Tag: Xavi Simons

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Spurs match reports

Spurs 2-2 Man City: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. Solanke

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Simons

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

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

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

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

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

3. Dragusin

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

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

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

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

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

4. An Odd Second Half Turnaround

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

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

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

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

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

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Spurs match reports

Frankfurt 0-2 Spurs: Three (Tardy) Tottenham Talking Points

1. European Joys vs Domestic Woes

As distracting sub-plots go, this business of Sauntering-Through-The-CL-While-Falling-Off-A-Cliff-In-The-PL is rapidly gaining in intrigue.

First things first, and it should be meaningful handshakes and measured eye contact all round – both for the players who went out and ticked all the required boxes, and, I suppose, for Our Glorious Leader, who politely presents himself for the hurling of rotten fruit when things go awry, so probably deserves a nod of acknowledgement when we somehow emerge as fourth best in the whole continent, if you can rub your eyes and believe that.

The next thing to do would be to deal with the resident grumps who wander the joint tutting and shaking their heads at AANP as he tries to enjoy a long-awaited celebratory drink. This mob, last seen complaining that winning a European trophy didn’t count because the Final was a dull watch, have now piped up to moan that all the sides we played in this season’s European jaunt were rubbish, so really we should shut down the whole operation and hang our heads in shame.

With that out the way, we can try tackling square on the issue of why we stink in domestic competition, but shine pretty brightly overseas. For while Frankfurt and Dortmund are hardly tearing up the Bundesliga, one would think that if we can swat them aside gently enough then we ought to be able to find a way past Burnley, Wolves et al.

And the consensus here seems to be some rambling about the physicality of the Premier League. Whereas in the Champions League the loose gist is to make pretty patterns and then pop the ball in the net when the mood takes, the Premier League these days seems to resemble more closely one of those dreadful military workout sessions one hears about, in which burly men slog away at all manner of perspiration-drenched physical activities, with fun at an absolute minimum and the winner being whichever dull sap makes it to the end without dying. And our lot, bless their cotton socks, seem rather less inclined towards the rigours of the latter than the former.

It probably also helps that the CL gangs tend not to be so preoccupied with setting up in defensive formation and bedding in for the evening, but generally seem a tad more expansive in their outlook on life. Provides a bit more operating space once we are in possession, so the sages say.

This is all just fanciful, whiskey-fuelled conjecture from an amateur of course, and greater minds than mine have no doubt pored over the performances domestically and abroad, but the point is that the last couple of European jollies could not have been in greater contradistinction to the domestic ploddings. Night and day about sums it up.

2. Palhinha (and Others)

No shortage of bright and breezy performances on Wednesday night, what?

Young Spence’s impression of Gareth Bale continues in earnest if imperfect fashion. To be quite honest, the fellow seems to me to need to put in a bit more time studying his Substance-to-Style ratio, but with Frankfurt defenders obligingly missing their tackles and careering off in the wrong directions, Spence was generally able to enjoy himself, and that’s not something we say too often about our heroes these days.

Messrs Odobert and Simons similarly seemed to clock pretty swiftly that this was a night to make merry, so it was the care-free versions of both who scampered hither and thither. I did shoot a pretty withering glance in Simons’ direction for that curious dance, after the early, disallowed goal, his rhythmic swayings suggesting that he was putting a dashed sight more time and effort into celebrating goals than creating them. However, he gets a pass from AANP for spending the rest of the night displaying his better traits.

You knew that it was all a bit of a stroll when a persona non grata like Pape Sarr could be hauled back into action and generally looked not too far out of place. A little rusty around the edges perhaps, but he didn’t lack any of that traditional boyish enthusiasm, and on a day on which all but one of the subs were younglings, it was pretty dashed handy to be able to summon him back from whichever storage unit has housed him for the last six months or so.

Oddly enough, the chappie who caught my eye was João Palhinha of all people. Not that he was particularly exceptional (and indeed, he blotted an otherwise clean copybook with his late chopping of Frankfurt legs to earn himself a yellow card), or in any way more eye-catching than the rest of the troupe.

