Tag: Radu Dragusin

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-4 Arsenal: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Tudor Reign

It would be a stretch to say that AANP went into this one feeling positively optimistic, that term being officially defined by the dictionary as “Feeling bobbish, to the extent that when asked for a score prediction one tips the cap at a jaunty angle and smiles a particularly devilish smile”. This was most certainly not AANP pre-match. After all, new manager or not, it was still the same clueless rabble tasked with going out onto the pitch.

Nevertheless, if anything were going to put a little pep into the AANP step, the replacement of that last chap by literally anyone else was a sure-fire bet. It could have been you, it could have been me – as it happened, it was this Igor Tudor chap, and while I don’t know much about his history, the one thing I do know is that he is not, and never has been, Thomas Frank. This represented a definite and sizeable tick against his name.

As hinted at above, there was of course, a limit to what Gospodin Tudor could do ahead of this one. An available manager with a spot of experience in fighting short-term fires he might be, but he’s not a bally magician. Expecting him to plot a way of running rings around the other lot was probably a bit much. Realistically, if he had learnt everyone’s names he had probably hit the acceptable target for week one.

So when our heroes came bounding onto the pitch, AANP’s expectations were suitably limited. To their credit, they certainly did not lack for enthusiasm. Word had evidently got around that North London expected, as a minimum, a demonstration that this occasion mattered; and accordingly, to a man, they tore about the place in the early knockings, racing after the ball like cheetahs spotting some lesser beasts in the Serengeti.

However, what added an odd, and slightly comical edge to proceedings, was that for all their gusto, our lot couldn’t actually get near the ball. For the opening half hour we barely made it into the Woolwich half. In fact, in that opening half hour I’m not sure we touched the ball at all more than half a dozen times.

Every now and then, Bissouma or VDV or whoever it happened to be would successfully get a toe onto the ball to ram it out of play, and the place would erupt. And swept up in the matter, I happily piped up with a throaty roar of approval too. But on catching my breath, the awkward realisation dawned that while we treating every stumbling half-tackle to a standing ovation and a general slapping of each other’s backs, for the other 99 per cent of the time the other lot were running rings around us.

Team Lilywhite, by contrast, could barely find time to gasp for breath before being dragged beneath the surface again. Of a neat, one-touch triangle there was no sign. Actual sustained pressure and creation of chances was the stuff of fantasy. In that first half, for all the good, honest beads of perspiration, the only real triumphs were the occasional tackles that sent the ball out of touch. As brave new eras go, it was fair to say that this one had yet to build up a head of steam.

Still, we snaffled a goal out of nothing, and made it to half-time battered and bloodied but with a faint pulse still registering. Given that the other lot know how to duff up a good thing better than most, there seemed to be a sliver of hope. Moreover, our eleven heroes out on the pitch seemed not to have registered how obviously second-best they were, and were still gamely charging after every loose ball, which was rather charming.

Alas, that was as good as it got, as Woolwich forgot how to choke, the tight margins went against us, the absence of so many from the bench loomed rather starkly into view and what challenge we had offered rather seeped away.

Despite the incessant crowing from my Woolwich-supporting chums over the last 24 hours, AANP won’t be losing too much sleep over this particular reverse, it having been against one of the more organised and efficient mobs around; but with a full week ahead to roll up the sleeves and bark out instruction in not-quite-perfect English, I would jolly well expect a Tudor-inspired uptick to commence from next weekend at Fulham.  

2. Irritating Mistakes

Expectations having been dutifully managed, even at half-time it seemed that a solid hammering was the likeliest outcome, but I was nevertheless rather miffed that in the second half we rather gifted the other lot their goals.

The third – which struck me as the mortal blow – may have ended up in our net via a circuitous route, replete with ricochets and stumbles at every turn, but the dashed thing came about because of a pretty gormless piece of play in the first place from young Dragusin.

A shame, because in the first half, the chap seemed to understand the assignment, and by and large did what was required. While I doubt I will ever back in him a foot-race, and his distribution always prompts a sharp intake of AANP breath, he is the sort of lumbering unit who seems to enjoy a spot of last-ditching in his own penalty area, and in the first half he took the opportunity to demonstrate this capacity with a handful of timely headers, blocks and general inserting of self into the sort of cramped positions that prevented Woolwich sorts from shooting freely.

He gummed up operations considerably for that third though. Pape Sarr, just inside his own half, had the bright idea to send the ball back to Dragusin, outside his own area and under no pressure, but – and as it turned out, critically – at head-height. This was admittedly a complicating factor. One would have hoped that, seasoned international that he is, Dragusin might have been able to bring the thing under a degree of control, perhaps pulling it down closer to earth before sending it off into the heavens.

Instead, he chose the rather dubious option of sending forward a header at an equally awkward height, towards Bissouma. While I suppose one might half-heartedly applaud the fact that he found his own teammate, any further praise rather sticks in the throat, because there are players a dashed sight better than Bissouma who would have treated such an unhelpful pass with a wobble and a murderous glare back at him.

