Tag: Son Heung Min

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Spurs match reports

Villa 2-1 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Midfield That Will Not Tackle

No messing around yesterday, was there? Normally in these polite gatherings there’s a certain amount of harmless piffle spouted on both sides, as all concerned take a few minutes to adjust the eyes and get used to their surroundings, knocking the ball back to the goalkeeper and so forth while the assorted punters shuffle to their seats.

Not a bit of it from our lot though. Right from the starter’s gun, they seemed pretty intent on broadcasting to the watching world that they were absolutely and emphatically not in the market for any sort of midfield challenges.

In fact, the very concept of a ‘midfield’ seemed to be one with which they played fast and loose. ‘Why begin things by populating the centre of the pitch’ seemed to be the collective murmur, ‘when we can scatter ourselves hither and thither just as well?’

And so it transpired that right from kick-off we were treated to the sight of Porro shoving all the way up the right wing, which meant that Bentancur dropped to right-back; while Kulusevski similarly headed North-West to double-up with Mikey Moore on the right; all of which meant that once Villa had triangled their way through us, young Bergvall was the only one in a remotely central position.

Wild positional sense aside, however, it was the absence of any semblance of a tackle that really caught the eye. Time and again, Villa were able to stroll straight through the heart of our midfield with the casual of air of dog-walkers in a park. And not one of those dubious parks either, populated by shifty-looking youths staring and spitting, and littered with unspeakable detritus along the paths. The type of park provided by the Spurs midfield was, by contrast, one of those pristine numbers in which anyone wanting a spot of calm and quiet could amble by uninterrupted for hours if they so wished.

Vexingly, those tasked with occupying our midfield positions simply would not put in a tackle. It was most glaringly illustrated in that wretched opening minute. During this episode, at one point five of our lot ambled towards the Villa man (Rogers), all five doing just about enough to register what one might classify as ‘passing interest’, but none extending themselves to the point of actually rolling up their sleeves and thrusting self into the face of the chap with a snarl and a bit of meaning.

It was almost as if they were under orders to avoid tackling, dash it! One could see in real-time as the play unravelled, moment by moment, each opportunity for a tackle; and every time the relevant lilywhite seemed struck with the notion of diving in with a bit of welly, before caution prevailed and he suppressed the urge, instead allowing Rogers to jink off a couple of more steps as he pleased.

Lest you need reminding of the gory details, that particular scene culminated in Villa scoring, but on repeated occasions thereafter, particularly in the first half, the pattern remained the same. In fact, at least in the opening minute, as mentioned, five of our number had the dignity to at least appear to care, by wandering gently towards Rogers in the first place, even if they applied themselves with all the energy and bite of a set of mannequins. In the half hour or so that followed, they didn’t even bother approaching the onrushing Villa forwards to make some preliminary enquiries. Villa were able to trot through completely unopposed.

AANP sympathised with our back-four, which, although far from flawless, seemed to have copped a pretty rotten deal, essentially being abandoned by their chums and left to fend for themselves any time Villa sent forward a swarm of attackers.

One might argue that things improved in the second half, as each of Bergvall and Bentancur were booked for utterly cynical, agricultural fouls in the middle. It was hardly the panacea for all previous ills, but I suppose it at least demonstrated a vague recognition of the need to delay Villa’s breaks over halfway.

Now AANP is more sympathetic than most when it comes to this issue of injuries, absentees and the tired bodies of those poor saps being wheeled out twice weekly for almost three months. As Our Glorious Leader was at pains to emphasise post-match yesterday, those out on the pitch are entirely out of battery power, and really all need a week or two on a sunny beach.

Nevertheless, tired bodies or not, this business of a midfield allergic to the sacred art of tackling is one that nags. I’m not entirely convinced that it can all entirely be blamed upon flagging energy levels.

The profiles of pips like Bergvall, Bentancur, Sarr and Maddison (and Gray once he graduates to a midfield role) are all of the neat-and-tidy-in-possession ilk. The sorts of chumps who are happiest when putting their foot on the ball, having a look about the place and applying a spot of technique to send it from point A to point B. More Redknapp than Roberts, if you follow. None are the sort one envisages brandishing a spear and leading the troops into battle, driven by a thirst for blood.