Rather, it was the fact that he drew the short straw and had to square peg his way into the right of the centre-back three that earned the approving AANP nod. Crucially, one wouldn’t really have known that this was not his natural habitat. One rather hopes not to notice one’s centre-backs over the course of a game, this generally being a useful indicator of the dirty work being done with minimal fuss; and thus it transpired.

When the occasional wobble did occur, it seemed if anything to happen closer to the Danso-Romero corner of the defence (such as the random one-on-one before half-time that hit the bar). Palhinha simply put his head down and neat-and-tidied the night away.

3. Transfers (Or Lack Thereof)

So top marks to all concerned, particularly given that we were essentially down to the last 12 first teamers; but with the dust having settled – and indeed, even when the dust was still airborne and dancing about the place – the nagging question sprung to mind of how we had let it come to this.

And by ‘this’ I refer specifically to the situation of going into a match with only 12 first teamers to call upon. A charming throwback to the early ‘80s it might have been, but if another one or two of our lot had limped off stage early on in the piece we might have found ourselves in almighty pickle.

Injuries happen, of course, but I seem to recall that Vinai chap – our CEO, don’t you know – and perhaps one or two of cronies, suggesting at some point in the summer/autumn months, the general notion that wads of cash were going to be squirted at the squad as required. Indeed, I’m absolutely certain I heard talk, at one stage, of “competing on four fronts”.

This being the first January window of the new (or post-Levy) regime, I had peered with some curiosity towards the back pages, to see what this new approach would mean in practice. And while Connor Gallagher seems a decent sort of bobbie, who will constantly run if awake; and the 17 year-old left-back from Brazil presumably has a heartwarming personal tale to tell; I’m not sure that these two signings and an unsuccessful chat with Andy Robertson are really transforming the place as Vinai’s early-season witterings had hinted. Probably best for now just to bask in the Champions League glow for another day or two.

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Forest 3-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Hangover

I took the liberty of indulging in a rare evening out in the metropolis yesterday, sinking a few in one or two of London’s watering holes, and shaking a leg on the occasional dance-floor, so it was a well-oiled AANP whose head hit the pillow in the wee small hours. As such, Sunday lunchtime did not catch me in my rarest form. The head throbbed, the breathing was deep and the exhalations were quite likely flammable. A gentle, restful afternoon beckoned.

This, however, was all acceptable enough, because I was not due to run out onto a football pitch and play, a princely sum having been thrust into my back-pocket for the privilege, with the expectation of being somewhere near my physical peak for the following 90 minutes. Put another way, I could be excused for moping about the place, the very embodiment of lethargy. For our heroes out on the pitch, no such excuse existed.

And yet. I’m not sure that in the entire match our lot strung together three consecutive passes of any meaning. Apart from Archie Gray’s instinctive turn-and-volley in the first half, I’m not sure we managed a shot on target either. AANP has never really been one for xG, the details of that particular data-point seeming to me often to obscure the actual game as it unfurls before the eyes; but its broad principle I do understand, and for our lot yet again to have failed to hit 0.5 xG in the entire match tells a gloomy tale (and not whilst playing any of Europe’s elite, mind, but a Forest side casting a nervous glance over the shoulder at the relegation spots, dash it).

To a man, our troupe looked thoroughly undercooked, from first whistle to last. As mentioned, the inability to string together more than a couple of accurate passes was bewildering, and every time someone or other did have the bright idea of swooping in to win possession, this minor triumph was fairly instantly sullied by an errant pass following it immediately.

The complete absence of quality throughout was loosely mirrored by a fairly minimal level of energy, all of which left me wondering by the end if the gang in yellow on display this afternoon had also been lurking in those drinking-spots and dance-floors, into the wee small hours last night.

2. Vicario

I prattled on a couple of weeks ago, in the wake of Vicario’s grade A blunder against Fulham, that the chap really needed to keep his head down and his nose clean for the foreseeable, and generally avoid drawing any attention to himself.