Anyway, Bissouma, having expended all his useful energy in the first half, was not about to battle for a sub-standard pass in his direction, and before you could murmur “Dash it, one good pass and they’re in on goal”, that horrible lot were in on goal.

Similarly, already in a state of significant disgruntlement by the time the 94th minute rolled around, the pompous dallying of young Spence did little to gruntle me. That Spence is a pest. He undoubtedly has a trick or two in his locker, and one is gripped by the urge to yelp “Ole!” whenever his elastic limbs bamboozle an opponent and magic the ball the other side of them – but the ability to drag the ball around an opponent dost not a Pele make.

High up on the Tudor To-Do List should be the task of shaking Spence violently by the shoulders and drilling into him that he has not half as good as he thinks he is, and should just focus on the basics until we are at least three goals up in any given match.

Being far too convinced of his own abilities, Spence attempted to slalom his way around a couple of the opposition rotters when inside his own area, and not for the first time when attempting such ill-advised tomfoolery was left with a whole omlette’s worth on his face. Woolwich emerged with the ball, and before you could murmur “Dash it, one good pass and they’re in on goal again”, that horrible lot were in on goal again.

This is not to suggest that had every individual error been removed we would have gone toe-to-toe and emerged triumphant – but no need to roll out the red carpet for them, what?

I do sympathise to an extent – willing nibs like Palhinha and Archie Gray did their damnedest, but made the sort of positional mistake (for the second) that one might expect of a central midfield being asked to slot in at the back and hope no-one notices; while for the fourth poor old Archie Gray put in the sort of challenge that one might expect from a boy in a man’s world, and was more or less shoved out of the way without a second thought by that Gyokeres rotter.

So while these shortcomings are hardly the faults of Messrs P. and G., the more block-headed errors detailed previously were entirely avoidable.

3. A Forlorn Grumble

For the avoidance of doubt, even had we eked out a surreptitious draw, it would have been quite the act of larceny. Defeat by a three-goal margin sounded about right.

Nevertheless, had the disallowed Kolo-Muani goal been allowed to stand, many a neutral onlooker would have rubbed their hands and licked their lips in anticipation of Woolwich imploding once more. No knowing how events might have panned out of course, but in the absence of any hint of attacking patterns, one has to cling to whatever passing wreckage presents itself.

One understands why the goal was disallowed – two hands to the back does have a pretty incriminating look about it. And a standard AANP motto at this point is “Don’t give the referee the option”. Put another away, if R.K-M had kept his hands to himself, we might have jigged off down the High Road with a point in the bag.

However, even the two-handed contact, such as it was, was hardly enough to send Gabriel flailing off in the air like that. If you don’t mind a spot of top-level physiology, when one unexpectedly takes a bump or stumble, and finds themselves off-balance, the instinct is to shoot the hands downwards, to prevent the fall. Cushion the blow, as it were. It’s what might call Nature’s Way.

Closer inspection of that bounder Gabriel, however, reveals that on receiving his pat on the back he flung his arms upwards, a sure sign of a spot of the old Hollywood. And not just his arms in fact. The irritating drip flung out every available limb and fairly propelled himself through the air, just to make sure that he made the highlights reel. It was actually a pretty risky manoeuvre, for he would have looked quite the dimwit if the ref had rolled his eyes and waved matters on.

As it turns out, the Match of the Day hawks were also onto this, pointing out that earlier this season a similar push by Liverpool’s Ekitike on our very own Cristian Romero went unpunished, to the tune of a goal conceded, so there’s certainly a precedent for this sort of thing being allowed to fly. (Another moan about this might be to ask whether a penalty would have been awarded had a similar push been effected upon a striker – one assumes not).

To repeat, that moment is by no means the reason we lost yesterday. Our latest Glorious Leader did at least seem to spark some life and willing into the troops; next up he simply needs to instil at least the faintest hint of tactical strategy.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Man City: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Solanke

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Simons

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

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

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

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

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

3. Dragusin

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

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

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

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

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

4. An Odd Second Half Turnaround

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs news, rants

The End of The Postecoglou Era: 6 Tottenham Talking Points

So Our Glorious Leader is gone – long live whichever poor squirt is roped in next. But while we await the appointment of Grandmaster Levy’s next wretched plaything, some reflections on the end of the Postecoglou era.

1. League Form

Might as well head straight to the meaty stuff – Ange was elbowed out for finishing 17th. Shiny European pots be damned, seemed to be the gist of the farewell message from the club (although I was rather tickled by the line that burbled “We are extremely grateful to Ange”, it prompting me to wonder what ingratitude would look like).

Now, it’s a bit early in the piece, but I’m going to set off on my first digression already, and it’s because one well-meaning sort put it to me recently that if the bottom three hadn’t been so bad we might have been relegated.

AANP isn’t really much of a lad for historical hypotheticals. Suggest to me that if such and such had happened differently some time in the past then things would have turned out a dashed sight differently, and you’ll get a pretty blank stare in return. Possibly a gentle sigh too. The reason being I just don’t see the point in that brand of thinking. Far more useful to discuss what actually happened.

