Tag: Pedro Porro

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-4 Chelsea: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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1. “It’s All Ange’s Fault”

You don’t need grey matter bulging from every seam to spot that there’s a bit of a grumble ongoing in N17 about Our Glorious Leader, nor does it require an IQ off the scale to pick up on the principal sticking-point. There’s set-pieces of course, and variations on the theme of late substitutions and whatnot, but what’s really rattling the masses seems to be the sticking to the principle of Thou Shalt Attack, no matter the time, place or – critically – situation.

Even as a fully signed up apologist for the man, I do squint a bit at seeing every outfield player hopping from foot to foot, desperate to be let off the leash and fly upfield when we’re 2-0 up. One does pause for a moment and consider whether someone out there might hang back, to add a layer of security at the rear. Well, if you’re actually playing in the match you obviously don’t consider any such thing at all, and Ange sure as heck isn’t interested in such topics, but for most other onlookers it’s a suggestion that at least seems to merit a spot of back-and-forth at the next committee meeting.

However, the on-pitch drill is just to keep flinging forward every fit and able man, with the inevitable sequel that there are wide open spaces everywhere one looks whenever the opposition pilfer the ball and scoot off back at us.

The whole thing is embellished by those moments when, having survived such counter-attacks by the skin of our teeth and kindly intervention of the gods, we then attempt rather casually to play out from the back, treating the whole thing as if it were against a combination of mannequins and pre-schoolers rather than hardened internationals. The result, peeled off numerous times yesterday, is that we lose possession outside our own area and pulse-rates quicken once again.

A tad vexing for sure, and an accusation that could be laid pretty squarely at the door of A. Postecoglou Esq. And bafflingly, rather than draw himself up in court to make the case for the defence, Our Glorious Leader would presumably vault over the bench and position himself alongside the those making the accusation, agreeing whole-heartedly that attacking-no-matter-the-situation is indeed precisely his approach.

Personally, I consider that we’re just a minor adjustment or two away from a pretty ripping balance of fizzing attack and hearty common-sense, but Ange is all-in and there we remain. Two-goal leads will continue to be blown. It is, so goes the argument, essentially all his fault. A 51% win percentage does not scream unparalleled success.

2. “It’s Not All Ange’s Fault”

As mentioned, I do think everyone concerned might benefit from a little adjustment of the settings, but for various reasons AANP does not really subscribe to the ‘All Ange’s Fault’ argument.

For a start there’s squad depth. I wittered on about this one a few days ago, following the Bournemouth loss, so if you’re rolling your eyes and begging me to get on with it, you’re welcome to skip a paragraph or two, or boil a kettle, or in some other way amuse yourself.

For those who remain, the post-Bournemouth summary was threefold, viz.

  1. Quality on the pitch is dropping because lack of squad depth means we’re having to use reserves regularly;
  2. No-one is getting a rest and injuries are therefore mounting, because we’re having to use reserves regularly;
  3. No-one is getting a rest so they’re not running as hard each game, which Angeball requires in order to work

Somebody somewhere in the offices of power therefore needs a stern word, for the inexcusable offence of leaving the manager with a squad not fit for the purpose of outrunning the opposition twice a week. A reserve list of Dragusin, Davies and Gray to cover the entire back-four in three different competitions was always likely to have a dubious smell emanating from it. (Young Spence is presumably deemed not quite good enough, but even if he were used I’d still suggest we require an additional reserve or two of higher quality at the back – and that’s before we look higher up the pitch)

If the three points blathered on about above were indeed true (and it’s debatable), it means a critical problem will just continue to dance away independently at least until the January transfer window opens.

(Taking a step back, I do wonder if Grandmaster Levy has been convinced, by Poch’s over-achievements on a shoestring, that success can be pinched by paying well below-the-odds, through a little managerial alchemy. Sack Ange, and I’m not sure much will change until Levy’s spending habits do.)

However, even if true, all of this wouldn’t explain why Dragusin lost his man against Bournemouth, or why Bissouma and Sarr clattered their men for the penalties yesterday, or why no-one saw fit to stick to Sancho and prevent his shot yesterday, or why Porro did not fling his entire frame in the way of Enzo Fernandez’s shot yesterday. Or, to paraphrase, I’m not sure there’s much Ange (or indeed Levy) can do about handsomely-remunerated footballers making utterly block-headed decisions.

I’m not suggesting that we lost purely because several idiots did idiotic things. One could reasonably suggest that the team’s mentality, which stems from the manager, of trying relentlessly to continue playing high-risk football, hindered rather than helped the cause yesterday.

Nevertheless, pulling aside the opposition players to dish out a few freebies, at critical points in the match, does make the head slowly droop into the hands, and prompt one to wonder what’s the bally point of it all.

Apparently a few weeks ago, young Kulusevski mentioned in an interview his frustration that our heroes do not behave like champions on the training pitch. This is all second-hand info, so I apologise if I give his actual words a mangling, but I understand he hammered home that our lot need to train like champions, talk like champions, walk around the premises like champions and so on, if standards are to rise the requisite number of notches come kick-off. Winning sentiments, if you ask me. Our lot sure as heck don’t conduct themselves like champions at present.

3. Romero, Van de Ven and the Injuries

Football being what it is, I suppose we all took the same traumatic journey from the pre-match high of seeing both Romero and VDV restored to the pitch, to the sudden punch to the gut after 20 or so, of seeing Romero hobble off. The mood obviously blackened further with VDV’s enforced removal, although the mutterings since at least suggest that his is just a flesh-wound.

A bit of yammering has naturally ensued about whether either, or both, were fit to start inb the first place, given that neither finished. On the one hand, one might argue that Romero was absent with one injury and departed yesterday with another, and as such the two events are unrelated and the whole is just dashed bad luck.

On the other hand, however, one might rather sniffily point out that had he been given more time to condition himself, he wouldn’t have picked up his fresh injury yesterday. And if one were to keep shoving that point towards its logical conclusion, one might swing the spotlight right back onto the manager, for making such a risk-laden call.

It’s difficult to opine really, and AANP not having an ounce of medical knowledge in his frame is steering well clear of that argument. Instead I’ll put my energies into general lamentation, about the fact that we were 2-0 up when Romero exited, and proceeded to concede four goals in the hour that followed.

4. Solanke

If you’re in the market for a silver lining, however, it was nice to see young Solanke get a brief moment in the spotlight. By virtue of doing all the donkey-work in deeper positions, and not really banging them away like a six-yard poacher might, the chap seems to be occasionally a little under-appreciated, by the wider public at least. Speak to the N17 regulars and they’ll give him a generous hand, but cast the net a little further and the inclination is generally to query whether he bangs them in like Haaland, and dismiss him if he doesn’t.

As it happened, his goal yesterday was an absolute triumph of six-yard poaching. It was a masterclass in directing a run in one direction, and appearing to disappear behind the back of the defender; before, at the vital moment, diverting off at an angle and reappearing in front of the defender, who by this time was pretty flummoxed in the matter of his whereabouts.

The reward, richly earned, was an opportunity to get to the ball first and poke it towards goal – a goal that, by this point, had been completely vacated by the goalkeeper, he also seemingly thrown by Solanke’s movement and not for one moment expecting a shot.

Solanke’s hard work continued, in a string of first-half dialogues with the burly Chelsea defender minding him, and that we were able to create – and miss – various presentable chances across the remainder of the match owed much to his behind-the-scenes beavering. So when Big Ange surveys the ever-mounting Inbox, he can at least allow his day to brighten with the cheery news that Solanke is still fighting the good fight pretty bobbishly.

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Spurs 1-1 Fulham: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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1. Dragusin

Radu Dragusin reminds me a little of Eric Dier. Now I suppose if you’re a particularly kindly soul, you may clasp your hands together in joy, a beaming smile across your map, and murmur, “Oh, how charming!” or something similar.

Unfortunately, if this were the case I’d have to step right in and cut you off mid-flow. The Dier-esque epithets I toss at Dragusin are hardly complimentary. Quite the opposite, in fact. This is not to suggest that Dragusin stank the place out from first bell to last. It’s more to suggest that so far in his lilywhite career he seems more brawn than brain, and specifically brawn of the slow-moving, slightly lumbering brand. Dier-esque, one might suggest.

And if you’re stroking the chin at that, I’d direct you towards yesterday’s offerings to ram home the point. In fact, I could direct you towards any one of Dragusin’s recent string of four or five games. Perhaps generously waving aside that Galatasaray game as an exceptionally off-night, his outputs have generally failed to inspire confidence. Admittedly he has, without fail, puffed out his chest, chewed his gum and certainly looked like one who considers himself master of all he surveys. But when it actually comes to the delivering as pledged, one does scrunch the face a little, and politely point out that he’s messing up some of the basics.

The early signs yesterday were promising enough, as his first major involvement was to shove out of possession some Fulham scamp who was trying to beat him for pace on the flank. In the appropriate context, Dragusin is clearly capable of applying some upper-body mass to lend force to an argument.

Not long afterwards, however, his Eric Dier Tribute Act really gathered momentum when he made a bit of a lunge around halfway. It was the sort of challenge which is fine in principle, but in practice does require a certain sharpness from the blocks. Dragusin, however, is not really the sort who can spring in lightning quick fashion from a standing start. I’m not sure he can spring in lightning quick fashion from a running start either, to be honest. Anyway, for whatever reason, the Fulham lad’s nipping away of the ball was carried out at a far quicker speed than Dragusin’s lunge, and Fulham were away.

I also noted that the two clear-cut chances Fulham made in the first half, were presented to the man who Dragusin, along with the ever-vacant Porro, was supposed to be monitoring.

So far, so Dier. What then emphasised the likeness in my eyes was a couple of his attempts to distribute the ball further north. These, quite simply, missed their target, gifting possession to Fulham around halfway and thereby prompting an about-turn from all in lilywhite.

Now it’s worth emphasising here that in criminally misdirecting passes of between 5 and 15 yards, Dragusin was by no means the sole culprit. It was indicative of a generally horrendous performance amongst the entire outfield mob that seemed utterly incapable of stringing a few basic passes together without the radar shutting down and the ball hitting a red shirt.

Nevertheless, this hardly excused Dragusin. Neither did it do much to instil confidence.

As mentioned above, this was not unadulterated filth from the chap throughout. He had good moments as well as bad, I simply noted a bit too much in the Debit column for my liking. He ended up with a big thick tick in the Credit column, however, with that stoppage-time clearance off the line after Ben Davies’ solid, retreating trundle saw him beaten for pace. As such, I suppose that as third or fourth-choice centre-back he’s competent enough. Moreover, it can take a good year or so for these foreign fellows to find their feet in the Premier League, so he might yet improve considerably. I just found myself shaking my head at him once too often yesterday, and recalling a former member of the parish.

2. Forster

AANP occasionally watches a spot of tennis to pass an idle hour, and one notion that occurred to me on seeing Andy Murray recently call time on his career, was that it was rotten luck for him to be born when he was. Not much he could have done about it of course. In my experience babies will often delay things for a week or two, for sport, but there’s not much scope for them to press pause for a whole decade. Not the done thing.

So Murray was stuck with the era in which popped up, and as such had to look on a little forlornly as three of the best players ever hoovered up most of the gongs. And in a roundabout way, having watched Fraser Forster pull off  a number of goal-worthy reflex saves that kept us in the game yesterday, the thought occurred that, in a different era, he too might have been feted one of the very best in the business.

Certainly his shot-stopping, in his couple of engagements so far, has been of the highest quality. In general too, being of sturdy construction and about fourteen feet tall, he deals with crosses in pretty dominant fashion. With such qualities to his name, had he sprung up in the 80s, 90s or 00s, for example, he might well have been regarded as one of the elite.

These days, however, the standard goalkeeper plucked from the street is expected first and foremost to pass from feet. From the back, and over short distances. Show composure and accuracy with the ball at your feet, seems to be the instruction, and the stuff with the hands can be tacked on later.

