him each time he received the precious cargo. While I suppose it might just have been coincidence, they did appear decidedly less on the button than on their previous visit.

Now AANP is no tactical soul by any stretch, so if the above is true – and once pointed out to me, it did indeed seem that way – decency dictates that I step aside and let the acclaim wash over my Spurs-supporting chum Dave, who cottoned onto it pretty quickly. Either way, a nod of acknowledgement is probably due to Our Glorious Leader for a handy tactical button pushed. After all, heaven knows we knock him when he pickles these things.

Aside from Kulusevski, various other members of the squadron also seemed to go about their day-jobs with a tad more circumspection than frankly I thought was tolerated by Angeball.

Porro’s natural instincts seemed curbed, to the extent that he made more tackles and blocks last night than I can remember in his entire lilywhite career to date. As mentioned above, Spence could probably list ‘Positional Awareness’ as amongst his strengths at his next appraisal.

The midfield that started appeared to offer a bit more in the way of solidity than normal, with Bentancur and Bissouma sitting behind Bergvall, who himself played as a central midfielder rather than a Number 10. This admittedly was rather forced upon the Big Cheese, as there were no other options left, but Bergvall’s energy allowed us to proceed thereafter with a useful blend of attacking chops and defensive numbers.

All told, I did wonder whether the ever-so-slightly more conservative approach was a product of accident or design, but it did the trick, even before the late winner. I suspect I’m not alone in being far from convinced that we’ll do the necessaries in the second leg, but simply for arresting the recent decline and chalking up a significant win, last night was most pleasing.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Newcastle: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Austin

Saturday afternoon gave us all a chance to brood deeply on the life and times of that lesser-spotted species, the third choice goalkeeper. AANP can only speak for himself, but if Brandon Austin had tapped me on the shoulder yesterday morning and given me a cheery wave, I’m not sure I’d have recognised him. 

By about 3pm however that particular wrong had been righted, and with considerable emphasis. Austin acquitted himself like a champion, and should he ever find his mouth dry and a thirst developing, he’ll always be welcome to a splash of refreshment at AANP Towers, after a debut that ticked the boxes like they were going out of fashion. 

If you were to wag a disapproving finger at young Austin, explaining that you did so because he conceded twice, I think I might unleash one of my more withering glances. That ought to settle the matter. Austin was fairly clearly not at fault for either goal. 

And had Gordon converted a chance later on in the first half that was identical in all relevant ways to his earlier goal, I’d have given Austin an encouraging pat on the head and assured him that that was another for which he was blameless. 

As it happened, however, young B.A. actually denied Gordon on that second occasion, with a very neat and tidy save. It was a stop bursting at the seams with quick reflexes and sharp movement to the ground, and well worth the ovation that followed. 

From memory he threw in another sharp save late on, extending a right paw if memory serves, to keep things interesting late on. His saves, however, were barely half the story. 

What really arrested the AANP eye was the fine young fellow’s attitude to the various corners that rained in abaft his head. A spot of context would help here, for this was not as straightforward a tale as ‘Man Catches Ball’. Critically, as each corner was being fashioned for delivery, Newcastle had hit upon the idea of stationing three absolute lumps around Austin, at least one of whom, if my eyes didn’t deceive stood at about 8 foot 6 and bore all the hallmarks of someone who in a previous life had been a tree.

With several of these sorts clambering around the personal space of Austin, and three in lilywhite faithfully marking them, the whole vicinity was frightfully congested. Had the principal custodian of N17 been in situ, the sound of jangling nerves would have been cacophonous, because Signor Vicario has demonstrated on many an occasion a tendency to malfunction when crowded at a corner.

Austin, however, once each corner was launched towards him, was an absolute model of calm and serenity. A most sincere tip of the cap to those tasked with marking the Newcastle mob, as they did a sterling job of clearing a sacred space around the goalkeeper. The man himself though, emerged from the intermittent bombardment with flying colours.

His distribution also seemed sensible enough. Brighter minds than mine may zoom in on one or two passes from the back that might have landed those around him in trouble, but I personally did not notice any such misdeeds. As far as I can see, Austin did not put a foot or hand wrong.

There is, of course, every chance that it will be vale as well as salve to the chap, with the arrival of that Kinsky bean suggesting that the goalkeeping cupboard will be pretty well stocked. If Austin is never sighted again in our colours, I suspect I won’t be the only one wishing him well and thanking him enthusiastically for his tuppence worth.