Bissouma is perhaps the only one of the current mob with a bit of bite in him, but he seems only to impose himself once every five or six games. The rest just aren’t cut out for a fight.

And for clarity, I’m not really suggesting that we need Romero-esque lunging challenges in every direction, uprooting everybody and leaving a trail of blood and destruction about the place. Simply positioning oneself to prevent free passage for the opposition would suffice. Block their path and force them backwards.

My Spurs-supporting chum Mark last week pointed out that Kieran Trippier was charging about the place, in the Carabao semi between Newcastle and Woolwich, like a man pretty hell-bent on preventing that rotten lot from advancing, and it’s a trait sorely missing at N17. Similarly, that McGinn rotter for Villa, although not a species of whom I’m too fond, doesn’t half set about each challenge like one whose life depends on it. Alarmingly, and one doesn’t really like to speak too loudly about these things, it’s been a feature of our teams for decades. I’m not really convinced the injuries can be blamed for that.

2. Kinsky: Brilliant or Rubbish?

Not for the first time, young Kinsky between the sticks seemed to swing wildly between extremes, with barely a jot in between. His is a marriage of the sublime and ridiculous. Nor is it one of those low-key marriages that dutifully ploughs on through the decades without too many dramas. His is more the sort conducted in Vegas, its every passing moment providing tabloid fodder.

His first touch of the ball was inexplicably sorry. The Villa laddie, benefitting from the usual Porro hospitality, had about an acre of space and plenty of time to go with it, but nevertheless delivered a pretty duff effort, high on power but poor on direction. Kinsky actually seemed to do the necessaries too, dropping to the requisite height and in the requisite direction, and essentially positioning his frame between the ball and the goal.

That he still somehow stuffed the pay-off therefore took some doing – but if his first month or so in lilywhite has taught us anything, it is that one cannot take the eye off Kinsky once the ball is near him. It was a pretty cruel irony then that he seemed to do precisely that himself, taking his eye off the ball and letting it somehow spin off behind him.

But, in a follow-up that was as baffling as it was entirely in keeping with his career to date, he followed up that ghastly clanger with a series of impressive saves to keep our heroes within a goal of parity.

A critic might sniffily point out that in launching himself full-stretch and palming long-range stingers this way and that, he was merely doing his job. And it would be a reasonable point I suppose, but still needed doing – and AANP certainly still shudders to recall the latter stages of Monsieur Lloris’ career being peppered with instances of him simply crouching and watching as balls sailed past him into various top corners.

So Kinsky’s shot-stopping, whilst generally a firm positive, had cast over it throughout the lurid spectre of that opening-minute faux pas of the ages. As for his distribution, again, one struggles to land on a firm and satisfactory opinion.

With ball at feet, Kinsky seems increasingly beset by nerves. At least once a game now, he seems possessed with the conviction that the ball will at any minute come alive and start leaping about the place.

This is rather a shame, because in his calmer moments he has demonstrated that he has within his repertoire a useful enough range of passing, both short and long. It didn’t help against Liverpool in midweek that each time he launched the thing it came back with interest off the loaf of Van Dijk, and yesterday similarly there seemed precious little harvest when he pinged the thing towards Tel.

But mingled with this ability to hit a fairly accurate 40-yarder lives the tendency to chip a short pass straight to onrushing opponent, or to misread the situation completely and aim a pass towards a defender who, though placed near enough, is being hunted by forwards and is not actually looking, which does throw a sizeable downer upon the whole operation.

It all leaves one sinking the head into the hands and yearning for a day on which his involvement is so low-key that one forgets about his very existence. I suspect with Kinsky we won’t get too much of that. There appears to be a pretty handy bean lurking in there somewhere, but at present we’ll also have to accept that amidst the solid saves, smart passing and confident catching there will, from nowhere, occasionally spring up – unannounced and completely unexpectedly – some random malfunction that costs pretty dearly.

3. Sonny

Nothing says ‘Off the boil’ like the gurning of a straightforward one-on-one from point-blank range, and Sonny duly slapped his opportunity straight at the ‘keeper when the rest of us had already adjusted the scoreboard in our heads and were considering how the goal might change the game’s pattern.