So for avoidance of doubt, Ange wrote off the League campaign precisely because the bottom three were so bad that there was no danger of relegation, instead shoving every available egg into his Europa basket and taking his plunge.

If that theory were cleared with Daniel Levy back in January, it’s a pretty safe bet that none involved anticipated finishing 17th – but finish 17th we did.

One can throw in last season’s harvest too, although there the plot does thicken a bit, as both sides begin marking their run-up. The Pro-Ange brigade point to 5th, followed by a trophy, and rather pointedly say no more but dish out one of those pointed stares.

This line of reasoning rather tugs at the heart-strings. Who amongst us can forget the dizzy highs of last summer, when Angeball fizzed us to the top of the pile, and not just that, but did so while peddling some absolutely whizz-popping football too? When put like that, one does become rather misty-eyed and start murmuring guff about glory, and tradition, and whatnot.

The more mischievous amongst the Pro Ange brigade could even evoke the entirely accurate gambit that Ange’s record reads 5th in his first season, and CL qualification in his second, the whole thing garnished with a trophy – a factually correct interjection guaranteed to prompt a pretty passionate response either way.

However, at this point the Ange Out mob roll their eyes and interrupt, to make clear that, after the first 10 games of last season, our form fell off a cliff. And nor did it stop there. I don’t know if you’ve ever fallen off a cliff, but as I understand, though deeply unpleasant, the whole experience is done in a matter of seconds, as Gravity takes charge and the ground looms into view pretty quickly. The problem with our heroes under Ange was that having fallen off that cliff, they just kept right on falling. In fact, our form continued to plunge in pretty uninterrupted fashion for about 18 months. From Nov ’23 right through to May ’25, to be precise. Which is a heck of a long time to be falling, by any metric.

It’s a punchy argument. If you pick up the thread after the 10th game of last season (Chelsea at home, for the evocative amongst you) our Win-Draw-Loss record for the remainder, of 12-4-12, was at best middling – and for avoidance of any further doubt, this season’s numbers read a rather ghastly 11-5-22.

And having had a season and a half to weave his magic, the Ange Out contingent continue, rather hotting up at this point, what the hell reason is there to expect things to pick up next time around?

2. Change the Squad, Not the Manager?

It’s difficult to counter that one, but AANP is nothing if not wilfully obtuse. Passing mules have been known to pause and take notes when catching yours truly digging in the heels to defend the indefensible.

And the point I swoop in on here is that the problem was not so much the manager as the squad. From January, Ange opted to keep the top-tier performers for European jollies, instead shoving out the reserves for the weekend’s PL appointments.

In particular, Messrs VDV and Romero were strictly curfewed. Ange’s medical understanding may have raised a few eyebrows over the last two seasons, but if there’s one thing he clocked it’s that VDV is constructed of balsa wood and blu-tac, and that the risk of damage to his various moving parts ought to be minimised.

As a result, we regularly fulfilled our PL commitments with such luminaries as Dragusin, Davies, Gray and Danso manning the back-door, and while the latter pair in particular showed that they could just about keep their heads above water, there was an unmistakeable drop in quality.

That focuses on the centre-backs alone, but the point about the drop in quality – or the alternative, of running into the ground poor saps such as Solanke – suggests that ours was not a squad good enough to compete in two different competitions.

And, crucially, I see no reason why any new manager will find the situation to be any different when trying to balance Champions League with Premier League next season (plus a domestic cup or two).

As I saw it put neatly elsewhere a week or two ago, rather than changing manager, our lot would do well to improve the playing squad.

3. The Game Is About Glory?

A well-worn argument this, so if you think you’re better off skipping over this bit and casting the eye instead over the next chapter, AANP fully understands.

The nub of this one is that finishing 5th – or indeed 2nd – is all well and good, and buys the club a ticket to the land of milk and honey – but the satisfaction of scanning the league table after Matchday 38 and seeing the club in the top five rows of a glorified spreadsheet does not compare to the feelings brought about by that Wednesday night in Bilbao, or the Friday afternoon on the High Road.

I suppose going 17 years without a trophy added a certain colour to the moment – I can’t imagine City fans feel the same giddy ecstasy when they lift the PL pot year after year – but there are just no words to describe that unique sense of joy felt when we won the Europa League last month, what?

The point I’m getting at is that winning a trophy is, to an extent, the point of the whole thing. When the great D.B. rattle off that line about the game being about the glory, he knew what he was about.

So for those who click the tongue and point out we finish 17th – which, as alluded to above, is a robust riposte, which does merit a spot of animated discussion – I wonder where the line is drawn. That is to say, at what point is the absence of a trophy justified by the league position.

At this point, I like to grab a notepad, produce a pencil, and start to draw up these things systematically. Starting with the next spot up – 16th, and no trophy, is pretty obviously not going to cut it. A manager would need the world’s most extenuating circumstances, and probably a top of the range lawyer too, to escape the sack in that instance.

And one can shimmy up the table a bit further with the same conclusion. 11th or 10th, without a trophy, would almost certainly have seen Levy give his axe a merry swing, and I’m not sure too many of the diehards would have been able to argue against any such move (which might make Messrs Silva and Frank shuffle their feet a little nervously).

