Tag: Rodrigo Bentancur

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Spurs match reports

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

1. Dragusin

When gathered in the smoking-room to pick over the bones of the weekend jolly vs Villa, a sentiment seemed to surface that young Dragusin might be a bit of a one. A defender with something to him, was the gist. Thrust into the thick of battle shorn of first VDV and then Romero, he emerged with half-shaven-half-man-bunned head held high, was the sentiment.

AANP contented himself to nod along at all that, rather than wade into the discourse. In my private moments I confided that there was a fair old slab of rough, as well as smooth, when it came to Dragusin, but I thought then – as now – that it is a bit early to really measure the dear boy for size.

To bang home the point, it still strikes me as too early to judge either way. That said, put politely, last night he had a bit of a stinker. No doubt about that one. If there were a mistake to be made, Dragusin was front of the queue. He was like one of those fellows one sees in the black and white slapstick comedies, who places a hand on a door and the whole edifice comes crashing down around him.

It says much about his night’s work that there are simply too many mistakes to catalogue. Not that he was alone on this front – Forster’s distribution was often the stuff of nightmares, Bergvall and Maddison offered no assistance whatsoever, the other members of the back-four had turned off the ‘Accuracy’ settings on their passing dials for the evening – but Dragusin seemed keen to make himself the poster-boy for all the calamity unfolding about the place.

To summarise, from top to bottom, his attempts to dribble from the back almost always saw him tackled; his passing was often errant; and on more than one occasion he allowed too much space to whichever forward he was marking. Again, to re-emphasise, he was no doubt dealt a duff hand, being partnered with the earnest-limited Davies, B. and in front of the enormous-but-far-from-sprightly Forster, F. And seeing Dragusin occasionally put that sizeable frame to half-decent use in the second half, by bouncing away Galatasaray forwards, one could at least wrap the old grey cells around the concept that he and VDV might make a useful combo.

Last night, however, was not his night. That is acceptable enough; the broader concern over here is that Angeball is not his system. The requirement of being a pretty competent ball-player, in order to get on board with playing out from the back, currently seems one heck of a stretch for the man. Nor is he exceptionally quick, which would be a bonus in our high line, and on last night’s showing there is nothing in particular about his defending that would have you rushing to the beds of your nearest and dearest to wake them up and excitedly prattle about how we might have stumbled upon a gem. Let’s see how he gets on this Sunday, I suppose.

2. The Youth

For the avoidance of doubt, any game that Spurs lose rather ruins the mood at AANP Towers for the remainder of the evening; but that said, on this occasion the atmosphere around here come the final whistle last night was a lot more philosophical than would ordinarily be the case after a 3-2 reverse. And I suppose the reason for this was that last night’s game had the distinct air about it of a free hit. That is to say, if you lined up every Spurs game you’ve ever watched on a scale of importance, with the ’91 FA Cup Final and 2019 CL Final up at one end, then this would probably be tucked away at the other.

One doesn’t really make any effort to master the mechanics of this Europa League drivel, but the word around the campfire seemed to be that with three wins from three already banked, for one night only our heroes could afford to take their eye off things yesterday. The Europa League as a whole has been seen as a chance to give minutes to squad players and unleash the kids, and Our Glorious Leader made clear yesterday that he was fully signed up to this policy.

2.2 The Youth: Bergvall

In this context, I considered young Bergvall an almighty let-down. One might reasonably exercise a bit of The Dragusin Disclaimer here, and point out that these are early days and limited viewings, and therefore urge a spot of caution before ejecting the blighter from the premises. Such an approach would be entirely reasonable. The point of these Europa and Carabao outings is not really for armchair fans like your current scribe to act out the roles of judge, jury and executioner, but for the young pups to gain experience and improve.

And by golly, judging by his starts so far this season, Bergvall has a heck of a lot of improving to get through. His touch and talent seem present and correct, no real concerns there. The problem, rather, seems to be that he has a touch of the old Bryan Gil about him. Featherweight, I mean, and that puts it kindly. Every time he was in possession last night he duly received a gentle buffeting that near enough knocked him from his moorings; while his attempts to scurry back and lend some muscle when chasing their midfield were akin to watching a kitten tyring to interfere with a passing elephant. As mentioned, both he and Maddison were woefully low on useful input, and the contrast once Bentancur, Sarr and Kulusevski arrived was enormous.

2.3 The Youth: Gray

Of the other whippersnappers, Archie Gray gave the impression that while he’ll obediently play the game at left-back or right-back or wherever, what he really wants is to be let off the leash to go roam about the midfield.

His contribution to our first goal was outstanding. The alacrity to pick up pieces when Sonny tumbled to ground might not sound like much, but it was a heck of a lot more than Maddison achieved all night; however what really drew the admiring gasp was his pass to Johnson. Lest it go unmentioned, there were simpler options available, not least the sideways pass, so beloved of Spurs midfielders from generation to generation, just shuttling the ball from left to right, neatly and tidily but without the merest whiff of penetration.

Gray, however, spotted a vastly more exciting option, and then executed it to perfection, flighting a cross that turned harmless midfielding into threatening attack, for Johnson to set up Lankshear. I’ve heard it recently said that teams seem to take far more risks in defence than attack these days, but in this little scene Gray demonstrated the virtues of taking a risk in attack, and frankly that output alone put to shame the watching Maddison.

2.4 The Youth: Lankshear

Another who looks a bit too light of frame just yet, this was probably an ideal experience for young Lankshear to develop from boy to man. One of course stiffens the upper lip at moments of heightened emotion, so his goal was greeted with little more than an approving nod, but deep within the AANP bosom the heart fairly bulged with pride at seeing him tuck away his chance.

However, when the grandchildren gather round to hear him narrate the tale, I’d imagine he’ll gloss over the sub-plots. Had our defence and midfield been fully stocked I actually fancy he might have had a few more dishes from which to choose, as Galatasaray looked far from watertight at the back, as befits a team whose cornerstone is Davinson Sanchez, and there were a few occasions on which a more accurate through-ball would have had Lankshear in on goal.

Gallingly for him, our defence and midfield spent much of the game on a different planet, unable to string together the requisite passes to progress beyond halfway, and Lankshear’s was largely a watching brief. When the ball was tossed up to him with a distant yelp of “Good luck!” that sentiment about his bulk, or lack thereof, sprung again to mind, and all the more so when Solanke arrived to illustrate the contrast more pointedly.

His two yellows were the other notable events of his night, and while most about the place seem to be rather forgiving of the young cheese on this front, invoking his age and whatnot, AANP is a little less forgiving here. Green behind the ears or not, he ought to have displayed a bit more sense with both cautions.

3. The Cavalry

I mentioned that with a stronger selection I’d have fancied us to make a goodish bit of hay against this lot, and the changes in the latter part of the second half seemed to bear this out to an extent.

Bentancur looked a few classes above all around him in midfield when he took to the stage, and Sarr and Kulusevski similarly helped to wrest the initiative our way.

Watching the first half seemed to provide an answer to anyone who had ever wondered how a one-man midfield might fare against Galatasaray, as Bergvall and Maddison’s gentle melting into the background allowed Bissouma to take on all-comers single-handedly, and I thought he accordingly rattled off his best performance of the season. Where all around him our players were turning themselves in little troublesome knots and ultimately looking up to find the ball had been spirited away from them, Bissouma peddled an impressive line in shielding the ball and shimmying away from trouble.

Once his more experienced chums rocked up, he was able to switch roles from trying to throw water from a fast-sinking ship, to providing the base upon which a spirited comeback might be built. It said much about the upturn in performance brought about by the cavalry that we were on top in the final 20 or so, even when a man light.

Solanke, as mentioned, offered a heck of a lot more muscle at the apex than young Lankshear, and also executed his goal mightily impressively. All in all, I fancied there was enough evidence in that final quarter of the match – a man down, and against one of the more fancied teams – to vindicate the notion that we are amongst the favourites for this particular pot.

So while, to repeat, a defeat is always rather unpleasant, one gets the impression that Our Glorious Leader will have been pretty happy with the night’s work. The regulars received a break – and then made a noticeable difference when introduced; those on the fringes were given the chance to work up a sweat; Lankshear nabbed a goal; Gray assisted an assist; and the whole thing was effected without too much lasting damage. On we bob.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-1 Man City: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. A Tip of the Cap Towards the Team Selection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Timo Werner

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Archie Gray

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Richarlison

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Man Utd 0-3 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Micky Van de Ven

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

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

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

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

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

2. This Week’s Angeball

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-1 Brentford: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Maddison and Kulusevski

Some good stuff peddled by the forward line yesterday, what? And ‘forward line’ is a term I use pretty loosely, including Udogie (although not the oddly-muted Porro), and giving an honourable mention to Bentancur, who generally sat deep – and did a fine job of it too – but had the good sense to follow up well-timed interventions with some quick and meaningful forward distribution.