Even the best of us can pickle an easy chance I suppose, so I won’t hammer the poor chap too heavily for that one – and similarly I suppose that even the best set-piece merchants can chip a critical last-minute delivery straight into the hands of the ‘keeper. One looks to the heavens and unleashes a few choice oaths, but one understands.

More concerning is that Sonny’s little legs seem to have given up on him. Of the burst of pace that used to see him whizz past defenders in a bit of a blur, all the way from halfway to the penalty area, there is no longer a rack.

Whether that is due to a temporary impediment – a niggling injury, for example – or a general gathering of rust about his hinges is unclear, although the AANP dollar is on the latter.  Either way, however, that handy 20-yard burst seems ever less likely to be an option.

As such, with a view to the future, it seems as good a time as any to think about winding down the fellow and gradually easing him out of the picture. Odobert’s trick of arriving and promptly collapsing into a heap has rather sullied that particular operation, but as he returns to fitness I think it might be best for all parties if a gradual handing over of the baton were effected, this side of May.

As concerning in the shorter-term is this business of Sonny as captain. By all accounts he’s a thoroughly lovely chap, a story which is pretty believable and to his credit. The world needs a few good eggs about the place, after all. What the world doesn’t need, however, is any such good egg leading our lot on the pitch. As ranted about above, a major failing amongst our mob is the utter toothlessness and lack of fight on show, and when one considers that the on-field lieutenant is renowned as one of the nicest chappies in the game, it’s fair to say that things rather start to make sense.

Not that there is an abundance of likely candidates to replace him. Romero may be the most aggressive, but his playing career does seem riddled with questionable life choices. Maddison, the other vice-captain, like Sonny is one I can’t actually remember every attempting a tackle, let alone winning one.

Kulusevski and VDV strike me as likelier sorts to lead by example, but irrespective of whomever actually wears the armband – and frankly, as a fashion statement, I don’t give too many hoots – the broader point is around a lack of fight and leadership in our ranks.

The club’s recent policy of bringing in one promising young thing after another certainly has its merits, but a couple of nibs with a few years under the belt, to whom the kids might look for inspiration, would not go amiss.

Still, apart from a midfield that can’t tackle, a goalkeeper liable at any moment to gift possession to the opposition and a star player whose powers are on the wane, things aren’t so bad. The absence of a midweek game this week finally allows the usual suspects a proper rest (and again next week), whilst various of the invalids are set to return – all of which means that Ange will soon have a fit-for-purpose squad from which to pick, and we’ll finally be able to gauge whether or not he is actually any good at this management lark.

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-0 Elfsborg: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Young People

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

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

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

1.1 Scarlett

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

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

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

1.2 Ajayi

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

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

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

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

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

1.3 Mikey Moore

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

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

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

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

1.4 The Future?

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

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

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

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

2. Van de Ven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Son

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Hoffenheim 2-3 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A Disclaimer: The Shonky Middle Period

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Maddison

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Brandon Austin

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Son

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Everton 3-2 Spurs: Five Tottenham Talking Points

1. The New Formation’s Perks

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The New Formation’s Woes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Bergvall

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

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

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

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

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

4. Spence, Kinsky, Moore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5. Midfield Bite (Or Lack Thereof)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports Uncategorized

Arsenal 2-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

Even Duo Lingo stuck the knife in after this one.

1. Kinsky

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Older Heads

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

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

2.1 Son

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

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

2.2 Kulusevski

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

2.3 Porro

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

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

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

2.4 Johnson, Egads

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

2.5 Maddison

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. The Younger Heads

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Fatigue? Tactics?

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Wolves: Four Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. A Return to Older Ways

There was something vaguely nostalgic about seeing our lot have the better of things throughout, gum up multiple opportunities and then let the opposition snatch a point in fairly routine fashion. Not that it made things any more palatable, but the scene that played out was certainly a familiar one.

In decades to come, the nation’s great orators might paint this as one of those larks dominated start to finish by the mob in lilywhite; the truth, however, is that we did the decent thing only in fits and starts. Our heroes were certainly the more capable of the two gangs out there, and generally had the better of things. At the same time it wasn’t quite Tottenham at their fluent best.

Out of puff, is the expert AANP take. The sprightly, fighting-fit specimens of late-August and September have been replaced by wheezing, weathered versions. The spirit is as willing as ever, but the flesh is flagging like the dickens.

That said, when they clicked, our troops did so pretty dreamily, and but for a selection of errant finishes we might have regaled one another over new year’s eve with tales of Goal of the Season contenders. But there’s the rub: errant finishes. Chief amongst them, I suppose, was the penalty, but other highlights on show included a couple of first half moments of slapstick gold, in which various players wavered between stepping aside for each other and all trying to connect simultaneously, as well as various more conventional misses.

As mentioned, when operations came together Wolves didn’t stand much chance. They just trotted around in appropriate spots and hoped for the best. However, these moments were fairly intermittent. For every smooth combo on show there was at least one instance of a move falling apart at the construction stage. Again, it struck me, most of those out on show would benefit from a lazy day or two watching Christmas reruns on the telly-box, and with the feet up and no energy expended.

Good to see that they can still carve open defences like the best of them; but to concede after the only five-minute spell of pressure faced in the whole match does rather knock the stuffing. Another two points we can wistfully mourn come May.

2. Solanke and Kulusevski

Foremost amongst those fighting the good fight were Solanke and Kulusevski, who well and truly took to heart the instruction to beaver away like the dickens. If there were a forward pass of some loose degree of promise being shunted around halfway, one of these two were upon it in a trice.

Their fine and worthy inputs did not end there. Solanke in particular demonstrated a hitherto rarely-seen ability to twinkle-toe his way around desperate, retreating Wolves legs. Too selfless by half, the upshot of much of his good work was that by the time the moment arrived for the trigger to be pulled, Solanke was often still a good 10 yards south of the action, meaning that it was left to his various chums to try their luck.

Kulusevski meanwhile demonstrated yet again that while he has something to offer out wide on the right, his talents are best showcased when he pops up slap bang in the middle of things, with licence to go where the mood takes him. Admittedly the mood as often as not takes him veering off slightly to the right anyway, but I nevertheless prefer him in that Number 10 slot, and each passing game merely reaffirms this notion.

2. Son (and Werner)

If Solanke and Kulusevski were at the bright and breezy end of the Juices Floweth spectrum, poor old Sonny was still trudging along at the other. Putting to one side his penalty miss, he seemed to spend his hour getting bogged down in a mass of confused ideas as to what to do with the ball when it arrived at his feet. The result generally seemed to be that he ground to a halt, malfunctioned slightly and either pickled his end-product or ran into a cul-de-sac.

There was a whiff of the old errand-of-mercy about his substitution on 60 or so minutes. While Timo Werner is no world-beater it struck me that there was a pretty marked change in levels of vim and spark on the left, when the German arrived.

If any amongst the readership are inclined to leap into action first, give things a moment’s thought at some later date and live their life by the motto ‘Consequences be damned’ then the notion of dumping Sonny on the bench for the foreseeable probably strikes you as a winner.

I’m inclined to be a tad more circumspect myself, and while a game or two on the bench might be no bad thing, the chap still ought to have plenty to contribute in the coming five or so months. A shame that neither Mikey Moore nor that Odobert beak are fit and ready to step in, but I’m all for Herr Werner stretching his legs in the coming days, as an immediate-term running repair.

More broadly, at 32 we can probably assume that a creature whose game is as burst-of-pace-dependent as Son’s will, sooner or later, start to wind down, so a spot of forward-planning would not go amiss. The hot take is that although his contract runs out this summer, itchy fingers abound in N17, ready to trigger a one-year extension. This makes sense to AANP, and once Odobert and Mikey Moore are fit, suitable replacements will present themselves for a gentle handover.

3. Dragusin and Gray

As mentioned, to concede at the first sniff of pressure exerted by the other lot was a blow to the lower regions. Giving the beady eye to replays of that second goal, neither centre-back really covered themselves in glory.

A case could be made for Archie Gray to wear the principal bell of shame about his neck, which is almightily unfortunate, because if the goal were his fault I make that just about the first errant act of his, in four or five outings at centre-back. Aside from the goal, yesterday and in all previous jaunts at centre-back he was near-flawless, making sensible choices defensively, showing awareness of current events buzzing around him and also proving most competent in possession.

Alas, that business of keeping up with current events hit a minor blip yesterday, and it proved costly. In the build-up to the Wolves equaliser, when things were still at the Harmless stage, Gray’s duties appeared to include the babysitting of that Strand Larsen egg. This he managed well enough, until the moment when the crucial pass was played into the area.

At this point, S-L simply toddled his way in front of Gray, and that was that. It was all very pleasant and courteous, so no alarms on that front; but the real issue here was that Gray not only allowed the chap to go where he pleased without making much effort to prevent him, he also made no attempt then to catch the blighter as he latched onto the ball.

It may have been that Gray expected Dragusin to pick up the baton once S-L made his move, but if this were the case it was optimistic at best. Dragusin, for a start, has at the back of his head a peculiar accumulation of hair, and half a shaved scalp, but decidedly and absolutely no eyes. And lacking eyes in the back of his head, nor bothering to give a glance over his shoulder to see what menace might have been lurking, he sure as heck wasn’t about to lend a helping hand to Gray.

The net result was just that. S-L did not hang around, but slapped the thing into the net, and those various missed chances came home to roost.

As mentioned, a shame that Gray’s copybook was blotted thusly, because he seems a most competent young thing when it comes to elite-level centre-backery.

Dragusin is a slightly more curious bird, showing himself yesterday pretty capable at various of the defensive elements of the role, before hitting a steady stream of passes to opposition players.

He did punctuate all of these with one absolute doozy of a pass, out to the right in the first half. It was one that reminded me of the little video compilations one pored over when he was about to sign, and which had various amongst us chattering excitedly about how good a passer he no doubt was. Safe to say that he certainly fancies himself as a ball-sprayer of some zip; but a ratio of one in five or so does make me raise a concerned eyebrow.

4. Reguilon

Before signing off, a mention of young Senor Reguilon. And having introduced the topic so dramatically, with the public no doubt awaiting, with baited breath, the meat of the story, I’m not quite sure how to elaborate. Frankly, as I’m not privy to the inner workings of the Postecoglou mind, the best you’ll get from me is an apologetic shrug, and gentle rehash of existing ideas.

From what I gather, poor old Reguilon has been persona non grata all this time because he’s been fashioned by nature as one of those more conventional full-backs, who sticks to the touchline as a well-trusted vicinity, and is happy to swing crosses into the penalty area. And indeed, these traits were on show during his 40-odd yesterday.

Where Reguilon struggles, according to the narrative, is in inverting, and this is why he spends most of his hours gazing on longingly from afar, the disappointment of being excluded week after week barely compensated for by the enormous envelope he pockets each month. In short, he’s not a Postecolglou sort.

It says much about the state of the sick-bay, then, that even Reguilon was dusted down and shoved on for the best part of the second half yesterday. With Spence’s suspension now served, he will presumably come straight back in at left-back, at the weekend, but the dubious state of Udogie’s hamstrings suggests that there may yet be another cameo or two from Reguilon before he’s bundled out the door. If nothing else, I suppose, it hammers home the point that we need a signing or two come the new year.

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Spurs match reports

Forest 1-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

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

1. Not A Particularly Bad Showing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. The Art of Midfield Tackling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Individuals

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 3-6 Liverpool: Five Tottenham Talking Points

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1. Disclaimer: Liverpool Were Jolly Sharp

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Individual Errors

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Son

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

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

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

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

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

4. Kulusevski Central

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5. Spence

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

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

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

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

Categories
Spurs match reports

Rangers 1-1 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

OUT NOW! The new book ‘All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season’, is the perfect stocking-filler for any Spurs fan. Get yours now for just £7.99 from Amazon (ebook from £6.99)

1. Werner and Ange’s Comments

An early vox pops suggest that AANP is in a minority on this one, but I raised an eyebrow at Our Glorious Leader’s post-match critique of Timo Werner.

A bit of admin is probably needed here in the first place, just so that everyone knows where they stand. For a start, there’s Ange’s own take on it. From the horse’s mouth:

“He wasn’t playing at anywhere near the level he should be. Timo’s first-half performance was not acceptable to me. I told Timo that he’s a German international, that I need everyone to be trying to give their best and this wasn’t an acceptable example. I expect a lot more from the senior guys.”

And if you want a sense of the tone in which he soliloquyed, think Angry Bear Tries To Use Looks Alone To Kill Press Conference Attendees.

Next up there’s AANP’s own take on Werner’s 45 minutes’ worth last night. For clarity, I’m hardly defending the chap’s performance. If you close your eyes, block out the background hubbub and try to imagine literally any Timo Werner performance in our colours over the last 12 months, you’ve probably hit the bullseye. It was that.

More specifically, his finishing was poor and his crossing was poor, but he seemed as willing a runner as ever. He tried, as he always does; and his output was exasperatingly off, as it always is. (He also embellished things, if that’s really the word I want, with one moment in which he miscontrolled a whopping pass from Fraser Forster, which would have had us off and away, so that made for a conspicuous lowlight – but it hardly seems fair to throw him down the pan for a single doltish moment.)

The point I’m getting at is that this just struck me as standard Werner fare. By which I suppose I mean it was actually pretty sub-standard, but still exactly what we’re used to.

And precisely because it was all so normal, I’m slightly taken aback by Ange’s post-match sting. Not like him to single out a chappie and pour hot oil over them, what? If he’s going to indulge in a spot of Werner-bashing, why now? He’s had 25 appearances for our lot, most of which have been around the same level, after all.

On top of which, if he’s going to bash anyone, why Werner? Let’s face it, there have been no shortage of performances from various amongst our number that have stunk the place out over the past 18 months or so.

It might have been a carefully choreographed spiel, part of a wider plan to ensure that all squad members see a spot of public lashing and think to themselves, “Crikey, I’d better pull up my own socks”; or it might be that Ange’s patience with Werner’s constant butchering of his lines has finally run out. Either way, though, I gave the chin a bit of a stroke at that one.

2. Dragusin and Gray

It’s becoming a big day for AANP failing to read the mood in the room, for when I cheerily put it to my Spurs-supporting chum Dave that Dragusin was doing a bit better than normal (a low bar, admittedly, but let’s crack on), he hit back with some pretty scything patter, the gist of which seemed to be that last night was the straw that had broken the back of that particular camel, and that he had given up on the fellow.

Now I appreciate that Dragusin’s passing was somewhat errant. Indeed, he seemed to have decided to create his own entertainment for himself, in closing his eyes, picking a random direction and firing out the ball in said direction. Endless fun for him; a bit less thrilling for his teammates.

However, putting aside his curious distribution, when it came to the fundamentals of central defending, I chalked this up as one of his better days. There was none of the Romero-esque charges upfield to challenge for loose balls and thereby leave yawning gaps behind him. Instead, Dragusin adopted generally sensible positions, and did a solid enough job of blocking, intercepting and in some instances politely shoving.

Rangers at various periods gave us a bit of a hammering; Dragusin was generally there to help repel them.

And I thought that young Gray could be similarly marked, in terms of making a mess of things in possession (via the medium of dribbles from the back that were abruptly ended, rather than errant passing) but also putting in a pretty solid showing when it came to the basics of defending.

Gray probably merits a slightly extended wittering, being not only inexperienced as a player but completely new to the position. To be thrust into that sort of environment, in a role for which he has had precious little training over the years, and plough through the full 90 without any notable errors, merits a tip of the cap.

As mentioned, he did run into trouble pretty much every time he tried to bring the ball out of defence, but even there I’m inclined to turn him a kindly eye. If Romero, VDV, Dragusin etc peeled off that sort of thing I’d admittedly unleash both barrels. But, truth be told, I was actually rather impressed that Gray had the confidence to try carrying the ball forward from the back. He’ll perhaps need to learn when to finish sashaying and when to pass the thing; but he seems to have the ability to do it. All in all, a fairly impressive first stab in the role from the young imp.

3. Porro and the Same Old Goal

A few weeks ago some footage sprung up on the interweb of our lot conceding three or four different goals, in near-identical fashion. In each instance they were deliveries from the opposition right, which reached the far post, an area nominally the domain of one Pedro Porro – but the punchline here is that in each instance young P.P. was a long way off current events, and the relevant opposition bobbie was able to convert unopposed from a slightly-left-of-centre area.

Well of course, it happened again last night. One might point out that the detail around the edges was a little different – this one emanating from a cross from deep – but the principle dashed well remains. Whatever the hell goes on between the Porro ears, one can bet one’s mortgage on it not being anything about defending at the far post.