Gone are the days when the goalkeeper’s work was done upon having grasped the ball, and they could simply kick from their hands over halfway, and lean back against the goalpost for a snooze. If they can’t pass ten yards to their nearby colleagues, and occasionally bypass half the opposition with a 20-yarder through the lines, then they won’t get a look in.

When it comes to passing from feet, Forster actually competent enough, from what we see, but one wouldn’t really grade him any more highly than that. One or two of his passes yesterday did go a bit rogue and land at Fulham feet. I suppose one might argue that that can happen to the best of us from time to time, but the point is that he does not really come across as one whose greatest forte is as a ball-player.

To repeat, however, his saves won us a point yesterday. Due to a general air of incompetence from those around him, Fulham were allowed far too many efforts on goal, several of which were of the clear-cut variety, and at least two required Forster to churn out some point-blank stuff. And let’s face it, point-blank saves are as close as goalkeepers will get to scoring themselves.

3. Quite the Off-Day

Forster and his shot-stopping aside, it is difficult to muster up too much enthusiasm about any other individuals. Maddison beavered, and picked one or two passes that quickened the pulse, but one would only describe him as a constant menace, or something similar, if one had fingers crossed behind one’s back and a pretty guilty-looking expression etched across the face.

There some extenuating circumstances, for Solanke soldiers away like an absolute trooper when available – and one of those troopers who delights in getting covered with filth if it helps the collective – so his absence, and the unavailability of Richarlison, hamstrung us like nobody’s business. It might have been a day to start young Lankshear, but that’s not a grumble into which I’m going to put much lung-power. The lad still looks a tad undercooked.

Without a dominant focal point our lot were unable to hold up the ball, and generally seemed a bit lost as to what the point of the whole thing was once they gained possession. As front-threes go, it is difficult to imagine a more soft and delicate combo than Son, Werner and Johnson. One understands the decision to give Kulusevski a bit of a breather, but no Solanke or Richarlison about the place either, it left us frightfully lightweight in attack.

AANP has generally been pretty forgiving of Angeball and Our Glorious Leader. When we lose games having had 20 shots on goal, I’ll tend to shrug it off, on the grounds that, by and large, playing that way we’ll win (and handsomely so) more than we’ll lose/draw. Indeed, hearty batterings of various half-decent sides this season seem to bear that out.

Where the mood darkens, however, is when a general insipidity washes over the collective from start to finish. The fact that Fulham can beetle up to our place and conjure up more shots on target,  and slope off feeling aggrieved not to have won, is pretty troubling. As mentioned, generally when we fail to win it’s just because a stream of shots failed to find the net; but yesterday (and against Palace a month or two ago), darker forces were at work.

Bizarrely, we remain only 5 points off second, but if anything this hammers home the frustration of having dropped more eminently winnable points.

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Spurs match reports

Man City 0-4 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Kulusevski

If you ever spot Dejan Kulusevski sloping about the place, and you notice he looks a bit down on himself – gloomy expression, dragging his feet, that sort of thing – it turns out there is one thing absolutely guaranteed to buck him right up and set him skipping gaily down the street. You simply have to tell him that his next opponent will be Man City, and watch him burst into life like a firework that’s just been lit.

Quite what it is about that mob that puts the joys of spring into him is anyone’s guess. They’re one of the last teams I’d want to spend 90 minutes chasing around a field, but there we go. Once Kuluseski clocked whom it was he was up against, he went into absolute overdrive.

There have been times this season when one has speculated that the only thing that might stop Kulusevski in full flow is if he himself decides to stop. Certainly the opposition don’t get much say in it. Yesterday was an absolute prime case in point. If Kulusevski decided to put his head down and barrel his way across half the City team, they were powerless to intervene. Essentially, they were reduced to the role of decorative ornaments, scattered about the place for him to dance around.

Take that first goal. Dragusin began things by lofting a pass in his general direction, and there was not a great deal about it to arrest the attention. Nothing particularly wrong with it, mind. It was perfectly acceptable stuff. Neither, however, did it seem to be of much consequence. City had hardly been carved open. It was essentially a waft. Kulusevski, upon gathering the thing in, one suspected, would have to put in some elbow-grease if he wanted to generate any mileage from it.

But in the blink of an eye, this season’s new, supercharged iteration of the Swede had not just generated mileage, he’d set up an opportunity for Maddison that, if not quite on a plate, was about nine-tenths of the way there. In the first place he niftily turned infield, and then gave that Gvardiol fellow a friendly shove to clear the paths.

That might not sound like much, but if you’ve ever had the honour of drinking in the full dimensions of Gvardiol from close quarters, you’ll be aware that his physique has much about it of a sturdy tree trunk. To illustrate the point, if I were to try similarly attempt to hand off Gvardiol, I’d wager that I’d quite likely sprain a wrist, and possibly also bounce off him and over the advertising hoardings.  Kulusevski however, shoved him aside, and aside he remained. And this highlights one of the principal merits of the fellow: he’s a meaty young blighter.

We then benefited from a timely dart from Pedro Porro, up the right flank. While Kulusevski deemed this offer of assistance beneath him, that Gvardiol lump was sufficiently distracted to take a step or two to track the run. Kulusevski did not stop to enquire how that detour was treating him, but instead beavered infield into the vacant space.

At this point, one might report that he swung in a cross, and such an observation would, I suppose, hold up in court. Factually correct, I mean to say. Not a syllable of untruth contained therein.

And yet, simply to say this and no more would be to understate the thing like the dickens. It would be like stating that Van Gogh painted flowers. No denying it, but by golly you’d shoot an enquiring look and wonder when the juicy detail would kick in. So it was with Kulusevski’s cross, for it was a specimen of the highest order. One ought really to cart it at the next awards ceremony and give a short speech in its honour.

To give it its due acclaim, all the key mechanical elements could be ticked off for a start. That is to say it was of the appropriate height, and weight, and so forth. Layered upon all these, though, were what you might call the standout features. The cross was flighted perfectly over the head of the patrolling central defender, for example, removing from him the option of simply standing and heading clear, or even of leaping a foot or two and heading clear. It was one of those crosses that to all intents and purposes wiped the p.c.d. briefly from existence.

And having had requisite height to do what might be termed Part One of the operation, the cross then similarly ticked off Part Two, by dipping sufficiently so as to allow Maddison to meet it with a well-timed foot. Not too high, not bouncing awkwardly, not too far in front of him; but weighted just so.

On top of which, this was one of that eye-catching class of crosses that does not simply drop to someone’s feet, but is whipped into a vacant space. Now while further applause can be directed Kulusevski’s way, this aspect also requires a partner in the operation, who is tuned into the same wavelength, and is willing to gallop into the vacant space. And this was where Maddison chimed in so sensibly.

All these elements neatly flowed together, both Maddison and Kulusevski timing thing as if they’d been rehearsing for weeks. As will be expanded upon below, Maddison deserves top marks for his role in the drama, but the genesis of the goal, and frankly the whole victory, was brought by Kulusevski.

Thereafter, the chap simply would not be silenced. It was an odd sort of game, in that we could hardly be said to have had control of things, particularly in the first half and particularly when out of possession. We largely relied upon City to mangle their opportunities, rather than preventing them from having any. However, similarly, when we were in possession, we led City a pretty merry dance, and Kulusevski was at hub of most of our incisive work.

The third goal was another example of this. It should be emphasised that the goals lend themselves as rather obvious illustrations of his evening’s work, but his contribution was not limited to these and these alone. It was not the case that he bobbed up on these two occasions and clocked off for the remainder, content to loiter in the background and shirk his duties. Kulusevski was menace to City every time he gathered the ball.

The goals do stick in the memory though. The third started with the Swede embracing in his inner Maradona, and twisting the living daylights out of every City player in his path. The naked eye could barely follow what was happening, such was the twinkle-toed nature of his burst. His little dribble was all the more pleasing for leading eventually to a goal, for when such moments of trickery lead to naught they can sometimes be lost in the mists of time. On this occasion, however, having danced his way past several flummoxed opponents, Kulusevski then played a delicate one-two with Sonny before haring off down the left.

His pass for Solanke thereafter was actually probably a little overhit, but the latter did a solid job of recycling things, before Porro applied the finishing touch.

A couple of standout moments then, in an altogether rip-roaring outing from the chap. Once he gets going, there really is no stopping him.

2. Maddison

The other outstanding performance was posted by young Maddison, which I must admit surprised me a little. It was just about a year ago that the young imp hobbled off against Chelsea on that fateful nine-men-on-halfway evening, and since then he has looked decidedly short of the old pep. Bit of a shadow of his former self. Always happy enough to muck in, to his credit, but rarely doing too much to stop the casual observer in their tracks and have them mouthing, “By golly” or something similar.

Yesterday, however, Maddison returned to form; or, more accurately, it seemed to me, discovered two new and hitherto untapped areas of form, which he claimed as his own. What I mean is that previously, and in the first few months of his Tottenham career, back in the summer of 2023, Maddison seemed to strut about the place creating opportunities for others. He’d collect the ball in advanced positions and thread, this way and that, some passes of the exceptionally cunning variety. Creator-in-chief, one might say, and well we needed him.

Quite a different beast on show yesterday though. His goals, for a start, had about them much of the Scholes, Platt or Dele. The first in particular was a triumph for the fine but oft-neglected art of surging forward from midfield, reaching the edge of the area and then carrying right on with the surging. In a system such as ours, in which poor old Solanke can quite often be found knee-deep in build-up muck, a goodish distance from goal, all manner of bribes and incentives ought to be flung at the midfield posse to elevate to the top of their To-Do List the essential role of arriving in the area for scraps.

And Maddison did that yesterday like a pro. As elaborated upon above, Kulusevski played his part in that opening goal with aplomb, but it would have resulted in a sigh, a little pirouette on the spot and some further sideways and backwards rot, if Maddison had not carpe’d the diem.

Having bust a gut to get there, Maddison also deserves credit for controlling his volley, which I think is the technical term for those moments when one avoids lashing the ball over the bar and off into the thinner part of the atmosphere.

His role in the second goal was even better. When the press exerted by various chums brought about an errant City pass, Maddison seized upon it like a hyena who’s spotted one of the slower members of the Serengeti gang loping his way. In a trice Maddison had collected the ball, nor did he dawdle in shoving it at Sonny. Importantly, having shoved, Maddison did not stop to admire his work either, but was struck with the winning notion that he might as well race off to the other side of the area.

One exquisite Son flick later, and Maddison was in on goal; but if one were to sit back in one’s seat and opine that all he had left to do was tap the thing home and welcome the acclaim, one would need a pretty sharp correction.

For a start, travelling at pace, Maddison’s first touch needed to be top-tier stuff. Too soft and the ball would be left behind; too hard and it would bounce off him and away. He therefore did an impressive job of dragging it along with him, even while on the gallop. The sequel that immediately followed was even more impressive, for who amongst us does not enjoy a dinked finish over an onrushing goalkeeper? Credit, then, by the bucketful. I did not know he had such things in his armoury.

These goals having been despatched, Maddison then devoted the rest of his evening to produce from an entirely different genre altogether. He seemed to dust away all his attacking gear, and lock it in the attic for another day. The focus of the remainder of his evening was to collect the ball from Vicario and chums, in his own defensive third.

If you’ve regularly passed by this corner of the interweb you may know that AANP is not too hot on this business of playing out from the back. And when I say ‘not too hot’, I add a thick layer of scorn, and a pretty evil eye. Dashed nuisance, if you ask me. It regularly leads to us ceding possession in dangerous areas; and even when it does work, it rarely gets us as far as the halfway line.

Anyway, we were at it again yesterday, of course, so I took a deep breath and duly braced myself. However, what unfurled was arguably our finest hour and a half of peddling this building-from-the-back gubbins. It actually worked, pretty well and on repeated occasions. And there at the heart of it all was Maddison.