2. The Spence-Gray Partnership

There is some unnameable element of Radu Dragusin’s game that troubles me. I mean I’m never really fully at ease when he trots out into the middle, chewing away and sizing up his latest pass, which may or may not hit its mark. I find myself instinctively holding my breath, exhaling in relief as much as anything else, when he delivers some input without any dubious consequence.

All that said, however, I’ll excuse any errors yesterday, as apparently he was labouring under a spot of man-flu. The half-time reshuffle meant that we started the second period with a central pairing that would have prompted a hoot or two of mirth in the Championship last season, as Spence shuffled into place alongside Gray.

Spence has generally impressed this particular viewer since beginning his Prodigal Son routine a few weeks back at Southampton, generally blending defensive common sense with attacking fizz in pleasing proportions.

Yesterday, however, there was a murmur or two of criticism at his inability to prevent crosses from the Newcastle flank – it all seemed a bit thick if you ask me, given the track records in that particular department of Porro and Udogie over the last year and a half, but there you go. For the second Newcastle goal, Spence failed to prevent the cross, Dragusin avoided throwing up long enough to nudge the ball onto the foot of Isak, and we were felled.

So when it became evident that Spence would be moved to the centre, I must confess dusting off one of my finest philosophical shrugs. Que sera whatnot, was the gist over here. Everyone else seemed to have had a stab at centre-back, so why not Spence?

(I assume that those who watch Dorrington every day in training have simply gauged that as yet he’s not quite good enough.)

Anyway, on we all cracked, and to be honest, this actually struck me as the most secure centre-back partnership we’d had all season. A small sample size admittedly, and Newcastle seemed far more concerned with packing out their own penalty area than considering a swish at ours, but still. Whenever they did venture forward, Spence and Gray seemed uncannily adept at stomping out any would-be fires.

If there ends up being a public vote for this sort of thing, I’ve already nailed my colours to the Gray mast when it comes to considering eventual partners for VDV at the back. He may walk, talk and sound like a midfielder, or right-back, or some other position, but by golly he can cut it with the best of them at centre-back.

Now apparently I ought to temper all this praise. I’m reliably informed that Gray’s positioning to receive the ball from Austin, which led to Bergvall’s tight spot and Newcastle’s first goal, was shonky. If you don’t mind the technical gibberish, he ought to have stationed himself wider, to render himself less easy to close down. This, if true, is indeed a blot on his escutcheon.

Nevertheless, such a faux pas ought to be coached out of him easily enough. I’m still fond of the chap, as much as anything else because he does not tend suddenly to be possessed by acts of madness like Romero. Steady and sensible, seems to be the Gray motto when centre-backing, and I’m all for it.

Spence, meanwhile, displayed a most becoming spatial awareness in the role. He generally seemed to know where he ought to be and where others were around him, be they friend or foe. He even threw in a last-ditch, goal-saving, sliding block at one point.

Presumably Dragusin will be back midweek, but as desperate patched-up bright ideas go, Gray-Spence struck me as pretty hot stuff.

3. Porro

With each passing week this season, the AANP opinion of Pedro Porro has gently eased down half a notch or so, with the result that now, at the midway point, I have quite the clearly-fashioned bone to pick with the fellow.

It’s primarily his defensive work, you see, although I use the term pretty damn loosely. Show me a goal our heroes have conceded this season, and there’s a good chance I’ll be able to show you a gap that Porro has vacated and the opposing striker has tucked right into.

Yesterday, however, the angel on Porro’s shoulder was in the ascendancy, because he could not stop delivering Beckham-esque crosses from the right. Whip, height, direction – you name it, Porro was spraying it. If anything it’s been a rather under-used asset of his this season. He set about righting that wrong though, and how.

Beginning with his cross for the goal for Solanke (another who earns one of those touches of the cap, for one heck of a combo of strength and technique to head in), Porro was on the money throughout. A shame, of course, that he only struck oil once, but he stuck to his side of the bargain alright. That those further north couldn’t quite nail the coordinates was nothing to do with the quality of his delivery.