But it was the bona fide attacking mob who caught the eye. Solanke, Son and Johnson were all fully signed up to the whole business of the high press (and bless them, Brentford were pretty accommodating in this respect, offering one opportunity after another to our lot to make hay), and there was also a pleasing commitment amongst our lot to do whatever they had in mind at double-quick speed.

As it happens, I’ve personally been pretty happy with our attacking in general this season – tending to get into the area and create some sort of chance, rather than just shuttle left and right from thirty yards out – but yesterday the speed with which matters were shovelled forward was particularly pleasing, and in this respect James Maddison had possibly his finest hour and a half of 2024. Now the more mischievous amongst us may suggest that it’s a pretty low bar, but let that not detract. This was wholesome stuff from our No. 10.

For a start, his passing seemed often to be disseminated with a view to cutting a swathe through the Brentford back-line, rather than the approach of too many previous games, of being content to pop it sideways and await inspiration from another source. There was some good incisive stuff from his size nines from central positions; on top of which, in the first half in particular, he was also surprisingly jaunty about his prospects when breaking into the left-hand side of the area and firing a pull-back into a populated area.

But more than his passing, I was particularly taken by his tendency to collect the ball, put his head down and get wriggling. Frankly, I wasn’t aware that Maddison had it in him to dribble past two or three thrashing legs, but having given it a whirl early on in proceedings he quickly developed a taste, and could be spotted on numerous following occasions doing more of the same. And very impressively he did so too, turning out of two or three challenges to turn a moment of stasis into an attacking opening.

On top of which, his own contribution to the press brought about our second goal, and he took his own goal most confidently. It’s the version of Maddison of which we need to see a lot more.

Kulusevski was the other soul who made himself a constant menace, albeit in a manner less refined but every bit as effective as Maddison. In what I had hoped would also hammer a nail in the coffin of the idea of him as a right winger (only to see him reassigned there after the substitution of Johnson) Kulusevski had a rare old time bludgeoning his way through the centre.

With Solanke demonstrating a pleasing openness to the notion of dropping deep to chivvy things along, Kulusevski did not need too much encouragement to get involved in the central attacking spots. He contributed to the high press, contributed to the neat link-up play in and around the area, gave a few reminders of those deceptively quick feet inside the area and lent his bulk to the general mass of bodies lining up to apply the coup de grace whenever our attacks made it inside the area.

An approving nod too to The Brains Trust, for taking one look at Sarr and Bissouma, and deciding that the situation instead called for an attack-minded cove to complete the midfield triumvirate alongside Bentancur and Maddison; but top marks primarily to those out on the pitch, for going about their work with a pleasing urgency right from the second minute.

(Although before I move on, a slap on the wrist to Sonny for a couple of fat-headed decisions when clean through on goal with the game still in the balance, one in each half.)

2. Vicario

To say the mind boggles hardly scratches the surface. Scalpel open the fellow’s head and peer inside, and I rather suspect that in lieu of three pounds of brain one might discover a small army of frogs hopping about the place, for young Vicario is the most extraordinary specimen, within whom the sublime and ridiculous indulge in an absolutely riotous co-existence.

At 2-1, while Sonny up the other end was fluffing his lines when twice through on goal, Vicario did the opposite by pulling off two smart saves – one of which was absolutely outstanding, featuring a full extension of the frame and the clawing back of a ball which appeared to this beady eye to be already well past him.

However, as if to lend particular emphasis to the notion that he cannot simply go about his daily life as a remarkable shot-stopper and free of drama in other areas, approximately a minute later he rose unchallenged for a long throw into the area, and instead of simply catching the dashed thing and being done, he launched himself into a pretty spectacular flying leap, tumbling over the nearest body and cartwheeling to the floor, his paddling of the ball behind for a corner almost a footnote to the whole routine.

And if this were the extent of his lunacy I could probably have dismissed it as a minor blot on an otherwise pristine escutcheon. But this being Vicario, madness lurked at every turn. Unannounced, and without any prior indication, he simply introduces the most whacky behaviours, leaving all around him scrambling to pick up the pieces, and sending the AANP pulse-rate into orbit.

That moment in the first half, for example, when he received a pass to feet, and instead of dispensing with the ball to the nearest chum – or indeed the furthest chum, or any other chum in between – he waited until the Brentford lad was upon him, and, showing admirable resistance to the notion of just extinguishing the danger by conventional means, then let the same Brentford lad nick the ball from him and lay it off to – note well – his nearest chum, to shoot. But of course, this being Vicario, he then redeemed the situation by saving the resulting shot from point-blank range.

The piece de resistance was yet to come of course, Vicario picking a moment in the second half to bestow upon the ball a gentle pat of the hand, with scant regard for the geography of the penalty area. Even had it been spotted it would presumably have amounted to little more than a free-kick and a caution; but that seems to miss the point. As if our defence is not madcap enough, with its halfway line starting point and licence to charge forward, we have a certified madman behind them tasked with bestowing the all-seeing-eye upon the whole. As my Spurs-supporting chum Ian noted, it was all rather reminiscent of Heurelho Gomes.

3. Angeball

The mood around the campfire had apparently been souring a bit in the last week or so, by all accounts, which certainly makes me hoist an eyebrow, but to each their own.

As mentioned above, from the AANP perspective there hasn’t been much to complain about this season. Now I appreciate that such a sentiment will have various readers spitting out their evening bourbon in apoplexy, but as I saw it, our lot had given each of Leicester, Everton and Newcastle a battering, failing only in the department of popping our chances away, and doing so playing football a few million times better than the dirge peddled under Jose, Nuno and Conte. While stubbornness over set-pieces and the high-line admittedly had me tutting away like the best of them, and making nine changes for the Coventry game turned some of those tuts into audible grumbles, in general the sentiment here has been that Angeball is entertaining and will generally win us games, so I’ve been happy enough to sit back and let him crack on.

However, it takes all sorts, and evidently there are growing swathes of the lilywhite population popping up all over the place to thump a fist on the nearest table and declare that enough is enough, and Our Glorious Leader should be elbowed out onto the High Road.

All that is a slightly roundabout way of saying that I thought yesterday was pretty standard stuff from our lot. As has happened in most games so far this season we largely bossed possession and made a decent handful of chances inside the area – not the clear chances that need only tapping into an empty net, but those of the vintage that don’t really invite a pause and considered mulling of options, and instead require a pretty immediate tug on the trigger before an opposing swarm does its thing.

As mentioned, yesterday we transported the precious cargo about the place a spot quicker than in previous weeks, but by and large I saw against Brentford what I see most weeks – except with the pretty crucial caveat that this time we took more than one of the many chances created.

The defence was still massively exposed without too much effort on the part of the opposition, and in truth we were still pretty profligate in front of goal, but rather than scoring once and duffing things up thereafter, this week we took a couple more chances.

As such I suppose that those who were dissatisfied beforehand will remain so now, but here at AANP Towers I remain pretty content with life. Angeball is, of course, massively flawed, but as I mused after each of the Leicester, Everton and Newcastle games, so I muse again today – if we continue playing this way, we’ll win more often than not, and it will be dashed entertaining stuff too.

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Spurs match reports

Coventry 1-2 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Team Selection

I’ve always thought that Big Ange and I got on rather well. Admittedly we’ve never actually met, but skirting past that rather moot point I’ve always backed the man, and just sort of assumed that he’d do likewise as and when the situation ever arose.

Well, fair to say that after last night’s reveal of the teamsheet, A.P. and AANP might be entering the territory of a first ever lovers’ tiff. For context, the line about not changing every bally name on the list just because the opposition are lower-division is one I’ve been peddling since being dandled on my mother’s knee. Common sense stuff, if you ask me. Make eight or nine changes, and even if you’re bringing in peak Hoddle, Gascoigne and Bale amongst half a dozen others, they’ll take a while to get up to speed on the quirks and preferences of those around them.

And that’s if you’re bringing in such luminaries as G.H., P.G. and G.B. Bring in, instead, Dragusin, Gray, Werner et al, and those in attendance waiting for all protagonists to slip smoothly into gear alongside one another might be advised to bring along a pack of cards to pass the time, because the chemistry will take a while to develop.

As such, the AANP approach to Cup games vs Coventry or whomever is to maintain the spine, and bring in at most four of the less regular cast members. The challenge here, of course, is that not everyone gets a night off, and this approach might tire the limbs as the season progresses – but if all goes swimmingly then five more regulars can be hooked as the game progresses.

And more to the point, retaining a core of seven regulars ought to be enough to despatch even a highly-motivated Coventry on their own patch; whilst also helping the four newbies settle into a fairly well-oiled machine. Put another way, might we not have had a better idea of Archie Gray’s capacity for right-backery if he had regulars to the west and north of him?

Anyway, Our Glorious Leader wasn’t having any of it, and twelve months after a nine-change gambit backfired in the League Cup away to Fulham, he duly made nine changes in the League Cup away to Coventry. After a soulless first bunt in which our heroes looked, funnily enough, as if they’d never played together, things took a sharp lurch in the second half as Coventry started to give us a bit of a battering.