His juices presumably flowing like nobody’s business after his goals, every time we had a goal kick he availed himself of possession in the most precarious positions conceivable, right on the edge of his own area, and seemingly unfazed by the close attentions of City bods lurking on his shoulder. And I’ll be dashed if each and every time he did not successfully hold onto possession. He dipped his shoulder as appropriate and swerved away from danger, protecting the ball and finding a chum. It was an approach that absolutely dripped with risk, and yet Maddison pulled it off every time.

This was remarkable in itself, but it also meant that, having bobbed and weaved past the City press, he was able to set us off on our way, over halfway and on the counter-attack.

Whether or not he can do this every week we’ll have to wait and see I suppose, but yesterday he orchestrated things from deep like it was the role for which he had been preparing since birth.

3. Our Defence

With VDV and Romero still poorly, we had to make do with Davies and Dragusin at centre-back, and I suppose the record books will now show for eternity that the pair of them kept a clean-sheet, so well done them. However, that they did so, especially in the first 10 minutes or so, seemed to defy physics.

I touched earlier upon the peculiarity of this one, in terms of our lack of control in the first half in particular. If you happened to grab the Sunday morning papers and cast an eye over the score-line, you might well have cheerily assumed that City failed to lay a glove, given it not a moment’s further thought and duly flicked over to the Sudoku puzzle, a cheery whistle on your lips.

This, while understandable enough, would have been a wild misdiagnosis of events. City most certainly did lay gloves upon us. In fact, several of their punches landed and left us staggering drunkenly about the canvas – as, it should be pointed out, ours did them. Essentially, whichever team had the ball looked like they would score within two shakes of a lamb’s tail. That City didn’t owed a lot to some off-colour finishing, as well as an exceptional display of limb-extension (and at one point, torso-existence) from young Vicario.

Credit where due, in the second half our midfield five rolled up their sleeves and formed a tight unit in front of the defence. This seemed to cheese off the City mob sufficiently, forcing them off into all sorts of scenic routes on the peripheries. They still eked out a fair number of close-range chances, mind, any one of which, if converted, would have had the nervous glances firing in all directions. However, as the game wore on, and our goal tally racked upon, the light in their eyes rather died.

Few would have predicted that, after an opening 10 or so in which they trampled all over us. And while Davies and Dragusin undoubtedly drew short straws in having to face up to Haaland, Foden et al for this one, they didn’t exactly help themselves in those opening exchanges.

Haaland missed two pretty straightforward knockings early on. The first of which emanated from Davies darting forward to win the ball high up, missing the ball, and duly finding himself out of position while City went on the charge. When the ball eventually squirted out to Haaland he had the freedom of the penalty area, but oddly decided to pause and reflect on things, in which time Davies was able to scamper back and effect a block.

Full marks for scampering back and blocking, of course, but the whole episode might have been avoided with better judgement earlier on in the piece. (A quiet chiding here, too, for Bissouma, for not having the presence of mind to step back into Davies’ vacant spot and fill in for him when he disappeared a-wandering.)

Not to be outdone, a minute or two later Dragusin pulled an identical trick, lunging for the ball and finding himself kicking at thin air as Savio tootled away. Again, no ill transpired, but the omens hardly filled one to the gills with confidence.

Thereafter, at least, the pair had the decency to keep their noses clean. It is only fair to applaud them for sticking to the task for the remainder, and without huge alarm. As mentioned, we did still rely on Vicario an awful lot, but one imagines the pair of them will feel a heck of lot better for having a clean-sheet to their name, against that lot of all lots.

And ultimately, with a tip of the cap to Herr Werner for doing what very few have ever done before, and skinning Kyle Walker, we rode off into the sunset with one of the finest score-lines of the Postecoglou era.

Of course, none of it counts, as Rodri was injured, and that simply is not fair on City; but is there anything more maddeningly Spurs-esque, than to lose at home to Ipswich, before travelling to City and hammering them? Marvellously entertaining, of course, and if we ever stumble upon some consistency we’ll be a heck of a force to be reckoned with, but for now I try not to think of whatever shock defeat is forthcoming, and simply enjoy the moment.

Need a Christmas stocking-filler for the Spurs-supporter in your life? Keep your eyes peeled, for a new AANP book will soon be arriving on this site.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Ipswich: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Neither Good Nor Dreadful

AANP is one of those peculiar coves who is happiest when things are put in their proper place. I always like to put a label on a thing, if possible. Just find it makes life a bit simpler. And armed with that inside info you may well imagine me brooding away like nobody’s business as I trudged my way up the White Hart Lane station steps yesterday, because this performance seemed neither one thing nor another.

Our finest hour it most definitely was not. No doubt on that front. A home defeat to the team bottom of the pile will automatically be classified as a clanger, no matter how much one dresses it up. Three points lost in the wind. (I’m rather astonished to note, if anyone needed a dash more salt rubbed into the wound, that victory would somehow have sent us up to third over the international break.)

However, as I pored over the performance minute by minute, I was hardly the exasperated ball of frustration that one can often be in these instances. This was not one of those afternoons the majority of which our heroes spent rather gormlessly switching play from left to right and back again, ad infinitum, pausing only to scratch their heads and shrug their shoulders. Admittedly this was not a procession of clear-cut opportunities either, but our lot did work their way into the area on a fairly regular basis.

In the first half this tended to take the form of overly intricate little one-twos, which, let’s face it, are always a bit of an ask. Solanke would eye-of-a-needle it through to Kulusevski, who duly tried to e-o-a-n it straight back to him, and all the while Ipswich legs appeared in every available space, making the whole thing play out like one of those zombie shows one sees on the tellybox, in which the undead crowd around in ever-increasing numbers until there’s nowhere left to turn and one finds oneself in quite the pickle.

Even so, with a bit more of the sniper’s eye we might have had some winnings, with Sonny setting up Johnson for a straightforward chance in the opening minutes, Sonny himself having a ping after having taken the mazy route, and then Solanke’s turn and shot drawing a save, all in that first half. Not clear-cut stuff by any means, but I was at least heartened that we were finding routes to goal by various means.

The main issue, particularly in that first half, seemed to be that the final pass was inadvertently bisecting the relevant souls in lilywhite – which, depending on your point of view was rotten luck or careless distribution – but either way, it suggested that the problem was not any particular lack of imagination.

And similarly in the second half, while there was still an imbalance in the old perspiration-inspiration ratio, I thought our lot nevertheless at least looked interested. One got the sense that if you were to wander onto the pitch and tap one of them on the shoulder, they would have waved you away with some irritation, perhaps calling out as they raced off, “Not now Rupert, or Helga, or whatever your name is, I’m trying to dig out a goal from somewhere.”

The point I’m driving at is that while I’ve certainly seem more lip-smacking fare peddled at the shiny new stadium, this at least was not one of those numbers in which everyone looked thoroughly bored and uninterested. This was not Palace away.

2. Dragusin

After his midweek heroics the AANP eye was inextricably drawn towards Radu Dragusin’s every move yesterday, a morbid fascination seizing me. And when he opened his account by losing his bearings in the opening minute, mistiming a header and then seeming to forget where he was or what he was supposed to be doing, I clenched every muscle and withheld breath.

Fortunately, however, thereafter he gave evidence that those around him had had a quiet word in the ear, because of his atrocious attempts to dribble out from defence there was not a whiff. “Just give a simple pass, Radu, and keep your head down,” was evidently the instruction hammered home to him non-stop since Thursday night. In terms of playing out from the back, he did at least avoid any seismic catastrophe.

One might even suggest that his was a performance worthy of a third-choice centre-back. He loosely adopted the correct coordinates, and did not go to ground or hack at a limb or make any other species of appalling and unnecessary defensive howler.

I’m even happy to exonerate him for the second goal, a routine that many of his detractors might have seized upon and gleefully labelled Exhibit A. As far as I can see Dragusin adopted a sensible enough position to block a square pass, and was just unfortunate that Vicario shoved the ball at him from a yard away. Not much any sizeable Romanian can do about that sort of circumstance. (If anything, I chide Romero, for having pulled his usual party-trick of abandoning his post to charge 5 yards upfield and try to win a tackle, leaving a gap behind him into which Ipswich duly trotted.)

Dragusin, however, was far from blameless throughout. For the opening goal he took a leaf out of the Romero book and went wandering off to the left flank. One dishes out a generous dollop of understanding here, as this was the little mini-passage of play into which he’d been sucked, so it made some sense for him to trust his colleagues to cover behind him while he tried to tie down an end.

However, as Ipswich then readied a cross from their right, it was Dragusin’s responsibility to block off this route, and here his efforts rather fell off a cliff. Instead of charging at the man lining up the cross, his gigantic frame extending in all directions, he merely stood where he was and half-turned his body. ‘Perfunctory’ might be the term to describe his input. A token gesture at best. Certainly not the action of a man whose life depends upon preventing a cross.

And lest he think onlookers consider this the only blot on his escutcheon, he has another think coming, because when Ipswich twice came within a whisker of taking the lead in the early stages, on both occasions one could grab the nearest spotlight and swivel it in Dragusin’s direction. The save Vicario had to make inside the first minute was prompted by a Dragusin mistake up by halfway on the left; and a few minutes later when one of their bimbos looped a header against the bar from a corner, he did so having shuffled far too easily goal-side of Dragusin.

Individual defensive ability is hardly the forte of any of our back-four, so one cannot exactly lock him in a cell and throw away the key; but equally he has done little so far to suggest that in him we have stumbled upon a rock-steady reserve.

3. Porro

A curious little blighter young Porro, if ever I saw one. I banged a drum on these pages a few weeks back (after the Brighton match, if memory serves) about how our defenders seem to be more concerned with – and adept at – attacking, rather than defending. Yesterday, Porro set about his business as if determined to take every going opportunity to reinforce that particular point.

Of his attacking prowess the examples were plentiful and strong. Most notably, he won the corner from which we scored, with a little burst that was a decent cocktail of enterprise and skill. He received the ball from a throw, which admittedly was not much to write home about, but then nutmegged his man, accelerated away from him to emphasise the point and then sent in the sort of cross for which any half-decent striker yearns, all pace and curl.

This raid was duly headed behind for a corner, but Porro then continued his good work by delivering this into a cracking spot, on the corner of the six-yard box at the near post, and with enough pace and height for Bentancur simply to have to angle his neck in order to score.

Porro was similarly sprightly in other offensive raids, either in swinging in crosses, playing through-balls or on one occasion volleying with pinpoint accuracy from right to left, to switch play with an almighty diagonal. Nothing but fat ticks against his name in an attacking sense, then.

However, inevitably, at the back Porro gave every impression of being the young cad who skipped class on Defence Lesson Day. Every time Ipswich sought to sally forward they were well-advised to target our right, because if anyone were in the market for crosses you could bet a tidy sum that Porro would do little to prevent them. For Porro, it seemed sufficient to run alongside his opposing winger, and if a little additional window dressing were required, he might even be persuaded to extend an unthreatening leg. That, however, was clearly his limit. Run alongside and stick out a purely symbolic leg, and thereafter he could clock off, and assume the role of spectator with the best seat in the house.

Neither has it escaped AANP’s attention quite how many goals we concede from blighters left to their own devices in what one might term the Porro area of the six-yard box, when a cross comes in from the other side. Yesterday was a case in point, other examples this season abound.

Johnson can be hauled in at this juncture for a bit of a lashing, he failing to prevent Ipswich’s opener with a timid reluctance to engage that was the most quintessentially Spurs-like challenge imaginable; but Porro rarely seems to offer much value in those scenarios. Not for the first time yesterday, one sunk one’s head into one’s hands and yearned for defenders who can actually defend.

4. Werner

In closing, a brief word on Herr Werner, for a cameo of which I had not thought him capable. His performances, and specifically his one-on-one misses, so far this season, have rather forcefully created the impression that here is a left-winger not quite fit for purpose. Hear the name Timo Werner, and the Pavlovian reaction has been to groan.

I’m full of willing for the chap to succeed of course, and dutifully gave him the polite hand when he wobbled on with 20 or so left yesterday, but to say the heart leapt at the sight of him would be embellishing things somewhat.