But what about 6th, without a trophy? This does of course simplify the argument rather deviously, for the Postecoglou trajectory has done little to suggest that 6th will be in the offing next season (although the squad depth argument could again be invoked here, as I genuinely wonder if the greatest managers in history of the game could poke and prod our current squad into a decent CL run and a 6th placed finish).

Nevertheless, the question remains of whether 6th without a trophy would have been acceptable. If in two seasons’ time, the new chap at the helm has on his CV a record of 5th – as per Ange – followed by 6th, and no trophy, is he treated to a P45 and bland social media announcement? Anyone waiting for Daniel Levy to open up and treat them to a detailed discourse on precisely which position is acceptable to him in these circumstances might be advised to pack some supplies and a good book. We’ve had all the explanation we’re going to get from that quarter.

Nevertheless, given that Ange’s decision to write off the league and win a trophy did not cut the mustard in the corridors of power at N17, the question of which league position would have been acceptable without a trophy burns pretty feverishly here.

4. Our Next Glorious Leader

The other gripe here at AANP Towers is that the names being touted do not exactly inspire confidence. The new chap will, of course, have the full AANP backing. Nothing but.

However, Frank’s recent finishes are 10th, 16th, 9th and 13th; and Silva’s are 11th, 13th and 10th, with nary a pot to wave aboard an open-topped bus between the pair. I confess, in a moment of weakness, I flung up a careless hand and declined to check the records of the other names being bandied about the place, but I’m willing to assert that they in terms of league finishes – and that seems to be the currency de jour – this mob are not exactly the new incarnations of Ferguson and Wenger.

Now, extenuating circumstances seep from the walls when discussing this lot. Weaker squads, limited finances, impressive over-achievement – anyone labelling either Frank or Silva (or Iranola or any of the other lot) as King of the Mugs would probably need a sit-down and a bit of a talking to. These are knowledgeable beans, and they’ve done pretty impressive stuff in their own little contexts.

Another point worth jabbing a finger at is that one M. Pochettino Esq. was hardly swimming in silverware and dripping with Top Four finishes when he rocked up in N17. And indeed, those who did arrive with gleaming CVs did not take the club much further than we had previously been.

Nevertheless, sacking one manager – who’s just brought in a European trophy – simply to eye up someone who’s best efforts are mid-table water-treading is a bit of a hard sell. AANP is not easily swayed on matters of importance. The argument for the next man in will need to be a convincing one.

5. Rebuild

On top of which, anyone expecting an instant and successful transformation probably needs a friendly hand on their shoulder, and a bit of an explanation of how life works at Tottenham Hotspur. And frankly, I do not have the moral fibre to sit through yet another dashed two-year rebuild.

The current squad might lack depth, but it is – or was – gradually being fashioned into a model that played a certain way. What formation will they all have to adapt to next, in the space of two months? Which poor eggs will find themselves surplus to requirements, having just spent the last two years pruning their deliveries to cater for the previous Big Cheese? If the contemplation of this sort of thing has you wearily reaching for a beakerful of something strengthening you are not alone.

It should also be noted that the players have evidently been tripping over themselves to bash out their social media tributes to the previous incumbent. No doubt they’ll all line up to parrot the appropriate lines when the new fellow is installed, but even the most cynical amongst us will probably have detected that the current vintage had a fondness for Ange. A dashed shame that that now goes the way of all flesh – and I for one am a mite concerned that certain amongst our number might take this as a cue to jump ship, in what one might call a Ruddock-Venables Gambit.

6. Timing

I could go on – so I will. Having waited 17 years to win a trophy, we were only given 16 days to enjoy it, dash it, before this fresh hell was sprinkled about the place.

In truth, if you’re going to sack your manager, better to get a wriggle on pronto, as I believe Shakespeare more or less said. No point in letting the blade come down in early August if you can do it in early June.

What does peeve considerably, however, is that the finishing touches have evidently not yet been applied to the bagging of the new chappie. Who knows, perhaps the opening touches have not yet been applied either? Whatever the case, the absence of touches is disconcerting.

I cannot be the only lilywhite considerably stung by the farce of the post-Jose period, in which the good ship Hotspur careered rather wildly this way and that in search of a new manager, publicly courting and being rejected by one knowing soul after another.

Liverpool, Woolwich et al are already cherry-picking new blood for their squads, and meanwhile our heroes mooch around in limbo. (And if anyone mentions to me that Ben Davies’ contract has been extended they’ll be subject to one of my more withering efforts.)

However, in moments of trial and tribulation AANP has often found that the best course of action is to seek solace from the first two Terminator films, and while it’s not strictly true that there is no fate but what we make – our fate being pretty firmly within the paws of Grandmaster Levy – it as at least true that the future is not set, so perhaps we can contemplate the prospect of having even more glory shovelled our way next time out.