It was a sentiment that drifted to mind as I buried the head in the hands circa minute 50, at which time the ball gently rolled around inside the netting, Vicario having immersed himself in quite the pickle when dealing with a misdirected cross.

I didn’t hang around for the post-match niceties – the AANP hangover was bad enough after sitting through that 90-minute performance – so I couldn’t quote back to you the key points made by Master Hudson-Odoi when quizzed, as he presumably would have been, about whether that was intended as a cross or a shot. It seems a pretty safe bet, however, that when the moment arrived, shortly after he had twisted Bentancur’s blood to a level bordering on the inhumane, that on looking up from the left corner of the area, his strategy was to deliver a cross and rely on better-placed chums to do the rest.

Not being a goalkeeper, I’m not really qualified to opine in any real depth as to what specifically Vicario ought to have done, but in a broader sense, several decades of watching and occasionally playing the game has taught me that goalkeepers ought not let crosses drift past them and into the net.

So, wiser minds than mine would presumably be able to lay out the specifics of where Vicario ought to have planted his feet, and how his body-weight ought to have been distributed and so forth – but ultimately, surely, the drill would have been to have prevented ball from entering net. In this he spectacularly failed. While it was probably not the worst error a goalkeeper could ever make – frankly it was not the worst this specific goalkeeper has made in the last month – a goalkeeping error it nevertheless was, and the logbook of such misdeeds is now growing to troubling heft.

If he were in any other position in the pitch, I suspect Vicario would by now have been quietly demoted to the sidelines, with a view to clearing his head and returning a few weeks or months hence, fit and bronzed and ready to give that penalty area a jolly good marshalling.

However, he is not in any other position; he is in the unique position of goalkeeper, and Our Glorious Leader is therefore facing a rather delicate balancing act. The first reserve, young Kinsky, has shown himself to a goalkeeper possessed of various fine qualities, but also never too far away from an out-of-the-blue howler himself. While there is a legitimate question, of quite how bad Vicario has to be before he is dropped, the waters are slightly muddied by the fallibility of the first reserve. No point removing Vicario, I mean, if the chap who replaces him is just as creaky, what?

3. Thomas Frank

Talking of chaps whose performances are creaking like nobody’s business, at what point do we need to start talking about The Big Cheese?

As my Spurs-supporting chum Ian pointed out during the morbid, post-match back-and-forth, Forest are on their third manager of the season, yet the Dyche chap, approximately 5 minutes into the gig, seems to have slapped together a unit with some degree of identity – by which I mean that they have a shape, a playing style, and personnel each of whom seem to know their jobs.

Compare and contrast to our own Glorious L., and identity – as defined above – is rather awkwardly lacking. “A work in progress”, one might generously offer, and if still in generous mood one might also point to the notable absentees amongst the cast list – Messrs Solanke, Kulusevski and Maddison still all apparently chugging paracetamol.

However, to this I emit a rather cheesed off sort of tut, and point out that absent though that lot might be, the next cabs on the rank are hardly unproven youths from the academy, but multi-million pound A-listers such as Kolo Muani, Simons and Kudus (AANP has a moral objection to the classification of Richarlison as an A-lister, so I’ll stick with those three for now). Even making the presumption that Frank is prioritising the defence first, he ought still to be able to get some sort of tune out of that front three.

Irritatingly, our lot seem to have regressed since that Super Cup performance against PSG. The whole thing would drive me potty if watching it had not already sapped every ounce of enthusiasm from my being

 All three goals conceded were today had about them a touch of the unlikely (although I noted a compilation of long-range goals conceded by our lot this season ran to around a dozen, so something in the apparatus clearly isn’t quite working), but what sucked my will to live this afternoon was not so much the goals conceded as the complete absence of creativity or strategy in the other direction.