Werner, however, seemed to approach matters yesterday like a man if not quite transformed then certainly pretty invigorated. It helped, I suppose, that he was not presented with a straightforward chance and an age in which to convert it. Instead, his afternoon primarily consisted of wing play on the left, and in this respect he was pretty impressive just about every time he received the ball. I was mightily bucked by the whole thing.

Specifically, he seemed capable of beating his man for pace every time the urge gripped him; and these successes were typically followed up by a selection of pretty impressive crosses into the six-yard sort of vicinity. Pedro Porro no doubt looked on admiringly.

Moreover, Werner even had the gumption to cut infield and unleash a solid shot or two. These in particular had me rubbing the eyes, but I suppose it just goes to show what one neat and tidy goal against Man City will do to a man. Just a shame that he leant back and skied his big opportunity near the end, after linking up with Sonny on the left, but, perhaps because the bar of expectation was so low, his seemed a surprisingly positive contribution.

Of course, a few good crosses from Timo Werner does little to soften the broader blow. Not for the first time this season our heroes have followed a mightily impressive win with a pretty exasperating loss, the sum of which is a fair old amount of head-scratching, punctuated by some wistful looks at the league table.

AANP is a big fan of the notion that goal difference is a handy indicator of how a team plays, and by that metric our attacking, in general, is pretty hot stuff once we’re up and running. The simplicity with which we ship in goals at the other end, however, will have a frown etched over the dial for the coming weeks, make no mistake.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-1 Man City: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. A Tip of the Cap Towards the Team Selection

You may be surprised to know that prior to this one AANP was feeling pretty sanguine about our prospects. Those who encountered me pre-kick-off would have gasped at the air of quiet confidence that I radiated. Not so much on account of anything going on at N17, mind, as much as being due to the previous declaration from Pep that he considered the Carabao Cup beneath him and was only going to sit through it because contractually obliged. I paraphrase somewhat, but that’s the gist, and as such I went into this one thinking we might oil our way through in credit.

And we did precisely that, which is pretty ripping. The fact that our heroes, to a man, saw fit to input every last drop of perspiration was simultaneously warming and mildly depressing. Warming, for obvious reasons. One wants to win. One wants to beat Man City. One wants some dashed silverware in one’s mitts. Working off one’s socks helps bring to fruition such heady projects.

The depressing aspect was that all this honest industry was so conspicuously absent on Sunday. Far be it from me to cast aspersions, but it was almost as if our lot were infinitely more motivated for a match against the reigning champions of the land than against some winless mob in the relegation zone. Slanderous stuff I know, but I’d be deceiving my public if I swore that such a thought had not crossed my mind.

However, experience has taught me that nobody likes the chap who punctuates a merry shindig with a gloomy anecdote or two about life’s ills, so I’ll let that particular topic lie. The hot topic of discussion is that last night we triumphed, and thanks in no small part to the ceaseless endeavour of all involved.

One striking aspect was that this was one of those rarely-spotted binges in which our lot were largely starved of possession. Not by design, I’d suggest, Our Glorious Leader never knowingly advocating an approach of surrendering the ball and sitting deep, but such was the ability of the City mob that from about the half-hour mark onwards, Mother Nature seemed to shrug her shoulders and decide that that was how life was to be.

So a different sort of assignment for our heroes, but in this respect I rather thought that Ange nailed his team selection. Game by game I imagine he does a spot of the old inner monologuing on the topic of James Maddison, and in this instance the decision to leave him in the pews and start with more defensive-minded crows about the place was a sound one. Pretty obvious, granted, but sound nevertheless.

I also liked the idea of Johnson, Kulusevski and Werner being unsheathed for battle from the off. I possibly pay Ange too much credit here again, for I’m not sure there was a massive abundance of alternatives, but the pace of these two – rather than, for example, the gentler bobbing of Richarlison – seemed another of those moves that one greets with a sage tap of the nose. For if this were indeed to be a game in which we were to be forced deep and starved somewhat of possession, then pairs of legs as quick as the wind itself were a pretty essential piece of kit to pack.

And thus it transpired. Angeball is not traditionally a system designed for counter-attacks, but when need arises Messrs J., K. and W. can whizz away up the pitch like the best of them, and that opening goal was a triumph for all disciples of the art. There should have been a couple more in the second half too, the strategy of soaking up pressure and then haring away like the wind proving a dolly of a scheme. 

While we rode our luck at times at the back, both the setup and the attitude were spot-on, and if there were a few self-satisfied back-pats and smirks in the changing room afterwards then they’d have had the AANP blessing.

2. Timo Werner

To describe Timo Werner as ‘Much-maligned’ is to undercook things so severely one risks a salmonella outbreak. The honest fellow remains admirably backed by manager, players and fans, but the groans that accompany each duffed finish are pretty audible, as is the exasperated chatter in the immediate aftermath, as the dust settles and we all vent to our neighbour.

And in that context, Werner’s performance in general, and goal in particular, gave the insides a pretty warming glow. One would have needed to possess a particularly stony heart not to have wanted to serve oneself a generous splash and toasted his moment of success.

Starting with his goal, there has been not so much a mere train of thought as one of those lightning quick contraptions that whizzes through Japan, suggesting that part of Werner’s problem is that he has too much time to think in front of goal. And here AANP empathises. Click the fingers at AANP and ask him to pick A or B, and it’s a done deal, lickety-split; suggest to AANP that he can take a second or two to mull it over and he’ll crack open a spreadsheet and overthink like the dickens.

Werner’s recent history of goalscoring opportunities is choc-full of examples of him sticking data in spreadsheets rather than simply making a choice and pulling the trigger. Yesterday’s opportunity, however, seemed almost to straddle the line between the two scenarios.

On the one hand it could be argued that he did not have time to take more than one touch. The ball arrived, a defender hove into view – if an orchestra had been present they’d have skipped the gentle build-up and gone straight to the roaring crescendo. In such circumstances, the decisions were largely made for Werner, and he cracked the thing home with aplomb.

On the other hand, though, the delivery from Kulusevski took just about long enough to reach Werner that the latter did have time for a few disturbing scenarios to flit to mind and torment him a bit. There was just sufficient time for him to have considered shooting at the near post, or even to have considered taking an additional touch to see what new adventure would follow.

In short, this was not entirely in the realm of the instinctive tap-in. Werner had his opportunity to overthink things, and it is to his credit that he used that time rather more productively – specifically to adjust his body-shape – before finishing like a consummate professional.

And thereafter, for his remaining hour or so, I thought he did a decent enough job of things. The chance he missed in the second half, when he sprinted from halfway, was only a couple of inches off target, although admittedly he also put another one a lot further wide, and stuck one down the ‘keeper’s gullet in the first half.

But in other respects he pootled about handily, putting some height and whip on his crosses, making good use of his pace and certainly indicating some smart thinking when it came to linking up with colleagues, even if his execution was at times slightly off.

Man of the match stuff it was not, but within a counter-attacking unit this was pretty solid fare, and arguably more than Johnson offered on the right. One hopes that the goal might settle him down a tad for any similar upcoming scenarios, and given that that particular demon has for now been exorcised one also rather hopes that his injury is nothing too severe, not least with Sonny and Odobert similarly bandaged up.

3. Archie Gray

Another midweek game, another viewing of the Archie-Gray-at-Right-Back experiment, and, not wanting to be too damning, I’m struggling to see where this is all leading. The most useful conclusion I could draw was that the medical gang ought to give Djed Spence a couple of extra rehab sessions each week to get him back up and running, because whatever commendations one showers upon young Gray, “Masterful right-back” is unlikely to be amongst them.

The left-winger against whom Gray was pitting his wits was known in the registry office as Matheus Nunes, and while apparently not in the running for the recent Ballon d’Or, he was nevertheless evidently the sort of chump who knew his beans. A good test for any aspiring right-back, one would suggest. I dare say that even Pedro Porro would have had a task on his hands keeping the blighter under wraps, so in many ways this was the perfect way to check up on the nous of young Gray in this position.

Alas, for the most part, Nunes had Gray on toast. No aspersions whatsoever cast upon young Gray for effort, the lad hitting a solid 10 on that front. And there were occasional, fleeting moments in possession, particularly in the second half, when he demonstrated the sound touch and technique that have marked him out as a bit of a one for the central midfield positions.

But on this day of all days young Gray needed to be on his mettle defensively, and even with Brennan Johnson dutifully doubling up, that Nunes creature seemed to have the measure of the left wing, happy to waltz through and get up to mischief whenever the whim seized him.

I’m not sure which of Gray and Johnson deserves the Jabbing Finger of Blame for the goal conceded, but even aside from that, this was pretty inauspicious stuff from the former. Staple it together with the recent Europa displays, and the body of evidence begins to take a bit of shape, like a liquid metal terminator going through its reforming motions. Something begins to emerge, and early indications are that it’s not overwhelmingly encouraging.

I suppose for the purposes of early-stage Cup jousts we can probably get away with the ultimate Square Peg at right-back, but if this is the option to consider in the eventuality of a significant Pedro Porro injury, then I fancy I’ll emit a pretty audible gulp and start looking frantically about the place for alternatives.

4. Richarlison

I probably ought to pay a little tribute to Kulusevski for his incessant beavering; or tip the cap towards Bentancur for a display as useful as it was busy; or use far more words than are necessary to make the point that Dragusin has yet to convince me as first reserve at centre-back; or note that Johnson’s flick in the build-up to the opening goal was exquisite, but that that aside his distribution was pretty unremarkable – but I won’t.

And in large part the reason is that no matter how hard I tried to concentrate on matters elsewhere, the gaze was repeatedly drawn back to Richarlison.

I should emphasise that, in a pretty thrilling turn of events, I come to praise Mr R., not to bury him. Well, ‘praise’ might be a bit heavy, as it’s difficult to get past that late miss of his, but when I mentioned I was not here to bury him I spoke sooth. I suppose my sentiment towards him last night was one of fascination. I couldn’t quite make up my mind about him.

For a start, I’m not sure left wing is really the role for which he was knitted while forming in the womb; but then when one sees the calamitous mess he makes of finishing, one is hardly inclined to advocate he patrols the centre-forward position.

However, all that said, he actually took to the task of being representative of the left side of attack with surprisingly good humour last night. At one point he produced a trick of the feet of which I would not have believed him capable in a thousand years of trying, to skip past an opponent and set us on the counter – and nor was this an isolated incident, he turning into quite the useful conduit for transforming defence into attack out on the left, as well as taking every opportunity to muck in with the lads at the back, chasing down City players like a canine who’d spotted a particularly enticing stick.

All of which might sound pretty encouraging stuff to the uninitiated, but rather irritatingly several of Richarlison’s best-laid plans slightly nose-dived when it came to the end-product, he more than once spotting the perfect pass but then failing to execute just so.

Ad then there was the miss, from the opportunity gifted to him by a most errant throw from City. With the goalkeeper as taken aback as everyone else in the arena, and therefore a little slow to dash from his line, it’s not too great an exaggeration to suggest that the entire goal was gaping. Left and Right seemed the key options, looming large ahead of Richarlison. They appeared to be the safe zones. Either of those rough ball-parks, and the ‘keeper was out of the game. Basically, the only thing to avoid doing, to guarantee a goal and safe passage to the next round, was to jab the ball straight at the goalkeeper.

So of course, Richarlison, being Richarlison, ignored all of the above, snatched at the chance and struck the ball at the feet of the goalkeeper like a cricketer shying at the stumps. It should not detract completely from the fact that his was a bright and breezy cameo, contributing in defence as well as attack, but nevertheless. When you’re a forward, and in the dying moments you have presented to you on a platter a chance to win the game and be the hero, conventional wisdom dictates that you don’t mess around.

Merrily, it did not cost, and nor did any of the other misses scattered about the place. This whole business of failing to bury eminently presentable chances is an absolute nuisance – and may ultimately end up as the epitaph on the managerial gravestone of Ange – but in a pleasing break from tradition, this time at least, it did not rob us of the win.