4. General Mood

It will come as little surprise to the regular visitor to AANP Towers, that the owner of the joint remains unchanged in opinion towards Our Glorious Leader. Peddle dirge-like guff, and fail to create chances, and the AANP brow scrunches like a bulldog’s; but yesterday was another of those affairs in which we had a pretty reasonable biff, and were a mite unlucky to trudge off empty-handed.

The dubious decision-making in possession at the back remains undimmed, and responsibility for this sits squarely with Ange and Co. Equally concerning from my vantage point is the general lack of protection afforded to our back-line whenever possession is lost. It’s not so much the high defensive line that bothers me, as the fact that nobody else in lilywhite is anywhere near the scene when that defensive line is forced to about-turn and sprint back. This, too, is on Ange.

The attacking play, however, particularly in the second half, was respectable enough. It ought to have been enough to outscore the other lot, which seems the fundamental tenet of Angeball. We can also consider ourselves unfortunate that the laws of the game allowed that first goal to stand – albeit we brought the danger upon ourselves.

(Bergvall, by the way, while he may have erred slightly in the first goal conceded, caught the eye. The fellow has come on leaps and bounds in a couple of months, and provided the sort of energy and willingness to carry the ball of which Maddison might usefully have taken note.)

On top of that solid second half showing, this was a game in which we ended with our third-choice goalkeeper, fifth- and sixth-choice centre-backs and fifth-choice left-back. As mentioned, I actually consider the midfield and its lack of support for those behind them, to be more of a problem, but this general annihilation of all available defenders doesn’t do much to help things.

So, as has been the case for a while now, I’m more inclined to suspend judgement on Ange until blessed with a team better suited to the rigours of the twice-weekly joust. The new goalkeeper is a start, but at least a couple more happy new faces seem necessary before things get back on track.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Forest 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Not A Particularly Bad Showing

Due to my commitment with the other team in North London (Enfield Town, for avoidance of doubt), I found myself in the dubious position of sitting down to watch a recording of the Spurs game after the event, when already fully aware of the final score. Not really an approach I’d bang drums and blow whistles for, but a necessary evil from time to time. Happens to all of us occasionally, I suppose.

Being aware of the outcome, I therefore braced myself for something stodgy and insipid. The defeat away to Palace was the sort of template I had in mind, or the draw with Fulham perhaps. One of those bland shindigs, in which our heroes mooch around looking like a football match in the middle of their calendar is a most frightful inconvenience.

And while I suppose one might argue that this was a triumph for setting low bars, nevertheless as I watched the thing unfold, I was less underwhelmed than I’d expected to be, if you follow.

Now admittedly, it was hardly our finest hour. We did, after all, lose and fail to score. At the same time, this wasn’t one of those dreadful affairs that can prompt a spot of banging of fists down on tables and some meaningful finger-pointing.

I don’t doubt there are plenty in lilywhite who have spent the last day yelling into the nearest megaphone that they want the head of the manager and pronto, but as performances go I thought we merited a draw. It might not exactly have been title-winning stuff, but I thought our lot did well enough that if they had finished up with the takings, the wider world would have accepted it without too much complaint.

I suppose that on seeing we had lost one-nil I expected us barely to get out of our own half. Instead, with a bit more care in the final third we would have the usual handful goals. One might reasonably have expected young Johnson to strike oil with one of his two or three chances; while at the other end Fraser Forster might have been advised to pack a good book, such was his level of involvement.

Not that it will silence the Ange Out brigade, and on results alone there remains every reason to roll up the sleeves and crack on with some prime chuntering; but at AANP Towers the view remains that the wider context counts for more than the current, wild jumble of wins and losses. And by ‘wider context’ I mean injuries, and squad depth, and judging the style of play once a fit-for-purpose squad actually has a stab at it. It would be a bit thick to elbow out the fellow while the squad is falling apart at the seams with fresh maladies.

2. The Art of Midfield Tackling

It was pretty much in keeping with things yesterday that Forest scored their goal by interrupting when our lot when on the attack. One moment our heroes were busily scouting the final third for unguarded entry-points, the next they were picking the ball out from Forster’s net, and giving the old bean a bit of a scratch while at it.

The goal itself was pretty straightforward stuff, one delicious ball from Gibbs-White in between centre-back and full-back doing the trick. One doesn’t see Destiny Udogie outpaced too often, but there it was, in full technicolour. I don’t normally pass on an opportunity to furrow the brow and shove a couple of guilty defenders in the dock, but in this instance there was no wider catastrophe at play amongst our back-four. Udogie was outpaced, and that was that.