As for Ange, decades hence when lilywhite fans look back, maybe they will chunter about finishing 17th or maybe they won’t; but he earns his lifetime’s free drinks at AANP Towers for taking us on one heck of a ride, winning us a trophy and, for a few days at least, bringing a joy to the place like none I had previously experienced.

Need some Spurs-based reading material to see you through the summer? Want to relive the utterly bonkers ride that was Ange’s first season at Spurs? ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is available for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99) 

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Spurs match reports

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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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-0 Elfsborg: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Young People

I don’t know if you feel the same way, or if you’ve even noticed – because it does slightly creep up – but generally when the credits roll on a THFC performance these days, I drag myself away feeling like someone who’s just witnessed the public beheading of a cherished friend. A tad gloomy about things, I mean. A twinge of regret about how things have panned out.

With all that in mind, I was as shocked as anyone else to find myself toddling off last night with a pretty satisfied smile across the map. Goodness knows we needed a lift – it’s all very well one bleating about taking the rough with the smooth, but that does require a little smoothness every now and then.

The surprise of it all, of course, was that the good news came in the form of three of the more junior members of the ensemble.

1.1 Scarlett

Scarlett seems to have been knocking around the place for an eternity, without ever having actually interrupted any conversations in order to announce himself. Just sort of lurked in the background. Truth be told, having learnt that he had left his teens behind, and noting that his various loan spells had underwhelmed, I’d gone in for a spot of the old Judge-Jury-Executioner and written off the poor squirt as biffing along where Parrott, Coulthirst and Mahorn had gone before.

Last night does not necessarily change that particular narrative I suppose, but irrespective of whatever happens next, seeing the young fish take to the air, make his connection and dash off for his knee-slide certainly made one rise from the seat and offer some pretty heartfelt congratulations. Impossible not to be delighted for the chap.

Amidst all the noise, I’d also hammer home that it was a pretty accomplished header too. Goodness knows there have been plenty in lilywhite over the years who have adopted that sort of location and then completely sloshed the coup de grâce, directing the thing upward or westward or anywhere else but the net. Scarlett did a nifty job of getting on top of the ball, and then putting a few more eggs in the ‘Direction’ basket than the ‘Power’ one.  

1.2 Ajayi

Young Ajayi was one whose name I knew, but beyond that drew a bit of a blank. I must confess that it was therefore with a bit of a shrug that I greeted his arrival, wishing him well of course, and all the other pleasantries, but devoting more effort to a brief analysis of Richarlison’s latest pitch.

I suppose if one were of stony heart and cantankerous nature one might opine that Ajayi failed to read the mood of the room by some distance, for his immediate decision to put his head down and weave straight through the heart of the Elfsborg defence was pretty significantly at odds with what had gone before.

It was pretty sensational stuff, and from a most unexpected source. The Swedish mob seemed to have settled into a rhythm by that point, evidently pretty confident that whatever we lobbed at them they’d happily enough catch and lob straight back out at us. The use of Kulusevski through the centre struck me as making a significant difference (oh that he might have played there more in recent weeks), but in general Elfsborg gave the impression of being capable of batting until close of play without too many scares.

So I suppose when the orators murmur about the fearlessness of youth, they have in mind specifically the mazy little dribble of Ajayi last night. I’m not really one for pyromania, preferring a whiskey and an improving book for my evening entertainment, but I imagine that if one were to sprinkle petroleum about the place and throw a lighted match, the effect amongst those in the vicinity would be pretty similar to that of Ajayi’s run at the Eflsborg defenders last night. In short, wild panic ensued.

Yet another tip of the cap to Scarlett, for knowing exactly how to deliver his lines, prodding the ball back to Ajayi in what turned out to be the perfect one-two. Ajayi’s adrenaline took care of the rest, and once again, that rather avuncular pride took hold of AANP. Another, I mused, who, until the day he dies, can always boast of having scored for Tottenham Hotspur, lucky blighter.

1.3 Mikey Moore

Mikey Moore’s effort was very much ‘icing on cake’ stuff, the returns by that point being pretty much in. Unlike the other two, MM’s involvement in first team affairs for the foreseeable seems a given, so if he hadn’t scored last night one would have batted it aside. Plenty more opportunities, would have been the gist.

Still, he seemed to enjoy the moment, and it was well worth the wait. It’s not a huge stretch to say the young bean has been threatening something of that ilk for a while now.

It was a goal that showcased numerous different impressive qualities. In the first place he displayed a spot of upper-body ballast of which I hadn’t thought him capable, in winning a brief, preliminary wrestling match just north of the centre-circle.

He then channelled his inner Ajayi to go tootling off past flailing Elfsborg lower limbs, and mercifully slathered enough precision on his finish that the slightly below-par power levels were but a footnote.

1.4 The Future?

Ajayi’s goal in particular was a real triumph for the virtues of fresh-faced sorts waltzing in and doing as they please. There was a distinct sense, as he set off, that here was a youthful sort happy to take a risk, without feeling weighed down by the prospect of lusty advice raining down from the South Stand should he soil the operation.