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Spurs match reports

Palace 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. A Rotten Performance

I’m not inclined to believe too many of George Orwell’s footballing opinions, he having been a fan of the Woolwich, but he certainly stumbled upon one truth when he rambled on about all defeats being equal but some being more equal than others (or something close to that). For AANP will accept some losses with a pretty casual shrug of the shoulders – the 2-1 defeat at Newcastle for example, or the 1-1 at Leicester (which no doubt pedants will point out wasn’t a defeat, letting technicalities get in the way of a good argument).

And the reason for such equanimity in the face of defeat is that if it’s the sort of game in which our heroes could reasonably have expected to score four or five, but somehow only managed one, then AANP will not be too concerned, as more often than not those sort of performances will bring wins.

Yesterday’s, however, was a different kettle of fish altogether, and as a result the usual sunny AANP disposition has clouded over like the dickens. Had we hammered away at the Palace goal only to be sucker-punched against the run of play, there would have been merely a philosophical rumination or two over the evening bourbon. “Onwards”, would have been the gist of the dialogue. Not the end of the world. Not too many adjustments needed.

But this was not one of those occasions.

I thought that by and large, our lot stank the place out yesterday. There may have been a token show of resistance in the final 20, but anything other than a Palace would win would have been quite the misrepresentation of events. The energy of their attacking mob in pressing us in and around our own penalty area frankly put us to shame. The Palace players simply seemed infinitely more motivated.

By contrast, the approach of most in lilywhite smacked of a dubious concoction that, from my vantage point, appeared to be approximately one third complacency and two thirds absence of interest. This calculating of the proportions occurred as I watched our defensive cohort dozily gift the ball to Palace before reaching the halfway line for about the hundredth time in that dreadful first half, the mindset seeming to be that it was simply too much like hard work on a sunny Sunday afternoon to get the head down and buzz about the place with any semblance of diligence. Far easier, was the impression given, simply to waft a pass into the loose vicinity of a teammate, and let the two clubs’ respective league positions take care of the rest.

In order to make this point crystal clear, our heroes conceded a goal that exemplified in one neat take all that was wrong about their performance. Romero dwelt on the ball inside his own area for an age despite the looming presence of two Palace forwards, before declaring that this sort of fare was beneath him, and casually floating a pass across his own area and into the loose radius of VDV.

In mitigation, VDV did not give the air of one who was delighted to be in receipt of a pass bouncing across his body inside his own area, but even he then passed on the opportunity simply to clear the thing, instead allowing the ball to continue bouncing and then deciding that this was as good a moment as any to stop focusing on the game and instead start dwelling on some of life’s other, unrelated mysteries.

The Palace laddie in attendance was only too pleased to let VDV have his quiet time, and generously relieved him of the ball so he could really crack on without distraction. The next stage in the disaster was the input of the cross from the right, Messrs Romero and Porro admirably deciding that this was an appropriate cue for them to give some semblance of concern, but without checking on what the other was doing, or indeed on the whereabouts of the most prolific Palace striker on the pitch (Mateta). Instead, both rushed towards the ball and young Eze, who promptly took both of them out of the game with a flick towards the aforementioned Mateta, who himself then took advantage of the freedom of the six-yard box to score.

As mentioned, if the self-inflicted genesis of all this had been anomalous and out of keeping with general proceedings I’d have done a quick tour of the place with rallying cries of “Chin up, gents, what?” and encouraging ruffles of the hair. But instead I folded the arms and adopted the unamused expression of a bulldog that’s just chewed a wasp. AANP was deeply unamused.

The incompetence in playing out from the back continued religiously, laced with our chronic inability to win a 50-50 challenge, and by the second half Palace were shooting from all angles, and really ought to have added to their lead.

Oddly enough we nevertheless fashioned two or three presentable chances of our own in each half, but the rhythm of the piece was firmly established long before the credits rolled, and even had we slunk out of South London with a point the AANP mood would have been one best avoided.

At whom the finger of blame should point is therefore the next question, and while the players undoubtedly deserve a docking of extortionate wages and some brief but memorable physical admonishment to boot, Our Glorious Leader also needs a few stern words aimed in his direction.

I’m firmly in the Postecoglou camp, as there has been enough to suggest we should handsomely beat most teams, and do so entertainingly, but the mentality about the place emanates from the top, and if the players on the pitch are simply mooching their way through 90 minutes without urgency or care then a jabbing of an angry towards the manager is only right. Win another seven of our next eight and AANP will be content enough, but frequent displays of this impotence and the disapproving eyebrow will be well and truly arched.

2. Mikey Moore: The Sequel

I don’t know if you’ve ever experienced the talkies, but AANP finds them a most riveting form of entertainment, and if there happens to be an evening without football will quite often seek one out to pass the time. And one aspect of these motion pictures that I’ve noticed is that if one of them constitutes a thoroughly entertaining two-or-so hours, the boffins behind such fare will sure enough paste together another one for general consumption, but – and here’s the rub – more often than not, the sequel will not match the original for quality.

There are, of course, exceptions. Terminator 2 and Aliens, I would suggest, stand peerlessly in the AANP pantheon of greats, and both are sequels that arguably top the original. But for every Terminator 2 there’s a Die Hard 2 – or, come to think of it a Terminator 3, 4, 5 or 6 – viz. a sequel that comes nowhere near the thrilling quality of the first.

And it was armed with this knowledge that AANP peered cautiously over the teamsheet and drank in the inclusion of Mikey Moore as a starter. Because, for the benefit of those who have been living under an N17 rock the last four or five days, young Master M’s left-wing bow against AZ in midweek had been about as spiffing as this sort of thing gets, all youthful exuberance and slaloming runs, and a decent amount of end-product too for good measure.

It would have been pretty tempting therefore, to expect the same and more yesterday, from the off. Make oneself comfortable and feast the eyes upon another Mikey Moore highlights reel, would go the narrative.

Knowing what I know about sequels, however, I demonstrated what generations hence will respectfully term admirable restraint, and duly convinced myself that perhaps only nineteen of every twenty attempted dribbles by the lad would result in havoc in the Palace defence and wild applause from the travelling lilywhite continent.

It would be easy to castigate MM’s performance, it having failed to bear fruit and having ended with his unceremonious abstraction on 60 minutes, but despite one pointed concession of possession in the first half that almost brought Palace some joy down their right, I thought he was one of our best performers in the first half. The bar here is admittedly so low that passing earthworms would pause and consider the odds, but nevertheless, I maintain that he fared pretty well when opportunity allowed.

On a couple of occasions he set off infield and beat a two or three players before being hacked to earth; and on a couple of other occasions he played well weighted passes into space on the left for Udogie and Maddison to race onto. That was admittedly pretty much it in terms of his highlights reel, but with everyone else in lilywhite generally misfiring I thought that this constituted a decent enough contribution. Nowhere near the level of the original, but taken on its own it had some memorable moments. Predator 2, if you will.

As a curious aside, and in the interests of fairness, I also thought that Herr Werner made a decent stab of things once he emerged from exile. While not exactly rip-roaring he did cause his opposing full-back a few problems, and also swung in a couple of crosses that arguably deserved better than simply disappearing down the gullet of the ‘keeper. I mention this purely because I bang on about the chap every time he stuffs things up in front of goal. Only fair, what?

3. Richarlison

There were not too many other notable contributions, most individuals fitting neatly within the stale, all-encompassing headline of the dreary team performance. Pedro Porro showed his attacking chops, in the second half in particular, reminding me that deep within his Angeball-moulded, inverted model there lies a traditional, touchline-hugging full-back. Solanke continues to show more value around halfway than in the opposition area. Any good that Bissouma did with ball at his feet seemed to me to be negated by his inability to provide useful protection when we were out of possession (in marked contrast to that Wharton lad for Palace, who would be advised to make a living out of snuffing out opposition attacks at source).

But one depressing thought that sprung to mind was that Richarlison is simply not up to the level we require. Why this thought chose yesterday to worm its way into my consciousness is anyone’s guess – yesterday’s was hardly his worst showing in lilywhite, and the unfortunate young chestnut is still short of match fitness and whatnot. More pertinently, there were at least a dozen others who underwhelmed massively and have had far more chances to prove themselves good enough.

But watching him scurry enthusiastically before finally missing his kick, or overhitting his kick, or in some other way failing to execute effectively the kicking part of football, just made me realise that we’ve persevered with him for quite some time now, and he’s not really improved a jot since Day One.

At some point last season – I think the point at which he inadvertently trod on the ball on halfway and fell over – it was suggested to me that he might have the worst technique of any Brazilian footballer in history. Now I must confess to having lacked the willpower to conduct the research necessary to verify that claim; but the gist has stuck with me. His touch is pretty off, what?

I have in the past peddled the line that one Harry Kane has an oddly poor touch – by which I mean that if you subject him to inspection you’ll note that the ball regularly bounces off him as if it were being thrown against a wall – but this is more than compensated for by his extraordinary goalscoring, range of passing, ability to shield the ball, winning of free-kicks, ability with both feet, ability with head, penalty-taking and various other assets. Richarlison, however, seems to possess much of the wall, but precious few of those redeeming features.

It certainly made sense to throw on a second striker yesterday, one understood the logic inside and out. And Richarlison does have physical presence, and fits neatly within the prescribed system of pressing high and expending bundles of energy. But give him the ball, or ask him to go fetch, and things start to break down. And amidst everything else that went wrong yesterday, I became aware of the notion that I had had rather enough of the wretched fellow.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 4-1 West Ham: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Kulusevski

One of those knowledgeable sorts once told me, “There’s no ‘i’ in ‘team’”, which I suppose is true enough if you’re going to be linguistically pedantic about these things, and looking back I suspect that if I’d bothered to hear any more of what they had to say they may well have continued, “And there’s a dashed sight less creativity and energy in that same team if there’s no Dejan Kulusevski contained therein”.

This seemed to be an epithet taken to heart by the magnificent Swede himself yesterday, for he swanned about the place with all the majesty of a man upon whom has been the thrust the personal responsibility to conduct the afternoon’s entertainment.

Apart from what one might call his measurable outputs – goals, assists, chances created and so forth – I was particularly taken by the sheer joy with which Kulusevski seemed to oil about the place. Here was a big kid in the playground, who, upon receiving the ball, simply wanted to dribble towards goal (and, if at all possible, round the ‘keeper before stopping the ball on the goal-line, crouching down and heading it in along the ground).

If an opponent were in his way then all the better, or so seemed the Kulusevski mantra, as this merely presented an opportunity for him to reach into his box of tricks in order first to bamboozle and then to remove from consideration said opponent. Accordingly, he could be spotted dipping a shoulder, shimmying in between flailing opposition legs or simply using what I suppose you could call his trademark combo of pace and strength to bulldoze his way through trouble and off into space.

While there were decent contributions from the supporting cast – Sonny and Johnson certainly got into the spirit of things and played the game, in terms of contributions to the build-up or attempts to finish off the manoeuvres – Kulusevski was the pulse that beat at a merry old pace throughout.

Too often over the years a well-meaning lilywhite has received the ball just over halfway, with opportunity spreading itself in front of him, only for him to put his foot on the ball, have a bit of a think and play a neat but meaningless pass that does little to speed things along. By contrast, the present iteration of Kulusevski seems inhabited by a spirit of adventure that dictates that on receiving the ball he’ll charge towards goal, all else be damned. And who amongst us cannot cheer to the rafters such a cavalier approach?

A tip of the cap to the man as well, for the precision of his strike for our equaliser. I don’t doubt that there are some who would scoff, and label him lucky for having utilised both posts in striking gold; as one who regularly berates our heroes for missing the target rather than sympathising with them for lack of luck whenever they hit a post (I’m looking at you, Sonny – hit the target and I’ll laud you), I’m happy to lavish praise upon anyone whose shot has such precision as to strike first the left upright and then the right-hand one too before trickling in.