As ever, the gist seemed to be nothing more nuanced that Go Wide And Hope. Moreover, this GWAH gambit seemed explicitly to exclude use of the left wing, where Kolo Muani is rather mystifyingly square-pegged, leaving all our eggs in the Mohammed Kudus-shaped basket. (I slosh over the details of course – Djed Spence, for example, seemed task with much of the heavy lifting out on the left – but the vague point remains that we were oddly short of ideas beyond going wide and keeping fingers crossed.)

Four months into the season both results and performances are dreadful, and the occasional stroll against a European minnow is doing little to paper what is not so much a crack as a great yawning chasm. Frank needs to buck up his ideas and pronto.

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Everton 0-3 Spurs: Four Tottenham Talking Points

1. The Formation

If you had caught a glimpse of AANP during the opening exchanges of this one,  you’d have spotted him viewing proceedings with eyes narrowed and brow furrowed; and if on the basis of the narrowed e. and furrowed b. you’d inferred that he was having a dickens of a time trying to work out the formation adopted by our heroes, you’d have been bang on the money. Which, ironically enough, is precisely what AANP was not bang on when trying to decipher that set-up.

The first thought that floated between the AANP ears was that Our Glorious Leader had gone with two right wingers at the same time. Which, if true, would have been Thomas Frank’s prerogative, of course. He’s the shot-caller, after all. If he wanted to go down the Not-Typically-Done route then he had every right. As long as it works, went the AANP take, then do your damnedest.

But while I was lustily supporting this little tactical quirk, it dawned on me that whatever our formation was, it wasn’t one featuring two right wingers. The next notion to spring to mind was wing-backs, but this did not seem quite right either. Spence, perhaps, was adopting wing-back-like poses on the left; but out on the right, Johnson didn’t really appear to be signing up to the “back” part of the wing-back arrangement.

And what, I asked myself, was Kudus? Or perhaps more pertinently, where was Kudus? Because for what I assumed was a Number 10 sort of role, he seemed to be drifting out to the right an awful lot.

Anyway, the main takeaway of all this was that it’s a good job I’m not a manager, as I’d have spent most of that first half simply goggling at the lilywhite formation rather than doing anything useful.

With the dust settled, I guess it was a 3-2-4-1 sort of get-up, in possession at least – with Spence and Johnson up the flanks, and Simons and Kudus inside them. Frankly, the label matters little at this point, for the gist is that it ought to have provided a few more passing options whenever we advanced up the pitch, as well as the standard defensive stability of the Palhinha-Bentancur double-act.

I suggest that it “ought” to have provided more passing options going forward, because in practice the quick passing routines didn’t really register. Not that it mattered too much today, given that our set-piece sequences were immaculately choreographed, and all defensive parts in fine working order at the other end. But I nevertheless noted, with a sigh that was two parts patience and one part disappointment, that despite a Spence-Simons-Kudus-Johnson line supporting Kolo Muani, we remained a little light on the old whizz-bang when trundling forward.

2. Set-Pieces

One can’t have it all, however, and to criticise in the slightest a 3-0 away win at a mighty imposing estate would be pretty off. With two goals nodded in from set-pieces this had the Frank fingerprints all over it.

I view set-pieces much as I view technology, in that it ought to supplement rather than replace the honest sweat and endeavour of the good souls involved, and our heroes used it marvellously today, supplementing things like billy-o.

There was the delivery, for a start. The Porro corner for our second contained a level of spite that ought really not to be allowed before the watershed. It absolutely fizzed into the area, to such an extent that had it not been converted one would really have had no option but to launch an independent enquiry to understand why not. Mercifully, Van de Ven had the good sense to give the ‘keeper a knowing shove and then angle his head appropriately, but while it was the Dutchman who drank in the plaudits, the AANP glass was raised to Porro.

While the delivery for the opening goal (courtesy of Kudus) did not necessarily carry quite the same level of menace, it being swung a tad more gently towards the far post for Bentancur, I did nevertheless applaud its accuracy. A yard higher or lower and the whole operation would have crumbled in its infancy. Kudus, to his credit, dropped the thing at the designated coordinates, and at the designated time and – critically – at the designated height.