Established XI or not, the rest of the mob don’t seem to care much for helping out the defence, preferring to watch from a good 20 yards or so away as the back four desperately sprint back towards goal and stretch every sinew in the cause, and as a result we had the mesmeric quality in that second half of finding ever more ingenious ways to allow Coventry in on goal.

Credit where due, as in the closing stages our lot became good value for a goal or two, but I do wonder if the whole nerve-jangle could have been avoided by starting with a more recognised XI and putting the game out of reach within the first hour.

(All hypothetical, of course, but it has also been quite reasonably pointed out by my Spurs-supporting chum Dave that had we started with something like the usual XI they would arguably have been too complacent and found some other way to make a complete pie of things.)

2. Werner

Tempting though it was to headline this section “Werner: ” followed by a few choice oaths, I reasoned that decency probably ought to prevail. One never knows when the impressionable sorts are stopping by, after all. But goodness me, the earnest young Bohne was doing his damnedest to push all AANP’s buttons last night, make no mistake.

His pseudo-re-signing was not really the main headline of the summer, that honour probably being reserved for another on the long list of eggs earning full marks for effort but some pretty embarrassed looks for output, in Dominic Solanke. But back in July or so, the AANP take on Werner’s return on another loan was that all things considered it just about made sense.

The cost was minimal, it being a loan; the chap has pedigree in the Premier League, Champions League and internationally; wouldn’t need time to settle having already ticked that box last season; and while no-one in their right mind would place a starting bib over his neck for the crunch stuff, with a guaranteed glut of Europa games, plus potential domestic cups, having a few competent reserves in wide areas would be required. So, to repeat, it seemed to make sense. Note, however, the past participle: it only seemed to make sense.

The reality, as hammered home last night, is looking a dashed different state of affairs, for all of those aforementioned neat and logical arguments come absolutely crashing down when Werner scurries out onto the pitch and gets down to bricks and mortar.

Did he put a single foot right last night, at any point? I’ll answer that one myself actually, because I even made note of the exact timing of Werner’s one positive contribution, it being such a collector’s item. 59 minutes, if you want to rewind the spool and check for yourselves. At that point, having collected a short corner, Werner made for himself a yard of space and then curled in a pretty inviting right-footed cross that deserved better than to be headed clear by the first Coventry head.

That, however, was the zenith of his evening. As for the low-points, my first thought is to wonder how much space the interweb allows. His passes were misplaced; his crosses were overhit; his dribbles typically tended to result in him cycling backwards, or at best sideways. His pace – his greatest asset – was never really utilised, and it is probably for the best that he was not presented with a clear sight of goal, because I suspect the universe might have collapsed under the weight of the subsequent abuse that would have rained down on him from all sides.

I suppose The Brains Trust would argue that Werner’s style suits the system, and his work-rate and off-the-ball contributions go unnoticed. And in his defence, I did notice him track back at one point in the first half to put in a solid block on an attempted cross.

So a modicum of credit is grudgingly bestowed; but I maintain that the primary role of a winger is to wingle, in the attacking sense and with ball at feet. The defensive guff that accompanies it might well be necessary, but ought to be in addition to rapier-like thrusts that leave the opposing defence begging for mercy. In the same way that I yell and screech at Romero to get the defensive basics right before he goes trotting off on some adventure beyond halfway, I similarly give Werner a few lungfuls in the cause of adding a spot of end-product to all his forward scuttling.

Of course, one sympathises with his injury, rotten luck for any fellow no matter how bow-legged and utterly incompetent, and with Odobert also chipping a fingernail this might cause a problem for Europa engagements in the coming weeks. However, last rather hammered a nail in the coffin as far as AANP was concerned. No more, I beg of you.

3. A Quick Word on Fraser Forster

Werner was not the only one to prompt endless eye-rolls and muttered imprecations. I’m not sure Archie Gray really knew where he was supposed to be at any given point; Sarr had a bit of a stinker; Ben Davies, for all his willing, seemed to illustrate that we remain a centre-back short for the fixture slog to come; and Solanke gave his most Solanke performance yet.

A curious one for me was the enormous frame slowly ambling between the sticks at the back. Looking back at it objectively, Fraser Forster, in an admirable act of solidarity with most around him, had a pretty middling evening, put generously. Beginning with the inaccurate first-minute pass that put young Bergvall in trouble; extending to a second half flap at a corner that completely missed the ball; and capped, without doubt, by the mid-pitch collision with Dragusin that quite likely registered on the Richter scale as both behemoths tumbled to earth in slow-motion, this was hardly a low-profile, neat-and-tidy sort of showing.

And yet. For some reason, whenever the opposition had a corner, a most unusual sensation of equanimity passed through my entire being. Even as I surveyed the growing melee in the six-yard box, even as Forster demonstrated not so much rustiness as corrosion – something about the fact that it was not Vicario in goal at a corner put the AANP mind at ease. He may not have claimed every flighted cross as if picking an apple; he may have required a nearby chum to wind him up before he was able to move the limbs; but just not being Vicario at set-pieces earned Forster a huge rosette and garland from over here.

And if that’s the sentiment from the comfort of the AANP sofa, I do murmur to myself “Golly”, and wonder how the poor souls tasked with defending the penalty area at corners themselves feel about having Vicario as commander-in-chief, hopping and yelping about the place like a poorly-trained puppy.

4. The Goals, And Other Positives

For all the first half frustration, and second half panic, the arrival of the cavalry for the closing stages pepped things up a bit.

Maddison, while hardly controlling things, contributed a couple of those neat forward passes for which we’ve yearned so far this season and for much of the latter half of last season – the sort of slick pass that bisects a couple of defenders and finds a yard of space for a forward. His first-time dink around the corner in the build-up to our equaliser was one such moment, and given his contributions to date this season I am rather minded to camp outside the honest fellow’s abode with some sort of home-made banner imploring him to put to one side all the usual fluff and just deliver one or two more of those each game.

Kulusevski was even more prominent, not really bothering with polite introductions and handshakes, and instead just crashing around the place as soon as he was unleashed, and to good effect too. His contribution to the first goal was surprisingly delicate, and added neatly to an overall excellent aesthetic quality to the move, but in general one got the impression that the Coventry lot were in need of an illustrated manual on how to cope with the chap.

A congratulatory word also for Bentancur, for a glorious pass to release young Johnson for the second. Bentancur, while another who cannot really be said to have imposed himself upon the match, did, like Maddison, pick out one or two eye-of-needle passes, and the spotting, directing and weighting of that pass for Johnson could not have been better, so one can only presume he treated himself to a celebratory splash or two of the good stuff before hitting the pillow last night.

Of course, it was also pleasing to note the identity of the two goalscorers. Young Spence, I get the impression, is being powered along in each game by a surge of goodwill from the massed ranks of Spurs fans both inside the stadium and beyond, each one desperate for him to do well. He’s drawn a bit of a short straw in ending up at left-back in each appearance, and how he quite fits into the inverted full-back system makes my head swim a goodish amount, but in the simpler context of being an attacking sort I do rather like the cut of his jib. The sort whose eyes light up a bit once he’s nearing the opposition penalty area.

And as for Brennan Johnson, by golly he needed that. Worryingly, he has much about him of Timo Werner – principally in terms of repeatedly banging his delivery into the first defender – but when it comes to popping away his goalscoring opportunities, mercifully he stands head and shoulders above the German, and his finish was another that can be filed under “Pretty-Looking, As A Bonus”.

And in parting, a polite word of praise for young Bergvall, whom I made probably the pick of the first half bunch. Energetic, and in the wholesome habit of shoving the ball on quickly, I’d estimate that he did more than any other in lightish green (that completely unnecessarily clashed with the Coventry kit, for heaven’s sake) to burrow a way through the massed opposition ranks. Hardly the finished article, but he receives the approving nod nonetheless.

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Spurs match reports

Leicester 1-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Solanke

Here we are again then, and it seemed appropriate that the first order of business should be to cast the beady eye over the new lad, from stern to stem. And actually, the first thing I noticed about Solanke was that he’d been blessed by Nature with a pretty substantial frame, the sort of which my old man, AANP Senior, would approve, he being of the curious opinion that a striker’s primary purpose in life is to be substantially bigger than anyone else.

I suppose it may simply have been that Solanke had a keen awareness for the preferences of the TV director, and duly attached himself to the smallest nearby opponent whenever the camera zoomed in on him, but either way he looked a towering presence atop our tree, and the sort against whom one wouldn’t necessarily elbow one’s way to the front of the queue in order to mark at corners and suchlike.

Aside from the crucial business of being a bit of a unit, I actually thought Solanke did relatively well. Behold, I suppose, the first statement of controversy from the AANP quill this season, for this opinion is evidently in pretty sharp contradistinction to the line of thought of various others of lilywhite persuasion, not least my Spurs-supporting chum Ian, whose take on the fellow was distinctly uncomplimentary, containing as it did such choice nuggets as ‘Donkey’ and ‘Fraizer Campbell’.