In the build-up to the goal, however, I was a little less generous. In this instance it was Djed Spence who erred, in muddling his feet, dwelling a second too long and having the ball spirited away from him. At the time it seemed harmless enough, he occupying coordinates only a few yards outside the Forest penalty area, but if life has taught me anything over the last few days, it is that there is a pretty strong causal link between Spurs losing the ball on the edge of the opposition area and finding themselves defending for their lives within the blink of an eye.

However, I don’t really point the finger at Spence. Even allowing for a couple of daft yellow cards, I thought he once again looked impressive enough (and he does a better job of the defending part of the job than Senor Porro).

The part that grates over here is this business of tackles in the middle third. More specifically, we seem susceptible to them ourselves, as Spence amongst several others demonstrated yesterday, but I’ll be absolutely dashed if I can remember any of our lot ever winning possession with a midfield tackle.

I don’t mean the high press, which our lot tend to execute like seasoned pros. A tip of the cap in that area.

I mean the good, old-fashioned tackle to win possession in midfield. When our lot bob about and try to tiptoe their way about the place, it seems as likely as not that the whole merry expedition will be brought to a shuddering halt by some beefy opposition leg, upending our player and hooking away the ball, leaving the inevitable writhing bag of limbs on the ground and outrage amongst teammates at the lack of free-kick.

But I ask you, when was the last time you saw anyone in lilywhite execute any sort of tackle of similar merit? Bissouma throws in one or two per game, and if I scrunch up the eyes and concentrate I can imagine Udogie bundling over an opponent within the confines of the law; but aside from those, it’s a pretty blank scoreboard. Of unsubtle ‘tactical’ fouls there’s a whole plethora. Solid, meaty, fair tackles, however, is a pretty bare cupboard.

As mentioned, Bissouma seems to have something along those lines on his Job Description, but none of the other midfield sorts seems really to go in for that sort of thing. Bentancur, Maddison, Begvall, Sarr, Kulusevski – they have various talents between them, and some rather topping. Tackling, alas, sits a long way down each of their lists.

And while one might suggest that tactical set-up and whatnot ought to negate the need for too much desperate lunging, the sight of Gibbs-White charging 50 yards utterly unopposed, from deep within his own half to deep within ours, before setting up their goal, had me slapping an exasperated thigh. ‘Tackle the man!’ was the delicate translation of my observations.

Perhaps this is one to lay at the door of Our Glorious Leader, because having thrown men forward, when Gibbs-White turned over possession and ran, each of Bentancur, Dragusin, Gray and Udogie turned and raced back towards their own goal rather than towards him, with no other colleagues available to scurry across and throw in a delaying boot. That is to say, the tactical setup seems to mean that when all jobs have been delegated, not one amongst our number is ever tasked with closing down an opponent running straight at our back-line with the ball.

Alternatively, though, the absence of any inclination to tackle seems utterly embedded within the fabric of the club. No matter what the era or who the personnel, there always seems to be a pretty open invitation for all-comers to stroll straight through the heart of our midfield.

3. Individuals

In keeping with a general performance that struck me as passable enough, the individual constituent parts were also, by and large, in 6 out of 10 territory.

Kulusevski seemed the font of most creativity, albeit he veered off to the right a bit too much for my liking. Gray again looked thoroughly competent in a position one keeps having to remind oneself is pretty alien to him; Dragusin marginally less so. Maddison seemed eager to make things happen when introduced, and Bergvall again reinforced the impression that he was created from the harvested DNA of Bentancur. And Sonny once more looked a little off-colour.

I yelped a few impatient oaths at the screen in the first half when our heroes repeatedly over-complicated things in the final third, particularly in the first half. Starting in the very first minute, in fact, when Kulusevski opted for a pass that was too clever by half, rather than putting his head down, shoving aside all interfering thoughts and having a crack at goal.

This particular irritation made itself felt at various points in the first half, but even despite that our lot still made enough chances to eke out a goal or two.

If the Liverpool defeat were something of a free hit, against the best team around, this was infinitely more vexing, make no mistake. Still, even with a decimated back-line I fancy our lot to score against most opponents, beginning with Wolves. Just a question of whether we outscore the other lot. Four goals ought to be enough, don’t you think?