There will presumably now be a bit of a movement for binning the old guard and shoving all chips in with the young people. AANP, being an understanding cove, would patiently hear out this argument, whilst sipping from one of the older bourbons in the collection, before politely suggesting an alternative. Rather than swinging wildly to the extreme of a Moore-Scarlett-Ajayi front-line to see us through the upcoming February crunch, I’d probably advocate for throwing them on late on, initially at least. If, as seems to be the case with Mikey Moore, they seem able to cut a rug at the top level, then by all means shove them in at the deep end.

The case of Will Lankshear strikes me as the cautionary tale in amongst all this, in that the young egg is currently undercooked. I’m not sure anyone would benefit if, for example, in the absence of Solanke, he started every game; but using him, Scarlett or AN Other specifically as a late sub might be worth a whirl.

However, rather than bog oneself down in all that speculative muck, far better for now simply to bob along on the unexpected success of last night.

2. Van de Ven

The other roaring success, which has been rather elbowed off into the background, was the return of VDV.

And golly, what a return. It has, of course, been an absolute age since he roamed the corridors a robust picture of health, so the memory actually fogged over rather, when picking up the threads of his storyline. I therefore expected to see him bounding off in a whirr of legs every now and then, and not much else. Speed, the recesses of my memory informed me, was pretty much the essence of Micky Van de Ven.

So you could have knocked me down with a feather when young Master VDV started showcasing a whole reel of impressive character traits, none of which actually had anything to do with jet-heeled pace.

I simply had no idea, for a start, of quite how strapping and weighty a chap he is, but before he did anything else he could be seen trotting along towards an Elfsborg forward and administering a shove with sufficient meaning behind him to uproot the poor soul and leave him scrambling to stay upright. I suppose it might be that these were particularly lightweight forwards, but even so, I did widen the eyes a bit.

I was also rather taken by VDV’s penchant for sniffing out danger from about a mile off, and tearing up into midfield to add a layer of protection. If, for example, our forward mob over-egged things outside the Elfsborg area, and the ball was cleared up towards the middle third, where Ben Davies or Bentancur or someone were walking a bit of a tightrope, from nowhere VDV would hurtle into frame and clear things up pronto.

This might not sound so remarkable I suppose, particularly as it tended to amount to little more than throw-in, or a square pass infield; but the contrast with what happened after half-time, and indeed what has been happening for several weeks previously, was pretty stark.

Dragusin is an earnest enough fellow, but in the last three months or so I don’t really remember him reading danger from afar, and then doing the necessary mental arithmetic to arrive on time in midfield to intercept danger before it even begins. More of a one for hanging back and chewing furiously, is Dragusin.

The one time I do recall him trying to step up and usefully intervention, he rather butchered his lines, in the league game against Liverpool just before half-time, mistiming his forward charge and leaving a seismic hole behind him.

Another bonus of having VDV in situ was that Leicester-esque situations could be avoided – by which I mean the defence, lacking pace, stationing themselves so far back that the distance to the midfield mob required packing some supplies and factoring in a break for refreshment. When Porro and Bentancur muddled their passes on Sunday, the Leicester lad was able to stroll about 15 yards unopposed. No such risk of that when VDV is around, as his pace seemed to allow him to hover a bit closer to current events.

3. Son

Another element that could pretty easily fall between the cracks was that in the first half Sonny had an absolute blast against the poor old Elfsborg right-back. When I say that the young twig was twisted in every conceivable direction, and regularly deposited on his derriere, I’m not sure I even begin to cover the facts sufficiently.

If the score had not still been 0-0, and our lot not been in the middle of an almighty slump, one might have quietly tapped Sonny on the shoulder and asked him to dial things down a little. For the sake of dignity and whatnot. Few people on the planet could have been as relieved as that right-back to see Sonny removed at half-time.

The curious thing about Son’s performance was that one would hesitate to describe it as a return to form, per se. A return to form would, I fancy, carry the implication that at some point Son’s lightning pace was to the fore.

Last night, however, pace didn’t really enter into things. It is true that having twisted his man into a sackful of knots and left him on the ground, Son did then scuttle off towards the byline; but this tended just to be a burst over 5 yards, and with the defender already writhing cluelessly on the floor rather than setting off in hot pursuit.

And given that the whole game was played in the Elfsborg half, this was not a game in which Son raced from halfway onto a pass played into space, like the Son of old having been picked out by Kane.

That Son repeatedly skewered his man is true enough; but to suggest that it was a return of the good old Sonny of yesteryear slightly misses the target.

Either way, however, it was pretty riotous stuff to behold – and all before the cheering finale provided by the youth choir.

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Spurs match reports

Hoffenheim 2-3 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A Disclaimer: The Shonky Middle Period

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Maddison

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Brandon Austin

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Son

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Arsenal 2-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

Even Duo Lingo stuck the knife in after this one.

1. Kinsky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Older Heads

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

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

2.1 Son

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

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

2.2 Kulusevski

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

2.3 Porro

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

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

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

2.4 Johnson, Egads

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

2.5 Maddison

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The Younger Heads

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Fatigue? Tactics?