However, the surgical eye to which I subjected young Solanke detected a fellow who did all the right things, until, of course, the part about sticking ball in net. But in terms of providing an obvious focal point, and finding himself a yard of space for a half-chance, I thought he ticked the boxes pretty solidly. Admittedly these may sound insignificant, but there were certainly times last season, when Richarlison was out – and even when Richarlison was in – when we seemed to lack any obvious beacon up top, at whom we could aim and around whom attacks could be structured.

Solanke was also willing to muck in and help out with the less salubrious elements of the day-job, regularly spotted dropping deep to collect and hold up the ball, and lay it off to onrushing midfield chums, as well as showing the requisite degree of enthusiasm for leading the high press.

The elephant in the room, of course, was the bread-and-butter stuff of being a striker, the actual taking of chances (at this point a less charitable soul – Ian, for example – would probably suggest that the elephant was Solanke himself). And here, Solanke did little to cover himself in glory.

No two ways about it, that diving header early in the first half should have been seen home. It was not entirely straightforward, admittedly, but having down the hard work of evading his markers and lowering the frame from the upper atmosphere down to somewhere nearer terra firma, the final but essential step was to pick a spot a good yard or two east or west of the goalkeeper, and direct the ball thusly. To plant his header straight at the doorman was a bit of a faux pas.

Less blame attached to him for his second attempt, a glancing header from a cross from the right, but I was a little underwhelmed by that effort he had early in the second half, when he again seemed to have done a lot of the hard work, in shielding the ball and wriggling into a bit of space from which to unleash, only to aim straight at the blasted goalkeeper yet again. As was remarked at the time, a more confident striker would presumably have aimed for a corner, whereas Solanke rather thrashed at the thing as if eager to get the whole business done and dusted as a matter of urgency, without too much concern for how the direction of his shot would impact the outcome.

It is not a particularly fanciful leap to suggest that the goals will come soon enough, and the rest of his game ticked boxes – just a shame for him and the collective that he didn’t nab a goal last night.

2. Maddison

It was fairly decent stuff all round in the first half, our offerings comprising not just plenty of possession but also the creation of a small bevvy of chances, both from open play and set-pieces. A two- or three-goal lead would, of course, have been welcome, and probably a better reflection of the balance of things, but one goal was the absolute minimum, so there weren’t too many concerns at the mid-point. And while various amongst our number were pottering about to good effect, I’d suggest that Maddison was probably the most prominent.

The thought nags that he could still do a mite more when it comes to opening up opposing defences, perhaps in the realm of spotting a dastardly diagonal pass that bisects a couple of defenders, if you get my drift, but nevertheless he seemed to be involved in most of the good things done, in that first half at least (and indeed the opening ten or so of the second).

Importantly, whenever we were in possession and surveying the terrain for opportunities, Maddison was not shy of waddling into view with arms waving and no doubt a few yelps vocalised, essentially demanding to be involved. And if you cast your minds back, this desire to be central to our string-pulling was the sort of thing for which I would frequently chastise a former parishioner, one C. Eriksen Esquire, who all too frequently would content himself with staying in the shadows and letting others get on with the game. Maddison, by contrast, was always eager for the limelight.

And his involvements were useful enough. As mentioned, a better eye for a defence-splitting pass along the floor might have helped, and in general he might have zipped things along a bit more quickly than he did. However, he was willing to dribble into the area and attempt pull-backs; he switched play from left to right pretty intelligently on a couple of occasions; involved himself in one-twos around the area; and as if to hammer home the point that he was the font from which decent things emanated, he created our goal with a well-flighted cross, the sort that rather invites teammates to dart towards goal and try their luck.

3. That Soft Underbelly

If you’ve bothered entering this corner of the interweb you’re presumably supported our lot long enough to be entirely unsurprised that we could dominate a match for the best part of an hour before conceding an equaliser to the opponent’s very first shot on target. No matter the personnel, it seems, or manager or kit or any other blasted element of the club, that soft underbelly will always exist, bringing with it an almost fascinating ability to fall into a blind panic at the first sign of trouble, and collapse like a pack of cards.

Being a glutton for punishment I took myself off into a darkened room and rewound the spool of last night’s match, in order to give the old forensic eye to the goal we conceded, looking in particular for a guilty individual at whom I might jab an accusatory finger. Curiously enough, however, there was no single individual obviously at fault, at least in the genesis of the goal.

Leicester were allowed to transit the ball from their own goalkeeper up to halfway a bit too easily for my liking, Udogie being bypassed in midfield, meaning that VDV had to scuttle across to left-back to cover, but as everyone raced back towards our goal the danger was hardly terminal.

Leicester swung a cross from the right towards our area, but it was one any objective observer would stamp as ‘Hopeful’, and not much transpired. At this point Messrs Maddison and Bentancur, tracking back to win a few brownie points with the management, might have put a bit more clout into their attempted clearances, but still, as Leicester tried again from their left there ought not to have been too much concern.

From here though, things took a bit of a nose-dive from a lilywhite perspective. Leicester’s cross from the left evaded everyone, but this should not excuse the fact that Decordova-Reid was gaily abandoned in the centre – Romero having gone wide to dangle a half-hearted foot at the cross, and Sarr and VDV rocking on their heels rather than marking anyone. Had Master D-R possessed a leg some four or five inches longer he’d had poked in unopposed from the edge of the 6-yard box, which reflects defensive work verging on the negligent.

Literally five second later another cross, this time from the right, exposed exactly the same failing. Romero ran straight past Vardy in order to take up a central station, and Porro, seeing everything unfold from the back post but considering decisive action to be beneath him, did not bother to pick up Vardy himself. Whether Romero ought to have delegated, or whether Porro ought to have had the good sense simply to get on with his job unprompted, is debatable, but it was the first attack worthy of the name that Leicester had created, and from it we allowed them two unmarked opportunities from six yards.

As an exasperating aside, a baffling aspect of this is that all four of Porro, Romero, VDV and Udogie are splendid players individually, but as a collective they constitute a most dysfunctional defensive unit, at whom one only has to sneeze in order to create panic, disarray and unmarked opportunities from close-range.

The next clear opportunity of the game came ten minutes later when Vardy was clean through and Vicario saved, and again Porro was a few yards behind his man. As with Udogie in the build-up to the first goal, this had the stench of full-backs pushed high up the pitch and leaving gaps behind – the alarming aspect of which is that this is hardly a new phenomenon. It was present throughout the entirety of last season, being a pretty fundamental weakness of Angeball, but evidently it is a weakness that is here to stay.

Aside from the goal itself, the complete cessation of control demonstrated thereafter was also pretty troubling. Someone or other with a bit of grey matter about them once opined that the true test of character is how one deals with setbacks in life, and by that gauge our heroes possess zero character between the entire lot of them. Conceding an equaliser in a game in which we had dominated was undoubtedly a setback, but it ought not to have led to a complete reversal in the balance of power. Ultimately the decline was only arrested by the stoppage for Bentancur’s injury, rather than by any intervention by our lot.

4. Gray and Bergvall

I suppose we had marginally the better of things in the final twenty or so, after the Bentancur injury and substitutions, but make no mistake, by that point the chuntering at AANP Towers had begun in earnest. The failure to take chances, coupled with the ease with which Leicester equalised and rounded off by the capitulation that followed, brought about all manner of grumblings from these parts.

I suppose a silver lining of sorts was injected by the youthful scurrying this way and that of Masters Gray and Bergvall. Neither seemed shy of rolling up sleeves and demanding the ball in central areas, and neither seemed content simply to ease themselves in on the periphery.

Both gave evidence that the strong technique and close control exhibited in pre-season could be replicated in competitive arenas, and while I’d probably stop short of demanding that they’re flung into the starting XI and have the team constructed around them, they appear the sorts who could be relied upon to help with the log-jam of fixtures that will doubtless descend upon us imminently enough.

There was still time for Bergvall to gum things up a bit, taking a few liberties too many in the right-back vicinity and conceding possession, resulting in yet another unmarked opportunity for Leicester and a full-body extension from Vicario to keep things level. I thought Vicario’s consequent rant at Bergvall was probably one for the cameras as much as anything else, up there alongside ostentatious celebrations for goal-line clearances, but it was probably a useful lesson for the Swede.

Silver linings and vaguely promising they may be, but it does little to disguise the fact that after the very first game of the season we’re already grumbling that, come May, we will be two points worse off than we should have been.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 0-2 Man City: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Shiny New Formation

AANP is a creature of habit. Meals at the same time each day; lights out at the same time each night; a dram of the good stuff at the same time each morning – one knows where one stands. One knows what’s coming.

And it was in this spirit of continuity and consistency that I donned the monocle to give the teamsheet the once-over last night, and duly assumed that Sarr-Bentancur-Hojbjerg would spread out their picnic blankets in midfield, while Maddison, Son and Johnson would duke it out between them for spots across the forward line – my personal assumption being that Maddison would be on the left with Sonny through the centre, but being an open-minded sort I politely listened to various chums of a Spurs-supporting bent announcing their opinion that Johnson could be central, and so on.