Interestingly, although that aforementioned D.H. was, specifically, head height, Bentancur took it upon himself to improvise a little. And there was no harm in that at all. If a little innovation was good enough for Thomas Frank when doodling his formations, then it was good enough for Bentancur when arriving at the back-post. One might well have spotted Bentancur mouthing the words, as he shimmered towards the back post, “Just because it’s called ‘Head height’ does not preclude me from using my shoulder, what?”

The moment of improv. worked swimmingly, and VDV’s head-angling got its first taste of action. And let’s face it, if the t’s are crossed and i’s dotted on set-pieces as meticulously as that, then there is a little less pressure on the front five to string together too many slick passes.  

3. Danso

As mentioned, VDV knew a good thing from approximately two yards out when he saw one, and full credit to him, but with Romero again missing – that innocuous pre-match ‘knock’ of last week proving a dashed sight more sinister than we had initially been led to believe – I once again adjusted the monocle and subjected young Master Danso to feverish scrutiny throughout.

And once again – for the third time in a week, in fact – the fellow emerged with a laudable report card. One doesn’t have to search too hard to find a fish of lilywhite persuasion who will fold their arms, tilt their head and remark sadly that the absence of Romero deprives us of some incisive passing from the back, the undertone being that we might as well all pack up and go home in the absence of such line-breaking gold. AANP, however, is a more traditional sort of egg, brought up to believe that a defender’s purpose in life is to defend, and it was with this anthem on my lips that I meted out the approving nod and slapped the approving thigh each time Danso unveiled another of the defensive basics.

I think I heard within the post-match burble that Danso rattled off more clearances than anyone else in the vicinity, and while I couldn’t put a hand on the Bible and swear to it, I certainly would not be surprised. He seemed fully committed throughout to the basic notion that Ball Near Goal was Bad, and Ball Away From Goal was Good – and frankly it was an attitude that I could get on board with.

He might not necessarily be the sort of fish we want manning the helm when Europe’s elite come to town, but for an hour and a half in the pouring rain in Everton, he put the fevered mind at ease.

4. Vicario

A congratulatory word also for our resident back-stop, who had seemingly been convinced that the final whistle at Monaco still had not sounded, and consequently just carried on where he left off there.

Two second half saves in particular were of the absolute highest order. Admittedly I say that from a position of general ignorance when it comes to this goalkeeping lark, but to stick out a paw from point-blank range when the opposition chappie is pulling off an overhead kick seemed to take some doing; while the save from a shot that took two deflections really did have me purring in admiration. Reflexes, one was inclined to murmur, maketh the top-notch save.  

My views on Vicario at corners remain a little more mixed – for every successful punch to the edge of the area there seemed also to be one rather sorry attempt to propel himself forward that was aborted midway through when he ran into a jungle of bodies. However, this was a day to salute, again, the fellow’s fine shot-stopping, and those two second half saves were essentially worth goals.

A second clean sheet, on the road, within three days, is not to be sniffed at, and certainly provides a useful base upon which to build a hale and hearty future; concerns about creativity can wait for another day.

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Monaco 0-0 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Not The Finest Hour of Our Glorious Leader

I don’t know if you’re one of those sorts who goes in for karmic retribution – which I believe is the concept that if rotten luck befalls you then it’s just a spot of cosmic justice being meted out that you jolly well deserved in the first place – but with my eyes glazing over and my will to leave departing my soul last night, I did wonder what the hell I’d done, in this life or a previous one, to deserve the dreadful dirge on offer.

This apparently was our first nil-nil in well over 100 games, since that wretched night when our heroes collectively gave up against AC Milan, so it took some doing. In fact, I thought that nil-nil flattered us. Just plain ‘nil’ on its own would have summed up this garbage just as well.

Our Glorious Leader, as ever, was his usual, relentlessly sunny self when it came to the post-match waffle. He’s a likeable sort of egg – not that that is either here nor there – and after just 12 games one still ought to just wave him along and let him get on with things. Moreover, we remain without a couple of key personnel, and it’s on nights like this that the absence stings particularly, of Solanke up top to hold up the ball and drag his chums up the pitch, or Romero at the back to get the ball rolling from the back, as it were.