2. All Hail The Great Half-Time Tactical Switch

Much has been made of Our Glorious Leader’s half-time toggling of the knobs, with Maddison yanked from the stage and young P. M. Sarr shoved on in his stead. In fact, the adulation for this move has been pretty startling. To say that the corridors of the shiny THFC Stadium are still strewn with yesterday’s garlands is not to overstate things too dramatically. One could not jab a finger in the phonebook without it pointing towards someone queueing up to praise Big Ange for that Maddison-off-Sarr-on routine.

Truth be told, however, the AANP eyebrow has being raised skyward on a surge of bemusement and surprise at this particular element of the post mortem. I should probably whisper it, but I thought we were doing pretty well in the first half anyway, and was fairly confident that we would score more in the second half if the personnel had remained the same. Conventional wisdom over the last 24 or so hours seems to be that Kulusevski was practically impotent until Sarr was introduced to sit (I use the term loosely, as Sarr is the sort of young twig whose energy levels mean he can go about 48 hours non-stop without needing a sit-down) alongside Bissouma, and it was only thereafter that the Swede was able to cast aside his shackles and really impose himself.

Now this is a pretty violent desecration of history. Kulusevski was having an absolute whale of a time from the off, and didn’t seem to mind or care too much whether he had stationed to the rear James Maddison, Pape Sarr or Steve Sedgley. In fact, the entire attacking mob were on their mettle in that first half. Sonny, Johnson, Solanke, the so-called full-backs – everyone who could, was, if you follow my gist.

Come to think of it, the only member of the attack who wasn’t scooping up great armfuls of attacking goodies in that first half was possibly Maddison himself – not a particular criticism of him, as last time out at Brighton he dovetailed quite neatly with Kulusevski, as the deeper of the two attacking midfielders, but yesterday he seemed slightly neutered in what was presumably supposed to be a deep-lying creative role.

Anyway, all of the above makes me wonder if the fables of Sarr’s arrival releasing Kulusevski’s inner Maradona were actually just dubious media constructs, given a spot of the old polish in order to fit the narrative of three second half goals. The AANP theory is that Sarr’s great virtue was actually in helping to ensure that the back-door was kept firmly shut in the second half.

Within the opening 20 of the first half, the all-swinging-all-kicking Kudus had been allowed two unopposed shots from inside the area, despite West Ham barely having had a sniff of the ball in that period. The whole thing rather stank of that constant flaw in the Angeball set-up, that of being too open defensively. As has been harped on about relentlessly for about fifteen months now, with Porro and Udogie so fond of life in the final third, we regularly find ourselves desperately undermanned at the back, all of which has a tendency to undo all that attacking potential.

And given that Maddison was having a quieter time of things, the logic of replacing him with a chap whose defensive instincts register a bit more clearly on the grid made some sense. Sarr came on; the aforementioned attacking mob continued to attack just as they had in the first half; but, crucially, when out of possession our lot then had a bit more protection at the back. The gap between the two centre-backs and the midfield supporting cast was not quite as seismic as we’d been used to. In layman’s terms, Kudus did not fire off any more shots unopposed from just inside our area.

So I suppose I can allow a grudging word or two of commendation to escape my lips and fete the big boss, but as a matter of principle I emphasise that his achievement was in adding a layer of defensive security rather than in unleashing Kulusevski.

3. Porro (In The First Half)

Amidst all the chatter about Sarr, and the wholesome goodness of the second half, it seemed that the first half and its contents were rather banished to the vaults of history, never to be revisited. Fair enough, I suppose, but rather harsh on young Senor Porro, who I thought was contributing quite usefully in that opening 45, in his own unique way.

This is not to suggest that he was the standout performer amongst the general rabble; far from it. I was just rather taken by his contributions.

I suppose it stems from the fact that while all around him – and particularly those on the left – were trying to fashion increasingly intricate approaches into the penalty area, involving one-twos of ever decreasing distances, and feints and nifty footwork and so on, Porro seemed to see the value in the more rudimentary method of getting the ball out of his feet and whipping in a cross.

AANP was all for it. It gave the West Ham mob something different to get their heads around, and provided Solanke and the back-post mob some scraps to fight over. Moreover, peculiar though it is for me to fathom, the art of the cross from wide is one that precious few elite-level footballers seem able to master these days, but it is most certainly a string to the Porro bow, so if he is at all inclined to line one up then he has a fully signed-up supporter over here.

On top of which, as early as the first minute Porro also slid a delightful ball around the back of a defender for Solanke to chase – the sort of pass one rather hopes Maddison will churn out once or twice a game. He also very nearly scored one of the goals of the season when he arrived to meet an airborne cross from the left and decided, as any slightly unhinged sort would, that the best option to pick would be a mid-air karate kick. His choice having been made he did not hold back, and made a contact so sweet that the ball was almost scythed in half, shooting off like a rocket but unfortunately missing its mark.

A quieter second half followed, and as mentioned, we all focused on other things thereafter, but I did like the options he added on the right in that first half.

4. Sonny

Of course, it won’t be long now until Timo Werner races onto a through-ball and buries his one-on-one chance, leading to the confidence coursing back through his body and the emergence of a credible, menacing left-wing alternative.

Until then, however, we can all slaughter a small animal as an offering of thanks to the footballing gods for returning Son to the starting line-up. He did plenty of well-intentioned scurrying in the first half, and notably produced a gorgeous swivel of the hips and shoulder-drop that sent Wan-Bissaka out of the stadium, resulting in a curled shot just wide of the post; but it was in the second half that he really hit his stride.

In the sort of display that would be lapped up by mathematicians the world over, his contributions to each of the second half goals steadily increased in quality. The pass for Udogie, in the build-up to Bissouma’s goal, was expertly-weighted, and while there was still plenty of shovel-work to be undertaken (for which Udogie in particular deserves credit), the presence of mind and delivery of foot that Son demonstrated did much to create that initial crack through which the West Ham defence was pried open.  

Sonny then raised the bar a few inches with a similarly well-weighted pass in the build-up to the second. One would have to carry a heart of stone to fail to purr a little at a pass delivered with the outside of the foot, inside a defender and into the path of a speeding colleague, so that alone would earned a spot of the good stuff; but as befits any attacker worth his salt Sonny was then seized by the potential for glory at the other end of the production, and sped away in search of a return pass, benefiting no doubt from a spot of fine visual slapstick but still doing enough to earn the acclaim as the scoreline ticked over to 3-1.

As for the fourth goal, there are few finer sights – or, I suppose, few more terrifying sights, depending on one’s perspective – than Son Heung-Min at full pace and with ball at feet, throwing in no fewer than three mesmeric stepovers without breaking stride, before lashing the thing into the net. As well the ability and stamina and everything else, the fellow seems in those moments to be blessed with an exceptional sense of theatre, for the aesthetic value of that type of goal is sky-high.

One eagerly awaits the day when Timo Werner produces similar – surely only a matter of time now – but until then a Son Heung-Min fast getting back up to speed will, I suppose, suffice.

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Spurs match reports

Brighton 3-2 Spurs: Three(ish) Tottenham Talking Points

1. The First Half

One might say there was something for everyone yesterday. For lovers of Angeball there was a first half, and particularly a first half hour, in which all involved absolutely purred about the place; for those who can’t stand the chap there was a capitulation that even by our lofty standards was a bit of a corker.

The first half couldn’t have been much brighter and breezier, with slick, one-touch combinations all over the pitch. Moreover, each of the assembled cast members were beginning to give the impression of knowing precisely what, where and when the chap next to him would do. If Porro were passing infield to Kulusevski, for example, Johnson did not need any further prodding, and was already haring off down the wing, in full expectation of the ball being pinged first-time into his path before the nearest Brighton sort had worked out what direction he ought to be facing. Benefits, one assumes, of fielding a relatively settled eleven.

Nor were these little link-ups being executed just to look pretty. They were moves with a specific purpose. Within about two or three passes one of the front-five were generally speeding off into the Brighton penalty area and clearing the stage for a pop at goal, and such was the routine in that first half that just about every time we took possession of the thing one felt that the culmination of the sequence would be some manner of attempt lasering in towards the Brighton net.

While it was very much a collective effort, I found myself drawn to the notion that Kulusevski is possibly the key component in an on-song Spurs, at least when whipping up a head of steam from deep. His energy and directness seem to instil a certain nervousness in opposing sorts, all the more so when given the freedom to advance centrally rather than having his movements slightly curtailed out on the wing (although his combinations with Johnson and Porro on the right were nevertheless effective).

A gentle ripple of applause too for Solanke for his contribution to both goals. There were many pairs of hands involved in both, of course – and for the second in particular I think the fingerprints of a good half-dozen could be detected – but AANP is a particular fan of a well-weighted pass inside a full-back, which turns him around and allows an onrushing colleague to arrive from deep at a rate of knots and collect in his stride. Solanke had a bit of a knack for the things in that first half, timing to perfection the pass for Johnson’s opener, and then playing in Werner in the build-up for the second.

I was also pleasantly surprised to see Maddison popping up in advanced positions – at times the furthest forward, in fact – given that, with Kulusevski alongside him, he has previously seemed happy enough sit five yards deeper. On more than one occasion in those early stages he rather stealthily wormed his way forward unnoticed, before ripping off his mask to reveal his identity only once well inside the Brighton area and with a sight of goal.

Another notable feature of the first half was the alacrity with which our lot swarmed over Brighton whenever they gained possession inside their own half, Spurs players to a man giving the impression that they had little time for such interruptions and wanted to revert to relentless attack at the earliest opportunity.  

All in all, it was the sort of fare on which we have dined pretty regularly this season, augmented, in a pleasing break from the past, by no fewer than two of the chances actually being taken. While several others were spurned, I did beetle off for the half-time snootful with a pretty satisfied exhalation. A fairly pleasing opening stab, was about the gist of it, at least in an attacking sense, and while our lot are always susceptible when in reverse, there seemed no reason to suspect the attacking free-for-all would let up.

2. Werner’s End-Product (and a Word on Mikey Moore)

Before getting down to the grisly details, a pause to sink the head into the hands and muffle a few unrepeatables, as I reflect on the latest misadventures of poor old Timo Werner.

Nothing about him surprises us any more, of course. His is a movie we’ve all watched a few times now. Plenty of willing was on show, as ever, and, taken in isolation, that burst of pace ought to be worth its weight in gold. Not for the first time he appeared to have his opposing full-back at his mercy, being possessed of a far cleaner pair of heels. Werner needed only really to nudge the ball a few yards past the full-back and that particular part of the mission was as good as done. There was no catching him. It might as well have been an unguarded doorway.

Oh, that simply outpacing his man were all that were required, eh? If Werner could simply have beaten his man to the ball, raced to the by-line and then triumphantly put his foot on the ball and waved a colourful flag, we’d be throwing garlands around his neck.

Alas, there typically follows the delicate issue of an end-product, and here, as ever Werner tended to fudge things. The tone was set in the opening fifteen seconds, when Werner absolutely zipped away into space behind the Brighton defence (courtesy of another of those delicious passes between defenders from Solanke), and looked up to see young Brennan Johnson galloping in synchronicity, ten yards to his right.

Not much additional work was needed, the sum of it requiring that one international footballer pass straightforwardly to another, the path from A to B uncluttered by any third parties. This being Werner, however, he rather pickled the operation by delivering that final pass with far more oomph than the situation required, and the moment concluded down by the corner flag rather than in the back of the net.

This was probably the nadir, but thereafter every time Werner attempted similarly to cross to a suitable body in the area, he failed to hit the mark, most typically banging the ball straight into the nearest Brighton limb. Dashed frustrating stuff, given the ease with which he was able to scuttle past his defender in order to create the opportunity in the first place, but such is the package he provides.

To his credit, he did start to work out that crossing into the centre was beyond his capability, and opt instead on several occasions to play a shorter pass, of four or five yards. This proved vastly more effective, not least as it meant we retained possession in a dangerous area and someone slightly more qualified – by which I mean literally anyone else – was then tasked with picking the critical final pass. Maddison’s goal was created in this way, so it certainly had its benefits, it just seemed rather a waste of all that initial good work Werner would do in getting himself into a crossing position.