The point being that we all just assumed it was Our Glorious Leader’s usual 4-3-3, because if there is one thing A. Postecoglou Esquire does not do, it’s change his approach, upon pain of death. Even if the apocalypse were upon us and flaming meteors rained down from the sky, Ange would stick to his guns, muttering something to the effect that this is how his teams play, and adding his trademark “Mate” as if to put an official seal on the notion.  

As such, I’m not sure the word has yet been invented to describe quite how quizzically I arched the old eyebrow once the curtain went up last night, and everyone started getting their hands dirty, because there before our eyes, our heroes were setting about their business in, for want of a better phrase, a 4-6-0 formation.

Son and Johnson stayed out wide hither and thither, that much I clocked myself pretty sharpish; but in the midfield it appeared that Hojbjerg sat, and Bentancur, Maddison and Sarr took turns – or at certain points just ganged up and went about things in unison – as False Nines, as the experts put it (sort of midfield bobbies with licence to spring forward into the area and yell ‘Boo!’ as and when the whim grabs them).

Anyway, having a reeled a fair bit with the shock of all this, it made sense to collect one’s thoughts and subject the thing to the critical eye – and I’ll be dashed if it didn’t actually seem to work out pretty smoothly.

Caveats abound, of course, as is always the case. We lost the game for a start, so anyone clearing the throat to produce a lavish speech about the unbeatable virtues of 4-6-0 could legitimately be interrupted with a pretty solid counter-argument. One might also point out that City weren’t really for sitting deep with all eleven camped behind the ball as other less forgiving opponents have been, so one couldn’t knowingly say how 4-6-0 would fare in such a scenario; and I think that what one might delicately describe as the forgiving atmosphere about the place meant that there was a lot less pressure on our heroes to perform than is sometimes the case. There was, one might say, a pretty high tolerance threshold for mistakes and missteps last night.

Nevertheless, I could not escape the sentiment that our lot were making a jolly good fist of things – and that, by extension, the curious new formation was delivering the goods. Critically, we seemed to benefit both in and out of possession.

Out of possession, the squadron of no fewer than six pristine lilywhites strung out across the midfield caused City quite the head-scratcher when it came to their usual gambit of poking a nifty pass through the lines and setting their forwards away. In terms of basic physics, there simply was not room for them to do so. Every time they tried any such pass, a Tottenham limb extended to cut it out – and if the pass evaded one extended Tottenham limb, you could bet the life of your least cherished child that another such limb would be in close proximity to get the job done. The only real attacking outlet City had (beyond our own suicidal passing from defence, more on which below) was to play the ball ahead of Kyle Walker and watch him and VDV sprint it out.

In possession too, for what felt like the first time since that fateful night against Chelsea in November, our lot seemed inundated with passing options n, and quickly getting the hang of the thing they took to knocking the ball around rather smartly. One of the advantages of having six in midfield, I suppose, is that there is always a supporting nib hovering nearby, whom one can spot from the corner of one’s eye and sling the ball towards whenever any danger starts approaching.

And as mentioned, with Maddison, Bentancur and Sarr each seemingly having been heartily encouraged to trot forward and explore the City area, there tended always to be a few members of the cavalry ready to offer their services whenever we did break forward. Admittedly we lacked a central figure up top, the sort of bird who might hold up the ball with back to goal and do other useful things, but when it came to breaking from around halfway and racing towards goal, we were actually quite well stocked.

2. Sarr

Vicario made some good saves (the first half block from Foden at close-range in particular seemed to defy physics, our boy managing to stick out an arm faster than the naked eye could detect), and Kulusevski seemed particularly motivated when he was introduced, but if I were given the chance to pin a rosette to any of our lot I’d beeline straight for Sarr.

I’d probably take a few hours to catch him mind, because the young tyro appeared convinced yesterday that the key to a good time was never to stop running. Even though he had five teammates alongside him, and as such one could reasonably have made the case for sharing the workload, Sarr seemed to have had it drilled into him that if there were a job that needed doing there was no point in waiting for someone else to do it, not when he could break into another gallop.

Within a formation that relied so heavily upon runners from midfield to do a bit of the heavy lifting – masquerading occasionally as forwards, chasing back to clog up our own penalty area when City did sneak through – the medical anomaly that was the Sarr lungs and legs were of particular value.

The thought nags, and will presumably continue to do so for the next couple of months, that our midfield could do with a slightly clearer delegation of duties, as I still narrow the eyes and furrow the brow when trying to work out exactly what Bissouma and Bentancur are supposed to be doing, but alongside a couple of well-drilled and well-performing sorts one can safely assume that Sarr will be a pretty critical cog next season.

3. Hojbjerg

A quick note on Hojbjerg, of whom this might have been our last glimpse on the hallowed N17 turf. Those of a comic bent seemed keen to suggest last night that if anyone were going to sabotage our efforts, and ensure that Woolwich remained trophyless, it would be that man P-E.H., and true to form he spent the evening marrying the sublime and ridiculous with gay old abandon.

One five-minute spell early on in the piece neatly crystallised his entire lilywhite career. It featured in the first place an absolutely glorious cross-field spraying of the ball, from inside his own half and nearish the left flank, forward about twenty yards within the City half and out on the right flank, one of those perfectly-flighted numbers that drops with just the right parabola over the reach of the full-back and into the lap of the winger. It was a reminder of how good a player he can be, all the more so as he collected the ball in the first place when we were being harried a tad in a little midfield cul-de-sac, with Hojbjerg proving the unlikely saviour to safety.

But then moments later came his wild clearance that led to Foden’s point-blank volley and Vicario’s save. As I recall, Hojbjerg had to effect an airborne clearance, the ball having looped backwards towards him, facing his own goal and under pretty minimal pressure. Not the most straightforward job on the To-Do list by any means, the ball having a dash of spin on it, and dropping from the heavens over his shoulder, which adds a layer of complication.

Nevertheless, however, to have kept one’s eye on the thing and effected an almighty thwack ought to have been a fairly routine exercise for one paid professionally to apply lower appendage to ball on a daily basis. Clear the thing and re-organise, would have appeared to have been the order of the day.

Hojbjerg, though, was to give us one final reminder of just how maddening a soul he can be, by completely slicing his clearance, applying no distance to it whatsoever but instead sending it spinning sideways, and into the path of a chap who last week was crowned Player of the Year by his fellow professionals.

Of course, circumstances being what they were yesterday, many received this intervention with hearty applause, but whatever one’s inclinations yesterday, the whole episode just seemed to rubber-stamp, at the likely end of his Tottenham career, that Hojbjerg really has been a most peculiar sort of egg.

4. Playing Out From The Back

Now this is a weekly gripe, albeit not one I tend to record too often for posterity in this particular newsletter, but if there’s one thing guaranteed to put the bird about me it’s this business of playing out from the back.

For clarity, this is not even something that irritates specifically when espoused by our heroes. When I watch any blasted game and the team preparing a goal-kick opt for those daft short passes across their own area, it sets me muttering away and waving an occasional, grumpy hand.

Some data for your digestion first. I read on a pretty reputable source last week, that on average this season our lot concede possession from this approach seven times per game. Seven times! On average it leads to the opposition taking one shot per game, and in total we have conceded seven goals this season, from trying to play out from the back.

If you’re anything like me you’ll have missed the second half of the previous paragraph because your eyes will have glazed over and a cold chill spread down your spine, at the revelation that this madcap tomfoolery results in us losing possession seven times per game. I was reminded of this abomination last night, when City’s first two decent attempts resulted precisely from them winning the ball on the edge of our area when we tried unsuccessfully to pass our way out (the Foden shot saved, and de Bruyne, I think, having a shot at the start of the second half, also producing a flying Vicario intervention).

What grates is that the return on this investment is negligible. If every other time we did it we ended up bearing down on the opposition goal within a hop and a skip, I’d be much more inclined to support it. “Why not?” I would rather rhetorically remark, “The odds are reasonable enough.” But the point is precisely that the odds are not reasonable. I don’t see the value of the dashed thing at all, truth be told. At best we make it to halfway or so, at which point Sonny runs the ball out of play or Maddison gets crowded out or Kulusevski fouls his man, and it is all for naught anyway.

I presume the theory is that, if done well, a spot of zig-zagging from six-yard box onwards can bypass a good four or five opposition attackers. Even this seems a pretty measly reward if you ask me, and hardly worth the risk. If it bypassed nine or ten opponents my attention would be gripped; but it doesn’t. Frankly, if one wants to bypass four or five attackers, a gently lofted pass out wide along the halfway line, from the size nines of Vicario, will do just as well, and without the risk of conceding possession on the edge of our own area.