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 1-2 Newcastle: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Austin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Spence-Gray Partnership

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Porro

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

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

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

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

4. General Mood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Forest 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Not A Particularly Bad Showing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Art of Midfield Tackling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Individuals

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-6 Liverpool: Five Tottenham Talking Points

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1. Disclaimer: Liverpool Were Jolly Sharp

Before working up a head of steam on this one, I’ll rattle off a few disclaimers. Frightfully dull, I know, but better to be honest about these things upfront, I find.

So in the first place, one sometimes just has to get down on bended knee, remove the hat and give a spot of deference to the other lot. Hold up the hands, I mean, and admit they were better. Even though the cheeks may burn with embarrassment, every now and then it’s an unavoidable truth, and yesterday by golly Liverpool were on form. Best I’ve seen this season by a country-mile.

Had we been at full strength, and well rested, fed and watered, and had none of our lot thrown in any individual gaffes to smooth their path, I still fancy that they’d have bopped and swayed to a win pretty comfortably. Their one-touch game, and energy in and out of possession, were both about as high as the charts allow for these things. And with that said, there’s no real need to bang on much further about them.

A second point I’ll flag in the preface is that we’re still playing an 18 year-old midfielder at centre-back, such is the crowded nature of the N17 infirmary tent. The tagline about 10 players missing is perhaps a bit thick, given that it includes such squad-fillers as Mikey Moore and Odobert, but there’s no getting away from the absence of goalkeeper and both centre-backs (and, yesterday, left-back).

Even accepting that this simply means that the power-that-be ought to do a better job of fattening up the squad, the ongoing absence of three key starters creates the dickens of a challenge for any manager come matchday.

Now personally, I’d stop here. Two large caveats seems plenty to me. Go beyond that, and one starts to lose the goodwill of the audience.

As such, I’ll distance myself a little from the other bleatings. I’ve heard it said that Liverpool, due precisely to their squad depth, were able to rest 7 or 8 of their lot midweek, and had an extra 24 hours to snooze it all off – AANP shakes a brisk head when subjected to that sort of whining. Who amongst us, after all, does not have the occasional cross to bear?  

Over here, the line that really arrests the attention is that first one – Liverpool were just too dashed slippery. Best in the country, and quite possibly in Europe. As such, I’m taking yesterday’s bash as something of an isolated incident.

We appear to be in the territory now of every defeat being used as an opportunity to sharpen the nearest knife and go hunting for the head of Postecoglou; and while the Bournemouth and Palace losses were pretty grim to wade through, 3-6 to Liverpool is one I’m waving aside.

For what it’s worth, I’m curious to see how Our Glorious Leader fares when the squad is eventually bulked up sufficiently to outrun opponents twice each week, with all concerned fully drilled in the art of Angeball. Or, in other words, I’m inclined to be patient.

2. Individual Errors

Irrespective of how good Liverpool were, our heroes still seemed a tad too generous in their work.

To repeat, even if Team Lilywhite had been near flawless I suspect we’d have ended up second best, but this was an afternoon on which every now and then our lot switched off, gave a dozy yawn and allowed Liverpool to stroll forward and help themselves.

Take the opening goal. Liverpool had certainly hammered away in the preceding 20 minutes, and the cross swung in by Trent A-A was undoubtedly a doozy, but the shake of the head with which AANP greeted the marking at the back post was laced with meaning, make no mistake. Not a week goes by, it seems, without an opposing attacker wandering into Pedro Porro territory and being allowed an unhindered effort on goal.

Not that this one was necessarily the fault of Porro alone, or even Porro in part. While the header was deposited in Porro’s vicinity, the chappie who delivered it (Diaz) was pretty clearly under the guardianship of Sarr, as the goal’s opening moves were still being constructed. When Diaz tiptoed off into the area – the moment at which most right-minded defensive bods would strap up and pay particular attention – Sarr simply stopped moving and waved him along, dash it.

Porro might still have taken an emergency measure or two, having seen all this play out right in front of him; and Dragusin did not cover himself in glory by losing track of his own man in the same area; but Sarr’s was the crime that would attract the judge’s eye.

While some might quibble that picking one goal from six conceded rather misses the point of things, I wave an indignant fist and argue that the opening goal was a pretty crucial one.

And while on the subject of picking out crucial goals from six conceded, I’d also give a bit of airtime to the one just before half-time, which turned a hopeful-looking 1-2 into a rather deflating 1-3.

That third really ought to have been avoided if young Dragusin had managed to dredge up a brain cell or two from within the empty recesses between his ears. To remind, a hopeful clearance was lofted into orbit around halfway, and Dragusin could pretty easily have simply stood where he was – even putting his hands on his hips, if the mood took him, and watching from afar as the Liverpool forward worked up a sweat bringing the thing down.

Instead, Dragusin was briefly possessed by the ghosts of Romero, Dier and Dawson, and abandoning his post he raced up to halfway to challenge for a header for which any bookmaker would have made him comfortable second-favourite.