He might angrily wave a hand or two and complain that actually he was in the vicinity, closer than anyone else in fact. However, were he to do so, by way of riposte I’d remove a shoe, throw it at his head, and yell at him that being in the vicinity is no good at all if he’s going to let the opponent wander goal side of him, with a neat circumference around him of two or three yards that is exclusively his, in which to conduct himself as he pleases.

Porro, in common with most defenders in Ange-era Spurs, seems to consider that the principal role of a defender is to contribute to attacks, preferably by stationing himself north of halfway. It makes the forehead veins absolutely bulge to popping level to see him constantly five yards behind his opposing forward whenever they counter-attack.

This was all the more galling yesterday, given the considered efforts of Gray and Dragusin to put out fires more centrally. If Ange really did want to have a pop at those players gumming things up, he might have just as easily have picked on Porro.

4. Midfield Lack of Bite

As always seems to be the case, it felt that whichever team had the ball last night looked they would score within a pass or two.

When our lot purr they look capable of scoring against the best defences around, and our goal yesterday was lovely stuff – patience at the back before a few slick, one-touch passes to get us from A to B, and then a spot of smart decision-making around the edge of the area.

Equally, however, when having lost possession, alarm bells sound all over the place. And much of the reason for this is the wisp-like nature of our midfield. Slap bang on the five-minute mark, Bentancur was barged off the ball and into a different dimension by a Rangers sort (quite likely that Raskin chap, who made a habit of it all night), and it struck me as summing up not just the current Tottenham vintage but every Spurs side I’ve seen since first casting eyes upon them in the 80s.

Earnest beans like Johnson, Maddison, Son, Werner, Bentancur, Bergvall (who I thought gave his best performance so far last night, very Bentancur-esque) and so on will all bob about in the right places when we lose possession, and make a bit of a demonstration of trying to dip in an impeding foot, but it’s all pretty much decorative. They know, we know and the opposition know that our midfield really isn’t going to stop anything. The real business begins when the ball is shoved straight past them, and Forster and the back-four have to defend the penalty area.

Whether this is due to individuals just not winning their own personal duels, or something more structural, is beyond me. Whatever the reason, we remain alarmingly easy to attack, and end up simply rely upon scoring enough, rather than preventing the other lot.

Bissouma is the one chap upon whom much of the responsibility lies actually to prevent opposition attacks at source, and while he generally pops up two or three times per game with a useful enough tackle of some species, in general he’s not really demonstrated an ability to hold down the entire fort single-handedly.

So it’s a bit of a pickle, but that, I suppose, is why Our Glorious Leader is paid the fat envelope.

Credit to our lot nevertheless, for coming from behind, evidently not an easy thing to do in the circumstances. At full strength I’d have expected us to rock up and win against that lot, but given the current list of absentees, and the fact that we were second best for much of the night, a point represents pretty healthy stock. One hopes that those in the corridors of power are starting to take the hint, and will be dusting off their chequebooks this January.

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Spurs Books Uncategorized

New Spurs Book Out Now – “All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season”

“One could hardly suggest that when Son crept into view the coast was clear. The coast was crowded, and in fact fast becoming something of a claustrophobe’s nightmare. Bodies were advancing upon the poor lad like vultures getting right down to it for their daily spot of carcass.”

All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season is based loosely on the weekly chronicles of the Tottenham Hotspur blog All Action, No Plot, during 2023-24. That season will live long in the memory, as the beginning of an extraordinary, exhilarating new era under Ange Postecoglou – and no writer captured the madness as wittily as the AANP blogger, Michael Lacquiere. His combination of eloquent prose and ludicrous humour made for matchday reflections as compelling as the games themselves.

From the heady success of Postecoglou’s opening months in charge, which saw Spurs’ relentless attacking style take them to the top of the Premier League and dreaming of glory, to the turning-point of the season in an incredible nine-man defeat in November, through to a finale in which European qualification was secured while fans cheered on a home defeat, no team in the country was as entertaining as Tottenham. Relive Ange’s wild first season at Spurs with this match-by-match account from the pen of one of English football’s finest comic writers.

Out now for just £7.99, order your paperbook copy now from Amazon, in time for Christmas (ebook from £6.99).

All Action No Plot: Postecoglou’s First Season – the perfect stocking-filler for any Spurs fan.