A curious one, this. Back in the days of yore, when Luka Modric limped off against Birmingham, I
don't think anyone foresaw things panning out quite this way. