Tag: Premier League

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Spurs match reports

Leeds 1-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Vicario

AANP missed the real-time screening of this one, having popped out of town for a wedding, so found himself in that curious position that is occasionally thrust upon one, of being fully aware of the scoreline and general talking points by the time a chance arose to settle in and watch from start to finish.

As such, I was already aware of murmurs amongst various Tottenham folk that our resident backdoor-minder had not covered himself in glory. While it would be a stretch to say that my fingers therefore drummed away at the guillotine in anticipation of a few Vicario howlers, I did nevertheless brace myself.

It seemed that aside from the mundane to-ing and fro-ing, there were four eye-catching moments to his afternoon’s contributions. The first was that item early on when one Joe Rodon – formerly of the N17 parish – planted a back-post header against the post. It might get lost in ensuing debate that Destiny Udogie did just about enough whispering in the Rodon ear at that particular juncture to force the man a little off-balance, so congratulatory tap of the hat-rim is probably due, before we start dissecting the life and times of Vicario in the preliminary seconds.

Put bluntly, Vicario seemed completely to lose his bearings. As the cross was swung over, from the right, the curious young eel began wandering from his line without any clear purpose, looking rather like an abandoned puppy that had scented food in the mid-distance and was uncontrollably drawn towards it.

The ball sailed over him at the sort of height that Vicario-on-a-step-ladder might have had a job handling, but the problem was that once gripped by the urge to wade off into the masses, it was rather tricky for him to undo this. Indeed, even when struck by the error of his ways, he could do little more than shoot a vaguely horrified glance in the loose direction of where the ball was dropping, and perhaps give tongue to a muttered Ave Maria.

As mentioned, Rodon at the back post could do no more than steer the ball against the frame, the sort of outcome that presumably will spare Vicario too dedicated a media spotlight, but those of lilywhite persuasion have seemingly chalked it up as the latest blot in what is becoming an increasingly crowded copybook.

Vicario was less fortunate with the next eye-catching moment, the one that saw him repel a shot from inside the area, but somewhat gum up the following chapter, by spilling the thing into the path of a conveniently-placed Leeds sort. Here, I should point out that just as AANP giveth with one hand, AANP taketh with the other, for while Udogie was earlier to be praised for his alacrity in defence, for the Leeds goal he did switch off long enough to allow Okafor to poach away to his heart’s content.

It was, however, an untidy piece of work from Vicario that presented the opportunity so neatly. Having reacted to the initial, deflected shot pretty well, Vicario then – as is becoming something of a trademark – did not really pay sufficient care and attention to the geography of the occasion. This tendency of his to shovel the ball straight into the path of chappies lurking for scraps has proved his downfall before, and needs a spot of care and attention. The whole routine of saving close-range shots is negated if at the end of it all he is simply going to present a two-yard tap-in to the next fellow in the queue.

Hammering home the point, he made an excellent couple of stops deep in stoppage time – but the second of these resulted in the ball popping upwards and most fortunately into the path of that man Udogie once again, who was able to nod it behind for a corner, when a yard either side there would have been yet another tap-in for the waiting scavengers.

It does make one scratch the head somewhat in truth, as to precisely where Vicario should be depositing these incoming efforts. Conventional wisdom has it that they should not be padded straight out in front of goal, and by and large he avoids this. However, this is certainly not the first match in which, in attempting to shovel matters out wide he has succeeded in not only laying them into the path of an opponent, but seemingly shaving the power off them too, making them that much easier to reach. I wonder if he might divert them behind his goal instead, or push them wide but with a bit more force, so as to send them out of the area.

Either way, there seems something slightly rummy about the current approach, of teeing them up at a gentle dribble for a short-range tap-in from an angle.

2. Kudus

On a brighter note, one of the grumbles of recent weeks had been that the creative well seemed to have run pretty dry, and while it would be a stretch to say that shots now fly in from every angle, two of the attacking mob in particular seemed to bound about the place with heartening vim and zest.  

Kudus naturally grabs headlines on account of having struck oil, but even aside from his goal his general attacking play had much about it of the useful sort of pest. Not only does the fellow come across as the sort of chappie against whom one would rather not defend, but he does so across multiple formats.

By which I mean there is Kudus the Wide-Man – hugging the touchline and dipping multiple shoulders this way and that, with a view to whipping in a teasing cross, if not seeking out a chum better placed to do the same; then there is Kudus the Inside-Right, whose goal in life is not so much the whipping in of wicked crosses as the twinkle-toed foray infield, to cause mischief around the outside of the area – which may take the form of a shot, as demonstrated yesterday, or may take the form of link-up play with nearby comrades.

As has been remarked upon before, the earnest bean’s combination of strength, close control and low centre of gravity appears to make him a fiend of an opponent, and while he has clearly had the occasional quieter afternoon, when on song – as yesterday – he is quite the asset.

3. Simons

Further east, there were more glimpses of young Simons finding his range. Officially, I suppose, assigned the Number 10 role, Simons seemed pretty insistent about his coordinates, coming across as the sort of egg who, if not allowed to take up a specifically inside-left sort of spot, would simply fold his arms and refuse to engage. Luckily, those about him in black were all for it, and the young bean saw plenty of action.

Intriguingly, his was an afternoon less of mazy dribbles, and more of furtive darts that were followed by the picking of some eye-of-needle passes, of the ilk intended to really carve open an opposition defence.

I was all for it. These weren’t your standard roll-the-thing-square-five-yards variety; rather, Simons was in the market for a diagonal that scythed open Leeds and took out three of their defenders in one swoop, while Udogie (him again) burst in from the depths. At one point Simons scooped a pass up, above and behind the Leeds back-line, for Porro to gallop onto, which really did whiff of a man starting to take a liking to life in his new surroundings.

An underlying concern to all of this was that it meant our lot were relying a little too heavily upon moments of individual ingenuity, rather than any obviously well-constructed patterns and build-up play involving the entire entourage – but one takes the wins, what? It was only a couple of days ago that I was grumbling about the lack of anything approaching creative content at all, so to boast not one but two of the forward line prancing about the place with attacking juices brimming was a pretty welcome sign.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-1 Wolves: Three Tottenham Talking Points

(With apologies for recent radio silence – a lot going on at AANP Towers)

1. Misdirected First Half Optimism, Featuring Bergvall and Kudus

Hindsight, as a rather wise old egg once put it, is 20-20, so I suppose I look a bit of a chump admitting it now, but back in the first half of this binge there were one or two moments when I nestled in my seat rather smugly, a look of satisfaction etched across the map, as if to say “I’m rather enjoying watching our lot go at it.”

Back in that halcyon age, while it would be a stretch to say we were running riot and biffing the other lot from all angles with gay abandon, once settled in (i.e. after about a quarter of an hour or so), I did get the impression that the key question de jour was “When?” rather than “If?” if you get my gist.

And this sunny rationale was based largely upon the plans and deeds of Messrs Bergvall and Kudus, both of whom, in their own unique ways, seemed to be having rather a time of things. Indeed, for the disallowed goal they even crossed the streams, so to speak, interacting and exchanging pro tips on how to go about carving up an opposition back-line to pretty impressive effect.

Bergvall was very much on brand in that first half. If there were any beavering to be done, in an attacking sense in particular, he was generally at the front of the queue, both in and out of possession. Busily scurrying about the place, he had the air of a young man who looked ahead of him and saw nothing but opportunity. The chap has fast become an essential cog in the machine.

Kudus, of course, is a pretty different beast, being the robust sort of chappie who puts a bit more emphasis on meaty brawn and upper-body strength than young Bergvall. In his own way though, he’s equally effective, and having racked up that early header that was pushed onto the bar, as well as the disallowed goal, I was inclined to murmur a prognostication that when we did eventually take the lead, the fingerprints of Kudus would be all over the critical item.

And had that first half never ended, I’m still inclined to think that Kudus and Bergvall between them would have rustled up a goal or two from somewhere, and we’d have all swanned off down the High Road pipped to the gills with the night’s work.

2. The Oddly Lacklustre Second Half

Alas, all such sunny optimism rather went up in smoke as soon as the second half started, our lot becoming oddly reticent about the evening’s activities.

With the stunning insight that marks out AANP as a fan rather than a coach, I struggle to put my finger on what exactly went wrong, but the symptoms were fairly clearly demarked. Every loose ball seemed to be won by Wolves, and when they took possession of the thing they seemed oddly to have an extra man on the field, everywhere one looked. Had this happened against PSG back in August, one might have waved the forgiving hand; but to find ourselves comprehensively bested in one duel after another against the mob that sit bottom of the pile, and boasting a record of five defeats from five, was bothersome to say the very least. Had

It was not so much that there was a lack of effort from our heroes. They seemed sufficiently motivated. They just ended up being second-best in almost every matter that required on-pitch thrashing out – as was particularly neatly encapsulated by the Wolves goal.

I suppose one or two of our number can probably be excused – Palhinha seems convinced that the point of a football match is to flatten as many opponents as possible; and Romero’s adoption of the captain’s armband continues to translate into him charging about the pitch like a man possessed.

But seeing the more featherweight sorts – Tel, Odobert et al – hare towards the ball only to reach it a moment too late, or find themselves bouncing off a lusty opponent, left me harumphing discontentedly in my seat, and occasionally flinging a frustrated arm into the air, like nobody’s business.

Coming as this did, not too long after the dreadful, toothless production against Bournemouth, this served as another sharp poke in the Thomas Frank ribs, to urge him to find ongoing ways to get the best out of his charges.

3. Vicario’s Role in the Goal (With A Wary Eye on Spence)

Now AANP can hardly claim to have canvassed opinion of all sixty-odd thousand in the shiny bowl last night, much less the watching millions drinking it all in from their sofas, but nevertheless a murmur of discontent did reach my ears regarding the conduct of our resident last-line-of-defence, in particular regarding his handling of the goal we conceded.

The charge, as I understand, is that in saving the initial header directed towards him he might have invested in a longer-term solution than simply shoving it straight into a bundle of waiting limbs to his right, the result of which action was a ricochet that fell kindly to the Wolves shyster S. Bueno.

Well. Here I really do I have to draw myself up to my full height and clear my throat with a bit of meaning. Now I’ve historically been as happy as the next man to lay it on a bit thick towards Vicario at the appropriate moment – a flap at a corner, or knuckle-headed distribution, or whatever – but in this instance I stand shoulder to shoulder with the chap. As far as I could make out, Vicario pretty much ticked the essential boxes with that save.

In the first place, he got there. Full stretch, and levering himself off the ground, it was one I suppose you’d expect an international goalkeeper to pull off, but nevertheless, it required a spot of the basic mechanics, and he did that well enough – particularly given that the principal protagonist, Bueno S, was swinging a boot at the ball from a yard away.

Having reached the ball, where Vicario seems to have attracted opprobrium was in then shovelling it to his right, and into the legs of Palhinha. Here again, however, I side with the case for the defence. Vicario’s second objective, having already stopped the ball from hitting the net, would have been to push it away from the centre of the goal – and this he did. That there was an onrushing Wolves sort arriving at a rate of knots stage right was slightly rotten luck, and an element that ought to have been the responsibility of one of the outfield mob, rather than Vicario. (Although I repeat, the ball actually bounced of Palhinha rather than the incoming Wolve).

Either way, I thought Vicario did all that could reasonably have been expected of him in that particular chapter. If I were to point an accusing finger and yell a spot of invective, it would be directed at young Djed Spence. This might seem a tad leftfield to the casual bystander, but look again, closely, at the details, and you’ll note that as the corner was initially delivered, Spence’s defensive responsibility consisted of chaperoning the Wolves number 4 – one Santiago Bueno.

Spence, however, seemed to shrug off this responsibility as soon as the corner was taken, immediately losing sight of his quarry and instead becoming distracted by the prospect of a header. He lost both the header and Bueno, allowing the latter to swing an initial boot at the ball as Vicario made his save, and then to poke in the rebound as it fell neatly into his path.

This level of defending drives me absolutely mad. It should not be so difficult to keep tabs on an opponent at a corner. One understands if a run is blocked off or a spot of wrestling ensues – but none of the above applied to Spence in this instance. He simply forgot his raison d’etre, and let Bueno have the freedom of the 6-yard box, forsooth.

Not that the two dropped points were the sole responsibility of Spence, of course, but those scowling and muttering about Vicario’s antics might adjust their aim.

A draw is, of course, vastly preferable to a defeat, but AANP is in no doubt that these are two dropped points that we’ll look back upon with regret come May. I’m not entirely sure that Palhinha read the mood in the camp either, whipping off his shirt and flying off in a frenzy after an equaliser against Wolves of all teams, when the drill was surely to return to stations and search for a winner, but I suppose for now we should simply be grateful for what we salvaged.

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Man City 0-2 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Sarr

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Paulinha

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Kudus

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

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

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

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

4. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-0 Burnley: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Exuberance of Youth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Richarlison

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Kudus

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-4 Brighton: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Bentancur’s Hangover Cure

I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn when I describe this one as “inconsequential”. The definition the nearest dictionary throws out me is “Adjective: Not important or significant”, and while I assume that professionalism forbad The Brains Trust from imparting such sage and accurate assessment to our heroes immediately prior to kick-off, the unspoken word was very evidently firing on all cylinders. Everyone knew. Never mind that a full house was in attendance, the outcome of this one was not really the key issue that had the masses gripped.

Nevertheless, before our heroes could provide cold, hard and shiny evidence of being trophy-winners and champions of Europe, there was a match to be played, so the appropriate pleasantries were undertaken.

And I suspect I was as surprised as anyone else in the auditorium when various members of the collective burst out of the traps. After events of the preceding 72 or so hours, sprightliness and energy were frankly the last things I was expecting to see. One did not have to be one of the great literary sleuths to work out that our heroes had flung heart and soul into enjoying the moment – and to a man, woman and child we applauded them and egged them on.

If AANP were asked to put a hand on the Bible and commit to telling the truth and nothing but, he would admit to having sucked of the sauce when circumstances demanded, and even of having over-indulged in this area on the rare, regrettable occasion. But it is with the benefit of this experience that I can assert with some confidence that while the imbibing of choice elixirs can be an absolute hoot in the moment – with the right company about, and the right concoction in hand – what comes to pass in the following days can prove seriously challenging to the constitution.

It was in this context that I expected a near-total absence of enthusiasm from our heroes. You can therefore picture my surprise on observing that Rodrigo Bentancur began the game as arguably the most animated of the entire gang.

Here was a man who seemingly had refused to stand upright unless clutching a vial of some description in the hand in the days following our win. By all accounts he also refused to sleep for a day or so after our triumph, evidently reasoning that Nature’s Sweet Restorer comes a distant second to immersing oneself in the joy of a European trophy win.

No blame attached there at all, but where he therefore found the vim to tear around the pitch from the opening whistle, flying into challenges as if his life depended on them, was beyond me. In my experience, a soft pillow and some closed curtains are the principal requirements after a few consecutive days on the bottle. The moral of that particular story seemed to be to find out the morning-after cure adopted by our Uruguayan cousins and cherish it as gold dust.

In fact, if anything, Bentancur was swanning about the place with a bit too much spice. An early challenge down by the byline seemed to have about it much of the two-feet-leaving-the-ground, and only a linesman’s flag for offside negated that at source as an argument, but shortly before half-time he did pick up a caution, as possibly his fifth full-length diving challenge of the afternoon delivered a harvest of Ball – None; Man – Plenty.

All this was particularly striking because although Bentancur is not exactly a stranger to a yellow card, his is a reputation that has been built more upon the cerebral and well-anticipated interception, rather than the crunching, not-too-many-damns-given flying boot.

However, a midfield incarnation of Romero on his more hot-headed days was evidently the persona he wished to adopt yesterday, and that decision having been made he embraced it with gusto. Allowing for those occasional errant and mistimed challenges, this was a midfield performance that was pretty impressive.

2. Gray

Another who caught the AANP eye in that punchy first half was Archie Gray. His has been quite the character arc this season. As we all recall, having been shoved into central defence, and presumably advised to enjoy himself but keep mistakes to a minimum, he proceeded to flabbergast by patrolling the region like a seasoned pro, and was feted accordingly. When he therefore finally received his chance in his preferred midfield habitat, lips were licked and gleeful hands rubbed.

Alas, and as was again well documented, what had been presented as a pretty surefire winner, went alarmingly wrong. His performance in midfield against Liverpool in particular was pretty ghastly stuff, and while one might reason with some justification that he hasn’t been quite as bad in midfield since, this truth does nevertheless overlook the fact that he has not been particularly good in midfield since, either.

Until yesterday, that is, when in the first half I thought he pottered about with a bit of meaning. It was what one might have termed a pretty decent Bentancur Tribute Act. He intercepted, he picked passes and he tackled – the latter talent notably deployed in winning possession high up the pitch in the episode that immediately resulted in Tel scurrying into the area and winning the penalty.

The inconsequential air that hung around the place throughout meant that useful conclusions drawn were at a premium, and any performances, rip-snorting or otherwise, were best advised to be taken with a generous pinch of salt. Nevertheless, I was encouraged to see real-life evidence that, when the stars align, Archie Gray actually can hit various of the right notes in a midfield role.

3. Danso

Kevin Danso was another who, on a day and in a match of greater consequence, might have earned himself a complimentary inclination of the head.

The case of Kevin Danso specifically at AANP Towers has been a slightly rummy one so far this season, because practically everyone with whom I have conversed on the topic has rather brightly suggested that here’s a one with something about him, only to be met with one of my more dubious eyes. Which is not to say I thought he’d stunk out the place so far; more that I hadn’t really been bowled over by his defensive contributions. One of those non-committal shrugs accompanied by one of those non-committal platitudes summed up the AANP take on the chap to date.

That started to change on Wednesday night, when I thought he was note-perfect in his little defensive cameo, to help us see the thing home. It was not an occasion that called for vision and distribution, just clear-headed thinking and a willingness to fling all available limbs into the line of fire.

Having impressed thus, he was given a slightly different remit yesterday, tasked with overseeing defensive matters instead of rather than alongside Romero. With VDV given an hour on the left of the centre-backs, Danso was presumably required to do Romero-type things, such as winning headers and cutting out crosses, and in the first half in particular he impressed in these respects.

If this could be considered an audition of sorts, for the role of Romero understudy, one might suggest that he did enough to earn a couple more stabs. Faultless it wasn’t, but whereas for example Dragusin has sometimes given the impression of a chap who lied in his interview and is being found out now that the real stuff has kicked in, Danso at least gives the impression that he knows what is expected and has played the part before.

4. Tel

A quick word too on Tel, who put in one of those shifts that had me hesitantly hovering the finger over a few different categories.

On the one hand one could make a reasonable argument that, in the first half, the opposing right-back would not have been thrilled to discover that pretty much the entirety of the Tottenham game-plan involved switching the ball to Tel and letting him run. One did not get the impression that the nearest Brighton chappie punched the air and mouthed to his chums, “Leave this one to me” each time the aforementioned routine was put in motion. And if a player’s worth can be gauged by how little thrilled the opposition are by his inputs, then one might suggest Tel added value.

And to embellish the whole argument, one might also point to the fact that it was Tel’s fleetness of foot that won us our penalty. It was clumsy muck from the Brighton squirt, but all the more credit to Tel for enticing such clog-headedness.

On the other hand, however, the AANP map did produce a few frowns as the half wore on, because for all the service he was given, Tel’s ‘End Product’ sack looked pretty empty. The penalty earned is to his credit; but he seemed to have four or five other opportunities to run at his full-back and either tiptoe past him or set up an arriving chum, and I don’t recall him doing either.

Moreover, I do recall him wasting a glorious chance to put us two-nil up later in the first half. One suspects that our bleary-eyed heroes would still have found a way to fritter away such a lead, but nevertheless, it did not reflect too well on young Tel. The disclaimer, however, remains, that this was not really one upon which lasting judgements should be based.

5. The Second Half Hangover

One theory that has reached the AANP ears is that our heroes began the game with the adrenaline of the occasion still coursing through them. With the cheers of the adoring public still ringing in their ears, and the celebratory atmosphere still very much in evidence in the build-up to the game, it has been suggested that come kick-off a rush of euphoria inhabited our heroes, driving them in general, and Bentancur in particular, to impressive heights.

Mark the sequel, however, because the theory continues that by the time the second half scooted into view, that well of adrenaline had begun to run dry. And when that happened, the after-effects of the three-day party really did begin to hit our heroes.

Impressed though I was that none of them actually collapsed on their backs and declared that they had had enough, or crawled over to the nearest lavatory bowl into which they could stick their head, I nevertheless received the distinct impression in that second half that the race was run. The pungent aromas of the previous days’ festivities almost visibly began to creep up on them. While substitutions were made, the fact that those entering the fray had themselves left mountains of evidence of their revelry rather suggested that their impact would be minimal, and so it proved.

However, in the manner that some modern films now do when they try too hard to be clever, I return to the opening line of all this, and stress that this was all pretty inconsequential. Put another way, in years to come, I’m not too sure that many in lilywhite will introduce this as the day on which Spurs lost 4-1, or excitedly babble “I was there on the day we shipped four in the second half alone.”

But “I was there on the day Spurs paraded their European trophy around the pitch”? It’s one to remember.

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

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Aston Villa 2-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1.

Apologies for the tardiness, you know how life is. However, even two sleeps later, one struggles to nail down the silver linings from this one.

Admittedly, this was another fixture quite unashamedly shoved into the “Doesn’t Matter, Don’t Care” pot by Our Glorious Leader – and after the Dejan Kulusevski Episode against Palace the previous week, one did understand his thinking.

Now it is true that our players don’t actually need to be playing competitive matches to pick up their injuries. For instance, our newly-minted Player of the Season, young Bergvall, apparently rolled his ankle on the training pitch. A few months back Solanke’s knee fell off whilst similarly scampering about the roomy pitches of Hotspur Way. One might therefore argue that it was all well and good slapping Romero and VDV in cryo-chambers during the Villa game, and sealing closed the lids, just to make absolutely sure, but merely removing them from the Premier League arena is no guarantee that a piano won’t fall from the sky and onto one of their heads between now and Wednesday night in Bilbao.

However, one still understood Ange’s mentality, having seen the Kulusevski frame irreparably damaged 20 minutes into a meaningless fixture last weekend. With all eggs firmly wedged in the Europa basket there was no way he was going to risk his most prized – and brittle – assets in the final meaningless fixture before Wednesday. Any slightest inclination he might have had towards giving Romero and VDV a chance to break sweat on Friday night would have gone up in a puff of smoke the moment Kulusevski limped off.

Thus it transpired that Mikey Moore was ushered back into the first team changing room. If anyone amongst us had ever taken a look at a new-born foal clambering gingerly to its legs, and immediately written off its chances of surviving more than five minutes in the unforgiving surrounds of the Serengeti, they would have known how to feel when watching young M.M. take to the pitch for kick-off.

Similarly, Sergio Reguilon was reawakened from hibernation, dragged back into the sunlight and told to lace up his boots and blend in with the others as best he could for an hour. Ange could not have made it more obvious that he was fielding the reserves if he had taken out a double-page spread in The Times to advertise the fact.

As it happened, in the first half this assorted crew of outcasts and reserves muddle through. Note the absence of adverb, mind – it would be a stretch to suggest that they muddle through ‘with elan’, or ‘exceptionally well’. One might suggest that they held up an end, if you don’t mind a spot of cricketing parlance. They spat on their hands and toiled away.

To their credit they carried out instructions about as well as could have been hoped, preventing Villa from scoring, albeit this also owed something to some errant finishing and one or two smart-ish stops from young Kinsky. But if the last words ringing in their ears prior to kick-off had been “Try to avoid complete humiliation” then they could probably have patted one another’s backs at half-time on a box emphatically ticked.

In fact, if anything we looked slightly likelier than Villa to score in that first half, in one of those quirks of football that come about when you defend deep for 10 minutes at a time. Every now and then when we cleared our lines it transpired that the Villa mob had inadvertently wandered so high up the pitch that there were actually inviting counter-attack opportunities. Our attacking mob being nothing if not blessed with a spot of pace, this caused a spot of panic for Villa as they rushed back and our heroes came within one well-picked pass of taking the lead.

In a nutshell, that first half struck me as the sort of thing one would get if Nuno were back in charge and had the troops well drilled. Rather a far cry from Angeball, but this is where we find ourselves, what?

The wheels came off somewhat in the second half, as some rather basic defensive lapses let Villa pinch their goals and kill things off. One can wheeze on a little longer about the performance, but it would be pretty redundant because this was never really about the performance itself, but about the wider context – viz. injuries, and, frankly, the general passage of time until Wednesday night.

2. Son

I alluded above to the sense that there were so few silver linings that one could count them on the fingers of one hand and still have surplus. However, AANP is the sort of chap who likes to dwell on the positives, and in the extended cameo from Son one could probably puff out the cheeks with a bit of relief.

For a start, when exiting the stage he was able to do so of his own means and without the need for any medical interjection. ‘Sportsman Leaves Pitch Unaided’ might not sound like the most gripping headline to hook the masses, but at N17 these days it is a bit of an event, and given that this was only his second match back the odds on him emerging unscathed were short enough to have onlookers holding their breath.

And frankly, simply making it that far without slumping to the turf with some unspecified ailment would have sufficed. He need not have touched the ball at all throughout his innings. Walking off unaided having scampered around for an hour would have been marked down as a firm win by the club’s data analysts and medical team.  

As it happened though, Sonny delivered far more than this. He actually displayed a burst of pace that had the opposing full-back regularly panicking – and if that statement has a slightly retro feel to it, it will be because it’s one of the phrases I pulled from the attic and had to blow the dust off before using, having last written it some time back in the 2024/25 season.

And yet there it was, in glorious technicolour, and on more than one occasion. Son would be released around the halfway line, and in rather charming, nostalgic manner, swiftly went through the gears until he was tearing away towards the Villa penalty area.

Admittedly, he tended to make the wrong decision once he reached his destination, his attempts to crown proceedings with an appropriate coup de grace tending to result in a pass behind the accompanying strikers and a lot of arms flung in the air from all concerned – but one thing at a time, what? Having spent all season moaning that the chap’s inner fires have diminished alarmingly, and that he seemed barely able to accelerate beyond a trot, the sight of him whizzing up the flank again was as encouraging as it as startling.

3. The Formation

Beyond the healthy return of Son, however, there was precious little else about which to register signs of life, let alone enthusiasm. Kinsky, I suppose, performed reasonably enough, which is to say that he made saves one would expect a sentient goalkeeper to make. Danso, although hardly the second coming of Toby or Jan, seemed at least to understand the basic requirements of the role.

As mentioned above, poor old Mikey Moore had a tough time of things as the realisation quickly dawned that being a boy in a man’s world is not all japes and frolics. Moore’s struggles to make any sort of imprint on the game without being promptly swatted away by a burly Villa sort struck me as a useful salutary lesson, not just for those amongst us who have called for his regular inclusion (a group amongst whom I often number), but also those who, in a fit of pique and despair, stamp their feet a bit and call for the regular mob to be jettisoned and the kids to be given a chance.

As much as anything else, casting the beady eye over Friday’s proceedings had me wondering quite what formation will be adopted on Wednesday night. Ange seems to have struck oil in Europe with the deployment of two holding midfielders in front of the back-four, roles performed with surprising authority by Messrs Bentancur and Bissouma.

The problems begin, however, further north. With Maddison and Kulusevski out of the picture, the question of who else to throw in there has the brightest minds chewing the lip and scratching the old loaf. Sarr is presumably the next cab on the rank, but an attacking, Number 10 sort of fish he most decidedly is not; so if he played, what would this do to the formation?

A case could be made for dropping Sarr deeper and deploying Bentancur in the more attacking spot, as I recall he did reasonably well in the last World Cup for Uruguay; but this would represent a rather sudden and experimental deviation from the norm.

At times against Villa we appeared to morph gently towards a rather old-fashioned 4-4-2, with Tel supporting Odobert in attack. While this has a certain charm, it again would represent one heck of a gamble. I mean, unveiling a shiny new formation, barely tried and expected to produce the goods in a Cup Final, seems a bit rich, don’t you think? Moreover, donning the tactical hat, a 4-4-2 could potentially leave our heroes outnumbered in midfield – and let’s face it, our midfield has not exactly been Fort Knox even when manned by a trio.

And yet, in terms of personnel, we seem best stocked for some such Two-Upfront jamboree, with either Richarlison, Odobert or Tel at least available to support Solanke. Put another way, the cup overfloweth with forwards, whilst in the realm of attacking midfielders we are decidedly less well equipped.

I don’t really envy Our Glorious Leader having to rearrange the pieces for this one, as whatever he chooses it seems likely that he won’t be able to avoid having to gamble with someone or other in an unfamiliar role. The post-semi final optimism at AANP Towers took a bit of a battering with the injuries to Maddison and then Kulusevski. It’s hope rather than expectation over here.

All pretty dashed exciting though. A European final, and against an eminently-beatable – if challenging – opponent cannot fail to get the juices flowing. For the next few days at least, we can all wave away the League concerns and managerial grumbling, and instead rub the hands in glee and do a spot of dreaming.

COYS!

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 0-2 Palace: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. More Garbage, and a Binary Choice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Kinsky

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The Rollcall of Ignominy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

West Ham 1-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A 90-Minute Shrug of Indifference

A rummy one, what? Our hosts greeted their own Cup Final with a collective shrug of indifference, reflected with pleasing symmetry by both those in the stands and on the pitch.

As for our own heroes, all pretence from Our Glorious Leader that he is selecting the best players for each game, or any such gubbins deemed fit for public consumption, was finally dispensed with. This was unashamedly our reserve crew. The B-team, as it were. Ange essentially rasped as much himself. The purpose of this particular exercise was simply to avoid The Chosen XI picking up any more injuries.

A bit galling, I imagine, for some of the more experienced bods – Danso, Davies et al – to be looked squarely in the eye and told they’re the second string, but such is life, and I expect the astronomical wads of cash stuffed into the monthly envelope help to cushion the blow.

Anyway, with literally nobody on the premises giving the slightest damn about the occasion, I imagine that even the hardiest of lilywhites would have treated this one with a degree of indifference, all eggs now having been so unashamedly shoved into the Europa basket. Where previously every dreary League performance was greeted with bile-filled rage and a volley of rotten fruit from the stalls, yesterday’s was treated with all the dozy engagement of a post-lunch, cocktail-fuelled siesta on a sun-kissed beach.

2. Vicario

Unimportant stroll in the sun it might have been, but old habits die hard in Team Lilywhite, and there was therefore still time for our heroes to throw in the concession of a comfortably avoidable goal.

By my count at least three of our number will need to be dragged into the office, given the intimidating eye and asked in no uncertain terms to explain themselves. Young Master Spence, whose usual exterior cloak of languid unconcern actually fitted the occasion perfectly, was guilty of weighing up the need for positional discipline and then promptly deciding that this wasn’t the occasion for such professionalism.

Instead, he dreamily wandered out towards Wan-Bissaka, and, neither doing one thing nor another when it came to the age-old choice of Clobber-Your-Man or Sit-Back-To-Monitor-The-Overlapping-Forward, seemed a little taken aback to find that W-B had slipped the ball forward for the unopposed Bowen.

Spence having thus been removed from the equation, the onus fell upon Ben Davies to take some drastic disruptive steps. Davies had already given fair notice of the fact that, upstanding sort of chap though he undoubtedly is, the basics of association football are starting to creep a little beyond him. The early yellow card he collected, for uprooting an opponent as if he were a one hundred year-old oak, stank of a chap whose finest years are behind him.

And when W-B played the logical ball forward to Bowen, I was rather aghast to find that Davies was busily setting into motion an ill-advised offside trap. One did not really need 10 years as a Premier League defender to spot that this was a gambit laced with risk, and a tad inappropriate for the circumstances.

The Bowen was a good yard or two onside for a start, something Davies ought to have spotted given his involvement at the heart of the operation. Moreover, stopping in his tracks to try to play the offside game meant that he was rocking on his heels somewhat, while the Bowen was building up a head of steam towards our goal.

The net result was that when Davies eventually set off to take the drastic disruptive steps previously identified, he was a long way behind schedule. In fact, the thought of intervening seemed not even to strike him, until the Bowen was already sizing up his shot. Scuttling across with the air of a man who knows he’s late for an appointment, Ben Davies, like Spence before him, found himself in the awkward position of needing to tap on the shoulder his nearest colleague, for a spot of help with a brewing situation of concern.

That nearest colleague was Vicario. I confess to having greeted the news of his captaincy for the day with a sense of startled alarm. One’s cohort is, after all, made in the image of its leader. The thought of Vicario’s crazy rantings acting as the standard for all in the company fills me with a certain discomfort.

On this occasion, however, his demented ravings were not of concern. The only item on the agenda, really, was the stopping in his tracks of that Bowen. And with the angle tight, and Vicario manning the rear, the Bowen’s prospects seemed contained. He had the option, of course, of unlocking a whole new level of danger by squaring the ball; but of his own personal ambitions, one might have asserted with some confidence that the prospects were limited. All Vicario needed to do was not allow the ball to pass literally through his frame.

Here, however, he blundered severely. The only conceivable shooting option would have been through the legs of Vicario, and one could devote hours of study to the question of how Vicario himself failed to realise this; but fail to realise it was exactly what he did. Rather than arranging the lower limbs in some preventative structure, he hit upon the idea of spreading them widely enough to drive a bus through them.

Peter Schmeichel, I always felt, had the right idea in these situations, he being a fan of the cricket-style ‘long barrier’ technique, of bending one leg to the ground, in order to prevent entry. Vicario, alas, was evidently not an alumnus of this particular school, and it was the work of a moment for the Bowen to poke the ball through his legs.

This having struck me as a glaring faux pas, it was a deeply unimpressed AANP who drank in the remainder; but in his defence, Vicario then earned himself enormous credit in the second half with a pretty spectacular save to maintain parity.

It stemmed from the right clog of Ward-Prowse, from a free-kick, rather inevitably. I’ve often felt that if one were to remove free-kicks one would remove the very essence of Ward-Proswe, and he would gently shimmer out of existence.

Free-kicks are very much still knocking around, however, and when he bent one goalwards from the left, and some bright-eyed chum strained the neck muscles at it, the entire sequence – and particularly the geography of that neck muscle-flick, occurring as it did from inside the 6-yard box – meant that Vicario had precious little time to rearrange the moorings and take appropriate action.

That he did so was immensely to his credit. Even more to his credit was the fact that he was gently ambling to his right as the adventure began, and when neck muscle-f. took effect he found himself needing to transfer all body weight to his left and begin from scratch, as it were.

This he did, however, having the good sense to wave a sturdy arm at the ball as he did so, and the fruit of these labours was that he was able to give the ball a hearty slap in the direction of safety. As such, when the curtain came down and the numbers were counted, Vicario came away with one in the debit column, but a heck of a one in the credit column also.

3. Bissouma, and Various Other Appreciative Nods

This being a sleepy, meandering sort of affair, one does not really need to concern oneself with such niceties as the Outstanding Player of the Match Gong, but nevertheless, I thought I’d throw in my tuppence worth for Yves Bissouma. ‘Outstanding’ is admittedly stretching things somewhat, but after the bravura display on Thursday night, I was intrigued to see whether his high standard would be maintained.

And while he did not exactly hit those Thursday night heights, it struck me that he did well enough. Actually, more striking to me was that he seemed to have a defined role, and carried it out. This could be contrasted to young Sarr, who was definitely in attendance, but seemed to hover about hither and thither with the air of a fellow not entirely sure where he’s supposed to be.

Bissouma, by contrast, seemed fully cognizant of the fact that his role was that of Defensive Midfielder, and he seemed similarly clued up on what this entailed too. And as such his afternoon featured various tackles and interceptions and diligent runs back towards his own goal with a view to putting out fires and generally lending a helping hand. If you were to conclude ‘Solid enough’ with an accompanying shrug, I would suggest that you and I were of one mind.

A gently complimentary nod too towards Herr Danso, who, as far as I can tell, did not put too many feet wrong defensively. One or two of his passes perhaps lacked the requisite layer of polish, but he generally comes across as a Romero minus the hot-headedness, and that AANP can get on board with.

Young Spence generally kept to himself throughout, but in the second half was eventually persuaded to explorer the upper environs of the pitch, and did so to wholesome effect.

I was also rather taken by the extended Mikey Moore cameo. Every time he touched the ball he seemed to induce a spot of panic in the other lot, drawing a foul here and an ill-advised lunge there. Our Glorious Leader would no doubt insist that he is protecting the young imp’s development by rationing his minutes quite so frugally, but I personally was thrilled to see him unwrapped again.

If there were a concern at AANP Towers it was that Kulusevski continues to look decidedly undercooked. In the first half of the season some of those barrelling runs of his appeared unstoppable. Now, he seems more of a headless chicken, channelling his inner Lucas Moura to go wandering off down all sorts of odd cul-de-sacs, with no obvious end-goal in mind, and no particular advantages gained. With Maddison seemingly unlikely to be available for Thursday, there will be onus on Kulusevski to contribute rather more meaningfully to the operation.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Liverpool 5-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A New The Same Old Low

Our ongoing rotten form throws up an interesting linguistic challenge, because as each fresh shower of absolute tripe is unleashed upon our eyes, I’m tempted to mutter something to the effect that we have plumbed fresh new depths. It seems the appropriate thing to say, accompanied perhaps by a weary sigh and general drooping of the soul.

The thing is, though, we haven’t plumbed new depths. That is to say, these depths aren’t actually new. Rock bottom? Absolutely. An embarrassment to the club? Without doubt. But plumbing new depths? Well there I politely clear the throat, raise an objecting forefinger and point out that while we reached our lowest ebb probably about six months ago, we just keep revisiting the same dashed ebb over and over, on a weekly basis. We repeatedly plumb the same depth. It’s the lowest of the low, but it’s been the same one for weeks. These finer points in life matter.

Anyway, yesterday’s rot was every inch as bad as we all anticipated. As my Spurs-supporting chum Mark put it to me before kick-off, “What is even the point of this game?” The other lot had some meaning attached to this – and I noted with a few eyerolls and impatient clicks of the tongue that the assorted commentary mob couldn’t contain their joy at that particular narrative playing out – but our heroes, true to form, seemed to resent being there, dash it.  

Now admittedly I don’t speak entirely without bias, but I’m inclined to suggest that we fans are entitled to approach each fixture with increasing apathy. Feeding, as we do, off whatever fare is served up for us on the pitch, most kind-hearted bystanders would understand the weary shrug with which matchday is now greeted. The sentiment mentioned above, of poor old Mark, would be appreciated.

For the players, however, to down tools and give up on things when initial pleasantries have only just been exchanged absolutely stinks the place out. The problem at this stage is that these apathetic sleepwalks have become the norm. A few months back the management gang might have taken one look at that performance and locked them in the changing room for a good couple of hours, spewing some bile and quite possibly flinging one or two blunt instruments about the place.

Now, however, this level of dross is just the norm. Unless it’s the Europa, whichever eleven is selected will mooch about the place with all the quiet solemnity of a team of pallbearers, and patiently wait for the other lot to do as they please before slinking off quietly at the end.

2. The Brief Light of Hope

Oddly enough, our heroes actually began things with a spot of buck and vim yesterday. Maddison, to his credit, seemed to take seriously the whole armband business, and for the opening ten or so minutes appeared determined to leave his mark on proceedings with some contribution or other.

Solanke too appeared rather taken by the prospect of a few rounds with van Dijk. When he popped up with his goal I doubt that any lilywhite in their right mind expected that it would last, but it at least gave our lot something to cling onto. Some defensive discipline, I caught myself thinking, and a bit of grit and whatnot, and we might make an event of this.

Looking back, I can see the futility of that particular thought process. I’m not sure I’ve ever witnessed a Spurs side display defensive discipline, or grit, in the last four decades, so there wasn’t much reason to expect we’d suddenly unearth it yesterday, but there we were. One early goal, and the light of hope flickered away like the dickens.

Naturally, it all fell apart pretty swiftly, but as ever it was the manner of the collapse that irked. I suppose one might point out that for several of the goals (and near misses) we did at least have healthy numbers stationed about the place. That at least reflects a degree of willing amongst the cast members.

But by golly they were a directionless rabble. Looking suspiciously like they’d never undertaken a defensive drill in their lives, and also raising the question of whether they’d ever actually met each other before, they crashed about it into each other and spun on their axes a few times, and generally scurried this way and that to precisely zero effect.

Liverpool passed around them whenever they felt the urge, and if they felt particularly perky they even popped the ball into the net, so that they could go back and start again from a different angle. It all bore a lot of similarity to those lows of previous weeks.

The whole process was so numbing that I can barely muster the energy to prattle on about how, somehow, the players do seem capable of raising themselves for Europa games, and how these appalling league performances are therefore all the more galling to drink in.

Given that the standard surges upwards a few notches for the Europa games, Our Glorious Leader is squandering chance after chance to stock up on some goodwill in these league games. A bit of the old We’ll-Fight-For-This-If-It’s-The-Last-Thing-We-Do might not necessarily have stopped Liverpool winning yesterday, but it would have gone down well with the paying public. “Bested though we were,” the patrons might have remarked on the way home, “that Liverpool bunch at least knew they were in a scrap”.

Instead, as with just about every other League game since early autumn, down we went with little more than an apologetic shrug and a stifled yawn. Ben Davies waved his arms. Djed Spence tried a shot from 40 yards. Brennan Johnson was, apparently, there. Ange’s repeated inability to get a tune out of this lot week after week does currently suggest that a life-size cardboard cut-out of him would fare just as well. Europa trophy or not, he’s currently managing himself out of the job.

3. A Musing or Two on Archie Gray

I’m tempted to pack up the writing materials, pour myself a bourbon and stare aimlessly into the mid-distance until Thursday night. One point of note did dolefully emerge above the rest of the dirge, however. The starting XI included the intriguing sight of young Archie Gray in midfield.

Now of course, the young bean won us all over pre-Christmas by taking the plunge – or, rather being shoved in without much say in the matter – in central defence, and there he did one heck of a job. One of those thoughtful eggs, it turned out, who does his defending by reading the game and quietly inserting himself in appropriate stations, rather than crashing about the place with Romero-esque lunacy, AANP took rather a shine to him, and I was not in a minority.

Buoyed by the earnest young fellow’s performances at the base of defence, much excited chatter followed about how he might therefore fare when in his preferred position, in midfield.

As it happens, I was – and remain – a little dubious about the prospect of Gray midfielding away. The way I see it, he is no midfield enforcer, having already demonstrated at centre-back that he prefers the subtly timed interception to the crunching tackle. Neat and tidy he undoubtedly is in possession, but as we already have approximately umpteen of those exact models beetling about the place, I’d actually prefer he stays at centre-back, where he can mop up defensively and then distribute with a spot of vision and technique. We have numerous problems in midfield, but Archie Gray does not really strike me as the solution.

Anyway, yesterday he was given 45 minutes in midfield, and while half a game is nowhere near enough to pass judgement on a young man making his way in life in a new position, this was nevertheless the dampest of squibs.

Put bluntly, I don’t actually recall Gray even being present amongst the rabble. I recall Liverpool slicing straight through us at will, typically in those precise positions that Gray was presumably tasked with patrolling, but of Gray himself I remember precious little. A midfield terrier who prowled and snapped, yesterday he most definitely was not. I don’t particularly remember him contributing in possession either. In fact, if it weren’t for the pre-match graphic stating emphatically that he was amongst those present, I wouldn’t have believed he played at all.

To repeat, half a match in a new role is no amount of time to judge a chap. To hammer home this particular point, I cast the mind back to Bergvall, who for his first half-dozen or so Europa appearances gave every indication of floundering wildly, before finding his feet to such an extent that he is now first choice. Gray, therefore, has plenty of time on his side to ease himself into things. For now, however, we presumably revert back to Bentancur on Thursday night.

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Forest: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Not a Bad Performance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Tel and Odobert

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

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

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

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

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

3. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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