Well, of course he lost that particular duel, taking a solid headed swat at thin air, and coming back down to earth a good 20 yards from where the ball would land. And if you want a sense of where the ball did land, it was precisely the spot from which Dragusin had set off in the first place – that spot on which, in a parallel universe, he stood waiting with hands on hips.

To repeat, such was the Liverpool performance that one suspects they’d have found a way even if Dragusin had channelled his inner Ledley, but it didn’t stop some choice Anglo-Saxon emerging from the AANP lips on the stroke of half-time.

I’ll actually show a bit of leniency towards all involved for the second half goals, because by then the state of the game was such that our lot were rather desperately flinging forward every fit and available man in search of goals (of which, in fairness, they found a couple) and were consequently absolutely ripe for the slicing when possession was lost.

I also jabbered above about the absence of both centre-backs and goalkeeper, and while this situation undoubtedly does disrupt things, one probably ought to acknowledge that even with Vicario, Romero and VDV in situ, our defence has hardly been watertight. The view at AANP Towers remains that our first-choice defence is populated entirely by personnel whose primary assets are their attacking instincts. One can well imagine Romero, for example, making precisely the same botched call that Dragusin made for that third goal. What I’m getting as is that if Ange decided, when all were fit and ready, that a VDV-Gray pairing were the way forward, I’d give him an audience.

3. Son

There’s something a little off about Sonny, wouldn’t you say? Not quite the talismanic and near-unstoppable force of the recent past, I mean. And not just yesterday, either. The chap has looked distinctly par-boiled all season so far.

There has been at least one injury this season, and it might be that his pistons are yet to fully fire. One might also pretty reasonably argue that in the first half in particular yesterday, few amongst our number seemed to make things click as required when in possession.

But nevertheless, where once he would receive the ball two-thirds up the pitch and one could assert with some confidence that he’d produce some impromptu delight, now things tend as often as not to fizzle out a bit when the ball is at his feet.

Time, of course, will do that. Even the fleetest of foot specimens eventually slow down, so it might simply be a creaking of the hinges. At present though, I can’t quite work out whether this is one to file under ‘Temporary Blip’, or a more dramatic heading such as ‘Beginning of the End’.

Whatever the diagnosis, I thought that Werner introduced a spot of much-needed pep when he came on. It’s not that he necessarily tore up the Liverpool defence and ran the game; but rather his direct running offered a new and slightly more direct threat. It made a useful change from the little variety of cul-de-sacs that Son seemed to have found all afternoon.

4. Kulusevski Central

It also struck me that our attacking play as a whole went up a notch or three once Kulusevski was switched to the centre, in the second half.

You’ll have noticed by now that it’s a big day for disclaimers at AANP Towers, and the latest of these is that Kulusevski’s – and the team’s – increased productivity might as legitimately be ascribed to the fact that Liverpool went 5-1 up and relaxed, as to the fact that Kulusevski moved from right wing to centre. That, I suppose, is one for public debate.

From this corner of the interweb, however, it seemed that those monitoring our general level of Attacking Thrust would have been jolted into life when Kulusevski made his move.

The whole business of Kulusevski’s virtues when operating centrally as opposed to the right wing is a topic on which I have, intermittently, banged on about for a good season and a half now. And if a shifty-looking lawyer were to knock on my door and hand me an envelope marked ‘Confirmation Bias’, I’d grudgingly give them a knowing nod.

Nevertheless, what is an incontrovertible truth is that our first goal came from Kulusevski pressing Liverpool from a position that was more Central than Right-Wing (the Liverpool bobbie collapsed in a Kulusevski-induced heap outside the D, and Maddison did the rest).

Indeed, all three of our goals owed much – either in creation or execution – to Kulusevski barrelling straight through the centre of the pitch like some particularly irked species of bull. One understands that the current limitations around the squad, combined with the desperation for Maddison to become a string-puller-in-chief, often means that the easiest way to rearrange the pieces is to shove Kulusevski wide.

However, the chap seems this season to have been our most creative attacking eel, and as such I’d knock on a few doors to campaign for starting with him in the middle and fitting the other pieces around him.

5. Spence

Before wrapping up, a brief word of congratulation for young Master Spence. I can well imagine an exasperated muttering or two from those reading that particular line. Spence was, after all, part of a defensive unit that conceded six, and was amongst the party that failed to clear the crucial header in the build-up to the second goal. One might be within their rights to take AANP aside and quietly suggest a sit-down, and a restorative beaker of something or other, until restored to full sense.

I’ll continue to bang the Spence drum however. I don’t really want to dwell too long on the whole business of passing out from the back, but he does play the game in this respect.

More impressive to me, though, were his contributions further forward (including a hand in one of our goals yesterday, as well as the pass for Solanke’s in midweek), plus a pretty firm commitment to the defensive cause. Where Porro is frequently out of frame in the replays for our goals conceded, Spence was at least visibly involved, playing the role of Last Man Back on each of the second half goals conceded.

I’m still not sure what the objections were that prevented either of Conte or Ange picking him for a couple of years, but he seems a most useful and diligent sort on the evidence of the last week or so. As with the broader Ange-overseen project, I’m all for a bit of patience.