It’s here to stay, so, as with so much in the life of a Spurs supporter it’s all pretty futile anyway, but next time you see our heroes concede possession in this absurd fashion in or around our own area, cup a hand to your ear and see if you can make out the well-articulated curse in the distance, for that will be AANP having dashed well had enough.

5. Our Glorious Leader’s Post-Match Rant

If you had cupped a hand to your ear last night, however, an hour or so after the curtain came down, the cursing you’d have heard would have had much of the Antipodean twang about it, because Our Glorious Leader added a most peculiar coda to proceedings.

For those whom this whole episode innocently bypassed, the gist is that in his post-match ramblings, Ange made clear – with some pretty sharp and testy retorts, and a few choice glares – that he was unhappy with the fan-base. He may have been unhappy with others too, his words were a tad cryptic and difficult to interpret in truth, but at one point he clearly indicated irritation that bellowing from the four stands of our lovely arena, which has previously acted as the soundtrack to a last-minute escape or two, was conspicuous by its absence yesterday, and that this irked.

The whole business of fan sentiment before and during yesterday’s production has been well-documented, and AANP being an accepting sort was quite happy for each man, woman and child to make their own choice. Indeed, it should be noted that our Big Cheese has himself previously been at pains to insist that he is not one for prescribing to fans how they should think or feel.

This seemed to go out the window last night. As it happens, I’m fully in favour of anyone grabbing by the shoulders each of our mob and shaking a bit of winning mentality into them. If four decades of watching has taught me anything it’s that one Spurs team after another is all too willing to accept being second-best, or worst.

What jarred a little last night, however, was seeing quite how angry Ange became, seemingly at the fan-base, when in recent weeks he has looked a lot less hot under the collar after a series of frankly dreadful performances by the players. The players’ performances in defeats to Fulham, Newcastle, Chelsea and Woolwich themselves, each very reasonably earned a spot of Postecoglou gruffling and varying degrees of displeasure – but nothing like the volcanic stuff that simmered away last night.

One doesn’t really know the full story, I suppose, and he might have woken this morning feeling a lot bonnier about life, with his airways having been cleared and bright new dawns ahead. Last night’s whingeing however, and the direction in which it was aimed, seem to have chipped away a bit of the goodwill that he has generally amassed over the last nine months or so. For avoidance of doubt, AANP is still whole-heartedly supportive of Team Ange, and pretty confident that a few key signings (and sales), and a willingness occasionally to tweak tactics (as last night), will see us faring better next time out than this – but the head honcho might be advised to direct his evil eye and scything commentary elsewhere for a while.

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Spurs match reports

Liverpool 4-2 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. Bissouma

Being something of a glutton for punishment, and having had younger members of the clan to entertain during the live production, AANP treated himself to a repeat viewing of this one, and was actually struck by the fact that, aside from a couple of key shortcomings, this was not quite the horror-show that a 4-0 deficit inside an hour might have had one expect. Now admittedly the phrase “A couple of key shortcomings” is doing a heck of a lot of heavy lifting in that opening soliloquy, covering both the fact that for an hour our attack was utterly toothless, and the fact that throughout the entirety our defence was utterly clueless.

But nevertheless, fans of silver linings would have been spoilt for choice in seeing our midfield give as good as they got, in terms of both pressing out of possession and moving things quickly when in possession. Put another way, there was a bit of urgency about the place.  

Bissouma caught the eye in this sense, because at least in possession he had what you might call a tidy little game. More than once I tipped the hat in his direction as he collected the ball on around the halfway line, two or three Liverpool bodies converging on him, and with a dashing swivel of the hips pirouetted away out of trouble and was able to shove the problem over to someone else.

None of it really stood out in the memory because our attacks tended to fizzle out in utterly forgettable manner whenever we reached the final third, but had the forward mob been firing we might have generously thrown at Bissouma such choice compliments as ‘The foundation’ and ‘The heartbeat’ and other such knowing tokens of appreciation.

All that said, I still expect a dashed sight more from whomever is sitting in front of the back-four in a defensive sense. Handy though Bissouma’s capacity for skipping away from challenges no doubt is, at least 50% of the Job Description involves patrolling when Liverpool race forward, and in this respect one might euphemistically suggest that he did not quite manage to blunt at source every Liverpool attack, given that they kept wandering into our penalty area at will.

The feeling nags away that there is a decent defensive midfielder lurking within the Bissouma frame – on the evidence of the first few months of this season as much as anything else – capable of both winning the ball from threatening opponents and bringing it forward with the care typically reserved for a protected species, but whether ‘tis he or some other, it’s a position in which the quality needs to improve a notch or three next season.

2. The Bentancur Conundrum

While Bissouma had me muttering “6 out of 10, I suppose”, I was decidedly less convinced by Bentancur. In fact, I was downright baffled by Bentancur. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering what his purpose was in this team.

For clarity, this is not to question his dreamy, silk-like technique. If I were to be invited as a guest to the training ground, I may well spend the entirety of my visit with eyes trained on Bentancur, just to feast the eyes on that technique from close quarters for a couple of hours.

But come matchday, and yesterday in particular, I trained the eye on the honest fellow with laser-like sharpness, and was left with one of those quizzical expressions etched across the map. He is neither a tackler like Bissouma ought really to be; nor a creator like Maddison ought really to be; nor a box-to-box ball of non-stop energy who does a neat side-line in doubling up on the wings like Sarr tends to be.

To his credit Bentancur did occasionally avail himself as a passing option, but even in this capacity he tended to do so in a manner so peripheral one would often forget he was still on the pitch. Apart from anything else it seemed a dashed waste of arguably the most talented player in our squadron.

 It would not take a great leap of the imagination to paint him, for example, as a Modric-esque deep-lying creative sort, as he seems to possess the required skillset. I’ve also heard the theory bandied about the streets of N17 that he was sculpted by nature as a box-to-box sort, but that the injury earlier this year put an understandable dent in his capacity in this sense. This may be the case, and I would certainly expect a fully restored version of Bentancur to potter about the place a bit more meaningfully next season, but within the current incarnation of Angeball I’m just not sure of his specific role – and at times I’m not sure he is either.  

3. Our Defence

However, for all the honest endeavours of Bissouma, Bentancur et al in poring over the midfield small print, the really sensational stuff was going off in the two penalty areas. Or rather, in one of them, because but for a couple of inviting Johnson crosses from the left that were duly ignored by all his teammates, all goalmouth activity occurred in our penalty area.

In recent weeks I have filled the atmosphere of AANP Towers with lamentations and curses about our defending at corners, noting amongst things that we still find ways to allow opponents free headers even when all eleven are stationed in the penalty area. And watching in particular the second and fourth goals sail in (Robertson’s close-range rebound and Harvey Elliott from outside the area, for those struggling to keep track) I noted that, as at corners, we were not conceding for want of defensive numbers filling the vicinity, but rather for want of any of the assembled having the bright idea of leaping into action in order to prevent damage manifesting.

Taking the Robertson goal, our lot had four members present and correct across the six-yard as things got toasty with a cross floated to the back-post. There then followed a rapid sequence of three opportunities for Liverpool folk to shoot – for not one of which was any attempt made to prevent a shot.

Taking them in order, Robertson arrived at the back post (he actually opted to square the ball, but certainly had the opportunity to shoot); Salah shot from a central position; and Robertson then tapped in the rebound from close range. Exciting stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree, but events with which any of our four defensive attendees might have interfered had the urge arisen.

Alas, the concept of preventing opposition shots from inside the area seemed well beyond their remit. As with corners in recent weeks, our heroes seemed to be operating on the premise that simply being in the vicinity was sufficient, and represented a pretty decent day’s work. Anything beyond that was evidently considered a bit of a stretch. One can only imagine the mystified looks and furrowed brows if the suggestion were put to them to rush from their stations and actually try narrowing the angle or blocking the incoming shots, or any other such progressive manoeuvres.

With the Elliott goal similarly, various lilywhite bodies were stationed in the area as the chap readied himself for his shot, but none seemed too concerned about any eventuality that might soon follow. Bentancur admittedly earned himself one small measure of credit by springing to life to effect a tackle, but immediately lost that measure by making a pretty perfunctory effort of it, letting Elliott skip straight past him and continue as if nothing had happened. Thereafter, both Bissouma and Sarr were on strictly watching duty only, and Elliott’s shot did not have too many outstretched limbs to negotiate.

But what rankled as much as the goals themselves was the fact that this same routine seemed to play out every time Liverpool attacked, dash it, in the first half in particular. Every time they strolled forward the pretty inevitable conclusion was that within a hop or a skip one of their number would be allowed a pop at goal, unmarked and from disturbingly close range. This sort of nonsense really should not happen as a one-off, let alone on recurring occasions, and yet by half-time it had become the norm, relying upon marginal offsides, goal-line blocks, the post, the crossbar, errant finishing or any other act of God to keep the score down to two.

And meanwhile, just to twist the knife in, up the other end a completely different set of principles were in operation, our attackers being denied the time even to consider the concept of a shot, before a flurry of red-bedecked limbs were upon them to crowd out the opportunity and ensure that the moment was lost in the mists of time.