All that said, however, some of his selections do verge on the squiffy. I suppose he would justify Gray at left-back on the grounds that he’s a versatile young thing, and Spence needed a rest; but this insistence on both Bentancur and Palhinha sitting deep as a non-committal twosome is a tad wearying.

Either way, we failed to land a glove upon a Monaco defence that had yet to keep a clean sheet this season, and that relies upon Eric Dier of all people to hold the back-line together. Another of the likeable contingent, no doubt, but when Dier’s the big defensive absence one ought to lick the lips and rub the hands at the prospect.

Anyway, we somehow snuck out with a clean sheet and a point, and this slightly misleading statistical entry was in keeping with events so far this season, in which we haven’t been particularly good at any point, but continue to rack up reasonable-looking takeaways.

2. Vicario

No doubt about the standout performer last night, Vicario earning the full monthly envelope in the space of one 90-minute display. A timely innings it was too, as the chap has started to attract some pointed looks and uncensored critique in recent weeks.

His early weeks of this season have seen him pat a few too many efforts back into the path of trouble; and then on Sunday he provided a bit more ammunition for the naysayers, leading with his wrong hand for the Rogers goal, and then not bothering to go with either hand for the Buendia goal but instead giving it his best Lloris impression and watching the ball fly past him.

Anyway, last night he decided that he would deign to move in the direction of incoming shots after all, and evidently bitten by the bug couldn’t stop doing it once he’d started. Nine saves in total, apparently, and while I suppose one or two might have been of the gentler variety, I greeted numerous of them with that mixture of relief and pleasant surprise that indicates that these were not all run-of-the-mill numbers, but involved a fair amount of nifty reflex and full-body extension.

These days goalkeepers seem to be judged by just about every metric except their ability to save incoming shots, so there was a certain satisfaction in brushing away thoughts about his distribution and conduct at corners and so forth, and simply applauding the fellow for diving hither and thither to keep the ball out.

3. Slip Pickings Elsewhere On The Pitch

At this point in proceedings I generally like to pour myself an additional splash of the old nectar, think back to some of the other highlights and prattle on a bit about whichever members of the troop caught the eye. A certain impediment hoves into view this time, however, namely that the entire collective was in ghastly form last night.

I suppose in the first half one could engineer a spot of positivity. Odobert, for example, looked as threatening as he has done for us since arriving, at least until it came to adding a finishing touch to the build-up.

That left side of attack remains an elusive sort of spot, with gumboils like Johnson and Simons going through the motions but giving the distinct impression that whatever the question, they are not the answer. Odobert still ought to have the words “Work In Progress” stamped in sizeable red font across his frame, but in the first half at least he looked promising.

Also in the first half, Archie Gray initially seemed to be setting himself up for an eye-catching night’s work. He was pretty diligent when it came to popping up conveniently in the background to politely clear his throat and bail out a chum in trouble; and he put his heart and soul into a number of supporting dashes up the left flank, each of which were rather cruelly ignored by Odobert but which nevertheless served some purpose in creating space.

However, as and when he got down to the actual meaty business of applying boot to ball, his evening slightly fell apart, as he started dishing out errant passes. He was no worse than anyone else clad in dreamy black, but having looked the part in those early moments I cast him some hurt looks thereafter, like those of a jilted ex, upon seeing him fail to live up to the billing.

Early days, I suppose, both in the Champions League and more broadly, but while one imagines that the produce will improve in quality in the long-term, as all concerned learn each others’ names and begin to feel more comfortable in the Tottenham garb, in the short-term I do tense up somewhat and wonder where the hell any improvement will come from by the weekend.

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Spurs match reports

Leeds 1-2 Spurs: Three Tottenham Talking Points

1. Vicario

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Kudus

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

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

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

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

3. Simons

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

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

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

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