As ever, there were increasingly furious yowls from the assorted observers, with each Werner mishap, demanding that Mikey Moore be utilised instead. I would caution against this myself, the young egg’s brief cameo seeming to illustrate that at present all the talent in the world is somewhat on pause, as he is currently too lightweight for this sort of thing. Every time he tried to take on a man or two he was fairly straightforwardly buffeted out of the picture. His value may be greater when we lead and can counter, running into space, perhaps, than when he needs to flex the upper-body sinews and take on a waiting defender.

3. Defenders Who Can’t Defend

Concerns about Timo Werner, however, are a mere bagatelle when contrasted with the broader second half performance.

Going forward we showed far less of that first half potency, for reasons that can only be speculated upon. The intense, high press of the first half was wiped from the memory, with only Solanke really playing the game after the break, and while we still did look to create, notably on the right, there was nowhere near the same threat.

But vastly more disturbing was what was transpiring at the back. One understands that the whole Angeball apparatus lends itself to an often calamitous susceptibility at the rear. One hardly revels in the fact, but one understands it. If every man and his dog are going to attack, one rather anticipates that gaps will appear at the back.

What is a lot harder to stomach is when the opposition scythe right through the heart of our defence when all four of them are in position and in a neat line, aided by Bentancur and whomever else is nearby, and seemingly not having been under any imminent threat at all. For it is a pretty verifiable fact that Brighton did not have to work particularly hard to carve us open and shoot from the centre of the goal. Not unless one’s idea of hard work is to saunter unopposed through a front door.

The litany of individual mistakes makes for pretty gruesome recollection, to the extent that one barely knows where to start, but for the sake of a bit of order I’ll go through this geographically, right to left.

3.1 Porro

He may have escaped censure on the day, given the more obvious blooters from Udogie and whatnot, but Pedro Porro needs to dashed well pull up his socks and sort out his ideas. Simply being in the vicinity and running in the right direction are not sufficient. If Werner only had to outpace his opposing right-back to be free of him, then whomever was on Brighton’s left wing (typically Mitoma) did not even need to do that much. They merely needed to look up and kick the blasted thing, because as sure as night follows day, Porro was going to allow the cross to be made.

There was a warning sign in the first half, when Mitoma curled the ball into the area for Welbeck to pop wide, and it continued with Brighton’s first two goals, shortly after half-time. Watch the footage back and Porro can be spotted in the vicinity and appearing to chase back diligently enough – but, as with that first half cross, the blighter does nothing even to attempt to prevent the ball being knocked past him and into the centre. There’s not much point in there being a right-back on the pitch if he’s not going to make the slightest attempt to stop the opposition left winger, but Porro didn’t even outstretch a leg.

Similarly for the second goal, Porro ambles out towards Estupinian and in the blink of an eye the ball is played inside him, taking him out of the game. While Brighton did have an overload there, Porro might still have stationed himself somewhere that made the pass at least a mite more difficult, but instead Brighton simply hopped around him and cracked on.

3.2 Romero

If Porro can be chided for failing to prevent crosses, there ought to have been a safety net of sorts alongside him in the shape of Romero, but so far this season he has seemed to sleepwalk around the pitch with zero awareness, and seemingly not much interest, in what is happening around him.

As mentioned, the Mitoma cross in the first half found Welbeck unmarked from six yards out, and this represented an astonishing dereliction of duty from Romero. The genesis of this was no desperate sprint back from halfway either – Romero had all the time in the world to spot Welbeck and keep tabs on him, but simply dozed off while jogging back, lost sight of him completely and was mightily lucky that he missed the target when it was easier to score.

Then for the second Brighton goal, once the ball had been played inside Porro to Mitoma, Romero went out to meet him, but his attempted tackle exemplified much that was wrong with our defending. Frankly the very term ‘attempted tackle’ is pretty wildly misleading, because it was that in name only, consisting of Romero dangling a half-hearted leg at Mitoma with the air of a man who thinks there are plenty of others around who can put an end to the danger should  the need arise. One hardly calls for Romero to crunch him at the knee, but he could certainly have applied himself more fervently to blocking the man’s path and forcing him to look elsewhere.

And then for the third, Romero was back to his absent-minded self, rocking on his heels and simply watching on as the ball looped up for Welbeck to head in. In the last week or two I have lauded Dominic Solanke for anticipating a rebound well in advance, setting off at the merest sniff of an opportunity. In Romero we saw the polar opposite, a man utterly oblivious to the threat of danger, even within his own six-yard box.

Romero is mightily impressive in possession, demonstrating at various points yesterday and in recent weeks his eye for a natty, threaded pass in midfield that bisects the opposing press – but first and foremost the man is a defender, dash it. Above all else he ought to be defending. In common with those around him, he seems far more attuned to life when on the attack than when keeping at bay the other mob.

3.3 Van de Ven

No doubt about it, VDV’s pace is a blessing like few others, particularly when deployed within the Angeball high line. If a foot-race to the ball is in order, to snuff out a looming threat, VDV is your man; and indeed, he has a rather pleasingly no-nonsense approach to covering the left-back position too, regularly seen to rush over and put in a slide-challenge that deposits the ball out of play and allows everyone else to man their stations.

Yet in terms of the basics of one-on-one defending, such as making a tackle or simply preventing an opponent from skipping gaily past to t’other side, VDV is alarmingly susceptible. Standing one’s ground and forcing an opponent to take a roundabout route to goal ought not to be the complex operation that VDV has turned it into.

Again, for that second Brighton goal, VDV was turned inside out far too easily, and on various other occasions in the second half in particular, he seemed to be beaten with minimal effort. If sides play some scintillating football that tears the defence to shreds, one can bow an accepting head, but Brighton really did not have to work particularly hard to bypass VDV – or those around him.

3.4 Udogie

Rather more conspicuously, Udogie made quite the pig’s ear of his clearance for the first goal, but in a way I am more inclined to absolve this. That was a lapse in concentration that might have happened anywhere on the pitch; more concerning is when he has to carry out basic operations when up against an opponent, and is beaten with the same ease with which I skip past my youthful nephews out in the park.

The third Brighton goal being a case in point (a move preceded, by the way, by Udogie needlessly running the ball out of play instead of clearing up the line). The Brighton chappie posed no threat with back to goal and few options available, and for clarification was not Pele either. Yet Udogie allowed him wriggle past him with the sort of perfunctory challenge that Romero had been showcasing earlier, a slackness that cost us a goal.

As can certainly also be said for Porro and Romero, and to an extent is true of VDV, Udogie seems vastly to prefer life when charging forward. And he does a marvellous job of it too, which is lovely in its own wy – but that’s not the point of a left-back! Our four defenders seem not to grasp the basics of defending. As mentioned above, it’s challenging enough when they’re all racing back from halfway and stretched in all directions, but yesterday they showcased that even when all organised and in position, they are simply such bad defenders that opponents can, with a few carefully-selected steps, waltz straight through the heart of them.

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Spurs match reports

Ferencvaros 1-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Team Selection

AANP has prattled on a few times in recent weeks about the virtues of integrating up to a maximum of four non-regulars in a Starting XI, and conversely the vices of shoving in youths and extras until a Starting XI is bursting at the seams with lesser-seen faces, so I won’t bang on about it again.

Suffice to say, the eyebrow raised when news of yesterday’s Starting XI trickled through was not one of unrestrained gaiety and joy. Asking for trouble, was the gist of the rumbling over here.

As it turned out, Ferencvaros themselves made five changes, in a whopping endorsement of the new, endless, Europa format. And while, for the first half hour, our lot showed the usual sieve-like security of a defensive line stationed on halfway, we muddled through, by accident – and the impressive inputs of Vicario – rather than design.

One can only imagine the series of embarrassed and quizzical looks exchanged between Archie Gray and Ben Davies when informed that the former would start at centre-back and the latter at left-back. However, that was the curious defensive call made by The Brains Trust at the outset. To suggest it was a roaring success would be to inflict some pretty significant damage upon the English language.

I suppose part of the thinking may have been that if Gray could be found to include central defensive brilliance amongst his many talents then we would have an additional, ball-playing option for the fixture slog of coming months (and potentially one with a spot of pace about him, although I confess I’ve never observed the young tyke in a basic sprint). Anyway, it all turned out to be academic, because Gray showed himself to be as full of willing as he was bereft of expertise for the role, and having been caught out numerous times by fairly straightforward passes played behind the back-four and into space, the experiment was scrapped at half-time, presumably never to be seen again.

The midfield at least seemed appropriately fitted for the occasion. Bissouma, after an errant opening, made a pretty useful fist of things in front of the back-four, and Sarr seemed to enjoy the freedom to stretch his legs in the final third as the whim allowed, elevating himself, to the AANP gaze, to the heady heights of one of our two best performers.

Bergvall, frankly, had a slightly rotten game, happy enough to do all the running but regularly giving the ball away or tripping over himself. Hardly a crisis, as the young imp is evidently here for the long haul, but another Europa night on which he’s unlikely to dwell with too much fondness.

As mentioned, the midfield three were at least assigned appropriate roles, but not unexpectedly there was little rhythm or understanding between them, and one could almost see on one’s telly-box the looks of pleasant surprise whenever a little combination of passes clicked, betraying the fact that here was a group of young specimens who had never played with each other before.

The fact that beaverings in the final third slickened considerably once the cavalry arrived should be of little surprise to anyone. Off-the-ball the press was more intense, and in possession the various protagonists seemed to have an innate understanding of where to be and at which appointed hour, which helped chivvy things along. In short, the players who had played together regularly looked like a mob who had played together regularly.

As such, Our Glorious Leader, had he caught the AANP eye at the final whistle, would no doubt have directed a satisfied smirk in this direction. For all the naysaying emanating from my lips beforehand, he would be entitled to argue that he played his hand to perfection – blooding the younglings, giving minutes to fringe players, excusing the big guns from a full night’s work and then reaping a pretty solid harvest when he did eventually lob on the aforementioned BGs for a twenty-minute sweat.

2. Mikey Moore and Lankshear

Without doubt the biggest learning about Mikey Moore from last night was that, like Ben Davies, he is one of those coves whom one always addresses by their full combination of forename and surname. The next biggest learning was that he seems pretty capable of taking steps unaided in the big wide world.  

I mentioned above that I thought Sarr was amongst the top two performers, and alongside him I’d place Mikey Moore. Displaying a rather endearing fearlessness, every time he received the ball he seemed struck by the thoroughly commendable notion of doing something useful with it. As often as not this seemed to involve getting his head down and dribbling infield, to create a whole new world of options; but even when he stayed wide and was forced to use his right foot for something other than balance I thought he did a good job of things.

When ushered up on stage to receive his award and acclaim for yesterday’s work, I’ve no doubt that in listing all those to whom he gives thanks he’ll include Pedro Porro, for the slightly unhinged right-back seemed to do a good job of keeping an eye on him – giving him space to do his own thing but never straying so far away that he left the young pup completely marooned. Their combinations were amongst the more natural from our lot in the first half, and it was just a shame that when he was switched out to the left towards the end he didn’t gamble at the far post for what would have been a tap-in from a Johnson square ball.

As for young Lankshear, I suspect he might have a few self-inflicted welts on his own thigh today, from frustrated hand-slaps, but apart from not quite directing his chances within the frame I thought he made a good fist of things.

The fact that he was in the appropriate spot to miss a couple of chances was encouraging – a statement I appreciate might sound like lunacy of the first order, but my point is that, like any good striker, he took up the right positions, rather than watching from twenty yards south as the ball sailed harmlessly across goal.

He ought to have done better with the first half header from Werner’s cross, and he was unlucky that his scruffy second half effort from a corner bounced over rather than under then bar, but as Dominic Solanke can presumably attest, these things fall into place eventually.

Lankshear can also be mightily encouraged that he received a start in only the second game of this curious competition – with approximately eighty games left to play, presumably including one or two dead rubbers, there’s a good chance he’ll have more than just substitute cameos in the coming months.