(And just to tag on one final, supplementary complaint to the main body of complaints, our obsession with defending solely within the width of the six-yard box seems utterly empty-headed. The obvious flaw in this approach is the ample space it leaves for opponents to drift into beyond the back post – witness Salah and Gakpo’s goals – as such not so much preventing the concession of goals as providing a well-lit route to them for heaven’s sake. Moreover, if the squeezing of four defenders into the width of the six-yard box were a fool-proof means of blocking shots I’d see some merit in it – but, as indicated above, most of the time the blocking of shots appeared to be the last thing on the minds of our defenders.)

4. Emerson

While the collective were at fault for that maddening reluctance to prevent shots inside the penalty area, one amongst them was, rather predictably, destined to emerge as the poster-boy for their failings.

I suppose one ought not really to criticise a man before walking a mile in his shoes, on top of which every comment on Emerson’s performance ought to be heavily caveated with the acknowledgement that the poor lamb was playing out of position, a conventional right-back being asked to play as an inverted left-back.


And yet. Even with these very reasonable, mitigating circumstances, one still cannot fight the urge to slap him about the face with a wet fish, whilst simultaneously banging one’s own head against a brick wall, such is the array of means he lands upon to gum up operations.

Take that opening goal from Salah. A right-back on the left he might be, but really, would it have killed Emerson to interrupt his dozy afternoon sesh. of absent-minded ball-watching, in order to give a few moments’ thought to the whereabouts of one of the most dangerous Premier League forwards of the last decade? Salah was hardly operating by stealth, or putting to use some strange and unfathomable sorcery – he was simply standing behind Emerson. Emerson simply had glance over his shoulder, or open up his body. “Flail an arm, dash it man,” one wanted to yelp, “do something to keep track of the forward loitering the other side of you!”

Aside from that goal, Emerson had a pretty tough time of it, and here I genuinely do in fact sympathise, because frankly most people would similarly struggle. There’s no real shame in being bested by an eel like Mo Salah. So when Emerson simply found himself outfoxed, undone or turned inside out by the better man on the day, I kept my curses to myself and instead looked this way and that for help from the arriving reinforcements. Even when Emerson shrugged his shoulders, mouthed “To hell with this,” and earned himself a yellow card for a needless spot of wrestling of his man, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. A tough old gig, you see.

But where AANP’s sympathies abruptly end is when Emerson brings fresh ills upon himself pointlessly and avoidably. Casual, high-risk passes I mean, or tumbling to ground under minimal contact in areas of the pitch in which it’s far better to stay upright and stick to the task. This tendency for taking a position of serenity and needlessly turning it into a big old vat full of hot water, seemingly driven by the bizarre, quixotic conviction that he’s the finest footballer ever to lace a boot and impervious to misdeed, is what really drives me potty.

And this sort of fat-headedness was unveiled again for the third goal, when having actually done the hard work of inserting self between the ball and Salah, Emerson settled in to have a pause and weigh up the options, oblivious to the presence of that Elliott chap once again arriving on the scene, to whip the ball from his feet and set up another goal.

The excuse about him operating out of position, while true enough, only goes so far in excusing his carelessness. Right-footed or left-footed, the dithering to allow Elliott to pilfer the ball was simply lack of concentration.

Whether or not Emerson picked up an injury I’m not sure, but the replacement of him with young Skipp was an eye-catching move, and as it turned out not the worst one. The tendency of our substitutes, whoever they may be, always to play better than the fellows they replace, whomever they may be, continues to perplex, but Skipp made a decent fist of things at left-back. He did not need too many invitations to nudge forward – even contributing to a goal – and worked hard enough in the opposite direction. The thought has previously occurred that those who have cut their teeth as midfielders might be well-suited to the rigours of inverted full-back within Angeball, so the sight of Skipp at left-back made for an interesting little experiment.

5. Sonny’s Sudden Resurgence

One ought not to become too excited about the late fightback – and frankly there is not much danger of that, just about everyone who witnessed it recognising it as something of an oddity within the context of the match, facilitated as much as anything else by Liverpool rather losing interest and changing half their personnel with the job already done. (As an aside though, I would like to have seen a head-height challenge with the studs carried out elsewhere on the pitch than inside the penalty area – to settle a private debate you understand.)

That said, it was nice to see Richarlison giving another demonstration of some of the benefits that accrue when one fields a bona fide striker in the central attacking role. But while the sudden change in atmosphere and energy levels brought about by the introduction to the cast list of a new character is understandable enough, I confess to being a little stumped as to what brought about Sonny’s sudden explosion into life when shoved out onto the left.

Quite randomly, and without any prior warning – either yesterday or in previous matches in which he’s played on the left – he absolutely tore into his full-back. Every time he received the ball he ran at him, throwing in stepovers, forcing him backwards and leaving completely unpredictable the issue of whether he would stick to the outside or cut inside. It frequently required more than two Liverpool sorts to halt his charge, and with a little more consideration to his decision-making he might have earned us more than just the two goals.

In theory, it was the sort of cameo that ought to have us rubbing the hands a goodish amount at the prospect of more to come in future weeks; however, having witnessed the chap barely lay a glove on his opposing right-back in midweek, when taking on Chelsea from the same position, I remain a little hesitant about his prospects in this regard. Yesterday’s successful half hour struck me more as a swallow than a summer, if you get my gist.

That slightly baffling half-hour from Son on the left, the rudimentary but effective adventures of Richarlison in the centre and the inviting crosses that Johnson pings in each week from the right suggest that at least in theory our lot ought to have a bit more threat about them than they have shown in recent weeks.  – but having all the constituent attacking parts click, and at a stage in the game in which contest is still alive, rather than at which we have already taken a hammering, currently seems rather too much to ask.

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Spurs match reports

West Ham 1-1 Spurs: Two Tottenham Talking Points

1. Winger to Winger

It only took eight months, but with Our Glorious Leader reasoning that right-footed chaps on the right and left-footed chaps on the left might be a ruse with something about it, within five minutes we had drawn blood.

Bentancur, Bissouma and Maddison as a midfield three might have attracted a murmur or two of respectful query, having possibly a little too mich of the neat and tidy, on an evening on which I imagined more of a need for blood and thunder, but as it turned out in the opening exchanges the trio were keen to showcase their very best. They simply passed their way around the other lot, and lilywhite eyes about the place promptly lit up.

Young Herr Werner was the early recipient of their impressive output, and here was where Ange’s masterplan really kicked in. He’s mumbled a few times about the value of one winger finishing a cross from t’other winger, but with someone like Kulusevski skulking about on the right one just had to sigh a long-suffering one and let the imagination do the rest.

Yesterday, however, was different. In Brennan Johnson we have a cove with the standard distribution of strengths and weaknesses; but crucially, in the former category falls the inclination to scurry into the penalty area towards the far post and have a nosey about the place. Why Kulusevski can never motivate himself to do this too is an odd one. Seems an easy win to me. Either the cross from afar never arrives, in which case no real harm done; or it does arrive, in which case one can lick the lips and treat oneself to one of the simpler moments of glory.

Anyway, Kulusevski may not be in the market for the all-you-can-eat buffet, strange chap, but young Johnson has demonstrated a few times this season an eagerness to be first in the queue. Last night, once Werner had taken possession on the right, Johnson was bobbing about the penalty area with all the childlike excitement of one about to be let loose in a sweetshop.

Werner’s cross was sufficient, and Johnson, having the presence of mind to rearrange his feet – a skill that ought not to be underrated when observing the troubles Sonny had in controlling the watered ball all night – was able to pop the treasured orb the requisite yard or two into the empty net.

A highly promising start we can all agree, and I saw no need to ration the stuff. If Werner and Johnson had spent the rest of the night squaring the ball across the goal for the other to tap in, I’d have applauded long into the night. In fairness, Johnson seemed game, and actually appeared set on repeating the routine every time he got hold of the ball – possibly overdoing it, the loveable young rascal – but out on the right Werner’s wings were strangely clipped, and he instead seemed content to keep to himself for the rest of the evening.

His prerogative I suppose, but it didn’t really benefit the cause, what? And irritatingly, with West Ham pulling back into the penalty area every man, woman and child, we struggled to find any other routes to goal.

2. Defending Corners

This being a school night, and AANP being a man of all sorts of solemn oaths and promises these days, there are but two bullet points on the agenda. This business of corners, however, and specifically the wild and petrified horror with which our entire collective greet them, is one worthy of a bit of contemplation and debate.

For a start, someone at base camp ought to sit the players down and explain to them clearly and slowly that when we concede a corner, what is subsequently lobbed into the area is not some sort of laser-guided missile but still the same old toy that they’ve so merrily been knocking around amongst themselves all game.

Which is to say that any one of the troupe would be perfectly within their rights to extend their frame and try to stick a head on it. Such behaviour, the instruction ought to continue, is allowed, and in fact heartily encouraged. Whether or not such quiet and soothing instruction would do the trick is debatable, but it strikes me as worth trying.

I’m also rather perturbed by the positional approach adopted by our lot. ‘Zonal’ I suppose one would call it. The priority appears to be adopt a spot of turf and dashed well stick to it, no matter where the opposition blighters scuttle off to. One admires their discipline of course. Come hell or high water, our heroes will not be moved. But if a West Ham body positions himself a yard in front of one of our lot, one would think that common sense might kick in, and they’d consider it the sort of exceptional circumstance in which a spot of deviation would be just the thing.

On top of which, young Vicario still fails to instil any confidence in these situations. Mightily accomplished in the art of shot-stopping, and supremely confident in passing out from the back, he withers and shrivels once the ball is placed on the corner quadrant, routinely finding himself bullied by great lumbering opposition oafs, and flapping at the incoming cross with all the timidity of a newborn foal. I was rather shocked when right at the death last night he actually emerged from the crowd to make decent contact on an incoming corner, and fist it beyond the area.

It was maddening stuff, because corners (and our mistakes) aside West Ham offered nothing going forward, yet each corner they were awarded felt like a moment of impending doom. Nor is it the first time we’ve had to sit through this rot, and one can bet every last penny that there will be more of it to come. One doubts that the personnel will change too drastically from one game to the next, or even from this season into next, which means that somehow or other the current lot will have to magic up some solutions, and pronto.


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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-1 Brighton: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Maddison as Vicario’s Bodyguard

Easy to forget amidst all the joyous bedlam of full-time, but one of the burning questions going into this one was around the thorny issue of Vicario receiving more of the rough stuff at corners, and the ploy devised by Our Glorious Leader to negate such dastardly acts.

We didn’t have to wait too long to see the fruits of such planning, with Vicario being assigned his own personal bodyguard at corners, evidently tasked with inserting self in between goalkeeper and opposing, interfering forward. In a world in which meaty specimens such as Romero and Udogie and Richarlison lurk about the premises, I have to confess to raising a slightly alarmed eyebrow upon discovering that the identity of Vicario’s saviour was to be one J. Maddison Esq.

Now in a sense this added up. Heavyweights such as the aforementioned presumably already had their own important duties to carry out at corners; while Maddison comes across as the willing sort, always happy to take on an additional task that will help the collective, and even more so if it’s a high-profile little number.

On the other hand, however, there’s the delicate issue of what one might politely term ‘Suitability for the Role’. Putting it delicately, Maddison’s is not a physique of pure, unadulterated brawn and sinew. If I were to request, from an agency that handled such things, the services of a bit of muscle to protect me from harm of an evening, I’d be pretty cheesed off if they sent James Maddison my way, and would probably send him straight back and demand a refund. Of the entire squad, I imagine that only the wisp-like Bryan Gil would have any difficulty in shoving aside Maddison in any form of physical combat.

Nevertheless, it was better than the alternative, of simply allowing whichever forward (Welbeck yesterday, I think) an unhindered run at Vicario to flap in his face and barge him around as he pleased. And one might reasonably argue that the proof of the pudding was in the fact that Vicario being forced into errors at corners simply was not an issue yesterday, as it had been in previous games. (Although the caveat here is that Brighton’s delivery from corners was not so accurate as to put him under proper scrutiny.) Certainly, Maddison got into the spirit of the thing, all bravado and tugging and pulling each time the principals set themselves for a corner.

So a solution of sorts, but I do consider that a more rigorous test of this scheme, and Maddison’s abilities in the area of personal security, could be yet to come.

2. Not Quite At The Races

Is it just me or does every outing of the Good Ship Hotspur end in some dramatic stoppage-time goal, one way or the other? It certainly feels that way, to the extent that if one of our games finished 5-3 but with all scoring wrapped up by the 80th minute, I’d probably slope away in a bit of a mood, grumbling about not having received my money’s worth.

Anyway, whichever soul launched the gag about all being well that ends well certainly hit the bullseye yesterday, and I blush to admit that I rather lost my sense of propriety when Johnson popped up at the end, bounding about the place like one possessed, truth be told. All of which was well and good, and pretty much captures why we make the weekly pilgrimage in the first place; but it did also paper over the fact that this was a slightly squiffy sort of showing from our heroes.

The dubious tone was set within the first 30 second when young VDV, normally the sort of egg upon whom you’d bet your mortgage as well as the life of your least-favoured child, oddly floundered, losing his bearings, his sight of the ball and his understanding of gravity. Under minimal pressure he tripped over himself and into a little heap, allowing Welbeck to race off and send an early greeting Vicario’s way.

VDV was at it again for the penalty, dipping a foot into a spot he ought to have avoided; an episode that had its genesis in Bentancur miscalculating pretty significantly and being hustled off the ball on the edge of his own area. Bentancur was perhaps the poster-boy for the day’s travails, occasionally delivering his trademark wriggle from trouble, but too often caught dwelling in possession and failing to provide the steady hand to which we’ve become accustomed.

To be clear, however, this was not a case of VDV and Bentancur alone being at the heart of our troubles. Most in lilywhite seemed a little undercooked. Take Udogie, for example. Strangely muted, no? Vicario at one point ill-advisedly underarmed the ball to Bentancur in a most precarious spot; and so on.

Being a gracious sort, I can grudgingly admit that a lot of our under-performing was down to Brighton, whose high-press was pretty snappy, and whose short passing was at times terrific. In fact, the whole thing struck me as what would happen if our heroes played against themselves in one of those shiny computer games with fancy graphics.

Whatever the reason, for the first twenty or so, our lot were comfortably second best; and while we got back on top in the latter part of the first half, this owed as much to pressing high and turning over possession as to any particular guile in our build-up play. Following ingestion of the half-time victuals, our lot hit first gear for a good 25 minutes or so, which looked like it would bring a lot more that just the equaliser, and I confess that at that point I settled back into my seat with a rather smug sense of anticipation; only for our lot to lose their way again, and end up rather clinging on as the clock struck 90. A strange old knocking from our heroes, then.

3. Richarlison

Richarlison was another who didn’t quite hit the right notes, until he eventually did circa minute 96.

His first half miss when clean through (doff of the cap to Maddison for the pass, by the by) was pretty unforgiveable. One can bleat away all day about the goalkeeper spreading himself and whatever else, but that was about as straightforward as chances come, and a chap in his current form ought to have crossed t’s and dotted i’s with minimal fuss.

He delivered similar rot when given the opportunity to tee up Maddison for a straightforward finish, again before half-time. Admittedly that was a pass that required a tad more timing and weighting, but nevertheless it ought not to have been beyond a fellow  whose juices have been flowing like his in the last six weeks or so.

It was a curious performance from Richarlison, because it was not one of those in which he skulked about the place like a moody teen, or wobbled unconvincingly, beset by a critical absence of confidence. He seemed right as rain in matters of the head, full of confidence and positivity. He just failed to deliver at the critical moments – until the finale.

At that point, he did a cracking job, delivering his lines to perfection. His pass for Son looked simple enough, but had he played it with any greater or lesser force Sonny would probably have had to break his stride – or strayed offside – and we’d all be grumbling about another drawn game we should have won. Instead, Richarlison (having been involved in the earlier build-up too), picked his moment and weighted his pass, and AANP duly forgave his earlier transgressions.

4. The Winning Goal

While Richarlison’s minor but critical role receives a light ovation from these parts, I’m inclined to shove the Best Supporting Actor trophy towards Sonny. One can take it for granted, but there aren’t too many nibs around who can go flying off at that sort of pace. His timing had to be on the money too, to stay onside, but mercifully the chap was fully alert to the situation, and crammed the best of all worlds into one single package – staying onside whilst building up a sufficient head of steam to outpace his opposing defender pretty comfortably.

There then followed the most critical part of the operation, viz. delivery of the pass. We could all see it, of course – and being the helpful sort, AANP took the opportunity to scream at the blighter a pithy but accurate instruction as to what was needed at this juncture – but it’s one thing seeing, and a different kettle of fish actually doing.

Mercifully, Son delivered to the millimetre. There was no messing around with additional touches, or considerations of taking it on himself, or any such nonsense. Son pinged the pass first-time, with a spot of curl to evade the stretching Estupinan, leaving Johnson with a pretty straightforward mission from 5 yards.

Johnson, as is well known, has attracted a decent amount of opprobrium over the months, principally for his delivery of a final ball, but if he excels in one area it is in understanding the value of arriving at the back post when potential is bubbling away on the opposite flank. He does it better than most of the others in our ranks, and there is something particularly pleasing about seeing a goal created by one wide attacker to be executed the other. If Son deserves credit for his burst of pace on the left, Johnson ought also to be lauded for acting similarly on the right – for all his attributes I’m not sure Kulusevski would have eaten up those yards.

For one horrific moment I did actually think that Johnson had managed to blast the ball over the bar, but the lad had the good sense not to lash at the thing, and the happy ending was safely tucked away.