3. Confidence, and Lack Thereof

I only studied German for one year at the old alma mater, so while I can pretty confidently assure you in that language that I’m fifteen years old, and can ask they way to the train station like the best of them, when it comes to screaming at Timo Werner to just bury the bally thing for heaven’s sake, adding that he’s supposed to be a professional footballer for the love of all things holy, I’m afraid I have to revert to the old mother-tongue, rather than conveniencing him with a spot of Deutsche.

As the hopeless young bean lay on the turf muttering oaths after his latest clanger, and then had the ignominy compounded by promptly being forced into a walk of shame around the pitch for substitution, I did muse – not for the first time – that he is both blessed and cursed by that turn of pace.

Blessed, of course, because it meant that when Mikey Moore set off on the right wing and looked up, there was nobody within a mile of Timo. And not for the first time. Only a Van de Ven would catch Werner, given a few yards headstart and clear path to goal.

Cursed, naturally, because here is a fellow who seemingly would be more at ease chewing off his own leg than finishing a one-on-one chance created by that pace. I’m actually inclined to suggest we re-purpose the chap as a centre-back, and see if we can put that speed to use in a sphere in which hitting a stationary target is not really a requirement.

Anyway, while I’ve never been anywhere near the professional game, the sages around me seem convinced that his do-anything-but-score approach to life stems from a lack of confidence, and as if to hammer home the point, Brennan Johnson then put his ten minutes to good use by cheerfully peppering the goal until he got one to stick.

The Johnson first-time effort that pinged off the crossbar was, lest we forget, inaccurate, but nevertheless spoke volumes – the audacity to see a ball rolled towards self, and greet this correspondence with a shrug of the shoulders and decision to forego all niceties and simply lamp the thing first time made crystal clear that here was a chappie who felt that he could do little wrong.

It was a conclusion emphasised by his goal a few minutes later, a chance that, on receipt of the ball, was hardly worth of the name, he receiving a bouncing ball when stepping backwards, and with a small line of defenders between him and the goal. To have the gumption to shift the ball onto his weaker foot and then place – this time with perfect accuracy – a shot off the post and in, essentially rubber-stamped the fact that he and poor old Werner sat at the extreme opposites on the scale of confidence.

I suppose if one had to raise the Werner spirits, one might yet point to his fine work in crossing for Lankshear’s first half header, and the fact that whenever he does decide to go outside his man and test him for pace, he generally wins. However, if Cheering Up Werner is the objective, probably best not to mention to him that young Mikey Moore prefers the left flank, what?

Categories
Spurs match reports

Man Utd 0-3 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Micky Van de Ven

Good heavens. One feels like there should be a law against that sort of thing. And having done something similar against Everton a few weeks back, I think it’s safe to say that this cannot simply be dismissed, with a raised eyebrow and a bemused shrug, as a bit of an oddity and not one worth reading into. Hurtling straight through the heart of an opposition defence, from own half to penalty area, taking out four or five defenders en route, is evidently a character trait of Van de Ven.

Of course, as and when called upon VDV duly ticked all other, more conventional boxes, as any self-respecting centre-back would, but it was this unstoppable thrust from deep that caught the eye and arrested the attention, the sort of wondrous moment that generations to come will whisper about in awestruck tones.

My Spurs-supporting chum Ian noted that there was something of Gareth Bale about that gallop, and, while applying all understandable caveats, one does see the point. Visually, Van de Ven does not really whizz from A to B with the smooth grace of an Olympic sprinter, at least not when doing so with the ball at his feet. Like Bale (and, come to think of it, there’s a vague similarity to Kulusevski too), when VDV starts running with the ball he looks more like a wild beast charging down a hill, his speed on the gallop complemented by the vague sense that here is a chap motoring along with too much power simply to be nudged out of the way.

Either way, the pretty damning conclusion was that once he had revved up there was simply no stopping him. In fact, there was no getting near him. I suppose this might have had something to do with the approach of the United players as well as the force of the VDV run, for they seemed not to be struck by the concept that protruding a limb or stationing self in VDV’s path might have done something to at least delay – if not altogether stop – his progress.

But if any of you have ever seen a man possessed – and I’ve come across a few in my time – then no amount of protruding limbs or stationing of selves will stop him. Once hell-bent on running half the pitch and squaring across goal for a tap-in, there’s little the casual, or indeed particularly serious, observer can do. Brennan Johnson had the right idea – pop up in the appointed place and at the appointed hour, and greet the whole performance with such glee that you’re already smiling before applying the finishing touch.

2. This Week’s Angeball

Given that VDV went scything his way through United before the opening credits were off the screen, it is tempting to clear the throat and declare that he and his fine work set the tone, but I rather fancy that VDV buccaneering run or not, our lot would still have spent that opening half hour relentlessly hammering away at the opposition. It simply seems to be the Angeball modus operandi. Like a squadron of Pavlovian dogs, the sound of that opening whistle seems to be the cue for all involved to spring into a wild frenzy of attack upon attack, incessantly and until half-time.

(Indeed, proof, were it needed, that the first half barrage was not solely VDV-induced can be obtained from footage of last weekend’s start against Brentford, when we were a goal down within 30 seconds and adopted the same take on things that was in evidence yesterday after going a goal up.)

Once again, I gave the pre-match nod of approval in the direction of Our Glorious Leader, for opting for the Kulusevski-laden midfield rather than the safety-first option of Sarr or Bissouma. As against Woolwich one would have grudgingly understood had the verdict been a soupçon of caution for an opponent and stage such as this, but rather impressively Ange was having none of it. Instead, “Gung” and “Ho” were the words of choice, and just about every outfield player was on board.

Normally the centre-backs and a single midfielder are the only souls from whom one can expect any restraint, but with Van de Ven doing his thing as early as the third minute, it was evident that if you were on the pitch then you had licence to attack.

Both Udogie and Spence gave the impression that they much prefer lending weight to offensive issues anyway, and over on the other side Porro seemed in the mood too, so there were no shortage of volunteers for any given sortie up the pitch.

And as has been the trend for most of this season, our lot did not just dominate possession, but created a bucketload of chances too. Whereas in seasons gone by all that possession became something of a millstone around the neck, with the ball shuttled left and right ad infinitum outside the area as we suffered from a lack of ingenuity in the final third, yesterday there was no shortage of bright ideas from our heroes. One-twos in the area, Werner getting to the byline, Porro crossing from 20 yards out – there was a pleasing variety to our attack, and that’s on top of a high press that brought home all sorts of healthy harvest.

In the first half alone we were treated to one-on-ones for Werner and Maddison, and Johnson hitting the post, as well as the usual slew of half-chances, and while the tendency to keep missing these opportunities is rather vexing, and has already cost us this season, the creation of so many chances (two goals and two more one-on-ones missed in the second half) does suggest that we’ll rack up the goals this season.

Had we taken chances against Newcastle and Leicester as we did yesterday and last weekend, we would now be top of the tree, which is a point that I suspect will grind the AANP gears until mid-May, but nevertheless the silver lining here is that we repeatedly create chances, and as such, more often than not will outscore the opposition.

3. Kulusevski (and a Nod of Approval for Bentancur)

As mentioned, every man in lilywhite was in on the whole ‘Attack, Attack, Attack’ strategy, but in Kulusevski in particular we have something of a gem.

Strictly speaking that should be amended to ‘Kulusevski in a central role’, because when deployed through the middle rather than out wide his productivity shoots through the roof. He has his virtues as a winger of course – the VDV-esque quality of being quick than he appears he ought to be is quite the asset, but as was lamented on a weekly basis last season, his tendency, having done all the hard work on the right, ultimately to cut back onto his left foot in order to deliver a cross or shot, was as frustrating as it was unproductive.

In the centre, however, he is quite the menace, and with United either unable or willing to engage yesterday, he absolutely ran the show. There were so many ticks against his name that one rather made a mess of one’s notes. He delivers the beans in terms of joining in the high press, tracking back, running with the ball, evading challenges, displaying quick feet around the areas and, perhaps most impressively yesterday, picking passes from deep into the path of on-running forwards.

As a bonus, the presence of Kulusevski seems also to bring the best out of Maddison, the pair of them by the week seeming increasingly aware of who goes where on the pitch-map, and that little one-two in the first half that put Maddison through on goal had me purring.

In singing the praises of Kulusevski one ought also to pause and quietly salute the honest beavering of Bentancur, who, in much the same way as Kulusevski and Maddison further north, seems to be understanding better on a weekly basis the rigours and requirements of that perch just in front of the centre-backs.

He’s not really a tackler, but then that’s not his job. In possession he collects the ball from the centre-backs and comes up with bright ideas of where to deliver it next; and out of possession he tends to be in the vicinity as a third defensive body. The whole business of defending on halfway does still leave us wide open, no doubt about it, and overly-reliant on the pace of young VDV, but Bentancur seems aware that he is required to hang back and loiter, when all around him are charging forward, and he seems not to mind.

4. Werner’s Finishing (and Indeed Solanke’s Finishing)

As mentioned, thrilling though it is to see our heroes carve out chance after chance, I suspect I was not alone in spending that half-time break trotting a little nervously back and forth, wondering if we would rue all those misses. And while he was by no means the only culprit, Timo Werner’s did rather stand out, what?

He was at it again in the second half, of course, and to say it’s absolutely maddening doesn’t really do justice to the thing. The poor soul’s inability to score when clean through is absolutely bewildering.

One should know better by now than to expect, or even hope, that he might bury one of these opportunities, but when he’s clean through on goal I simply cannot help myself. I rise to my feet, the pulse quickens and I almost plead with him to do the honourable thing and put us all at our ease.

One can only wonder what goes on in training, when they practice these things, but out he does rather give the impression that he’s already resigned to making a pig’s ear of it as soon as let loose upon goal. The shame of it is that being blessed with such pace, he gets more of those opportunities than most.

Of course, he’s not the only one to come a cropper in these scenarios. Solanke took a leaf out of his book late on; Maddison was denied in the first half (although the circumstances there seemed to mitigate, he being a lot closer to goal and actually producing a solid effort in the form of a cheeky dink) and frankly I feel like Sonny misses as many as he scores when clean through on goal these days. And has been well-documented, when clear of a defence, one has probably a bit too much time to consider the permutations and get one’s brain into something of a muddle.

But nevertheless. Werner misses these dashed things literally every time.

As ever, I watched his all-round performance with a highly critical eye yesterday, and was not particularly impressed. The one trait he displays that did deserve a spot of rowdy approbation was that tendency to shove the ball towards the byline, out-pace his man and pull it back across goal. He did that at least a couple of times, and that no obliging foot was around to prod home was not his fault. This option seemed rather useful, far more so than his usual approach, of swivelling one-eighty and knocking the ball back towards halfway.

However, Mikey Moore having been given fifteen minutes to find his feet, one wonders whether he might earn a start next time Sonny is declared MIA, with Werner to input later from the bench.

As mentioned, Solanke also duffed up his one-on-one, but that aside he put in another impressive shift. In particular I was rather taken by his awareness in heading the ball out right and into the path of Johnson, in the build-up to our second, rather than aimlessly heading it straight down the throat of the United centre-halves.

Moreover, having spent countless playground hours in my youth trying to emulate the goal-poaching prowess of one G. Lineker Esquire, AANP was particularly taken by Solanke’s goal yesterday. As mentioned midweek, those poached finishes from close-range are something of a dying art, and certainly not the sort to which we Spurs fans have been treated in a while (even Herr Kane seemed not to include too many of those amongst his repertoire). If September 2024 is anything to go by, however, Solanke seems to prefer nothing more than to stab in a loose ball from six yards or fewer.

I’m all for it. They all count, after all, and while his two previous efforts were following up goalkeeping spillages, I was thoroughly impressed by yesterday’s, involving as it did a spot of deeper loitering at a corner, before gambling on a near-post flick, and getting scruffy studs on the ball from approximately three yards out. A most pleasing throwback to a bygone era, and a potentially useful addition to the attacking armoury.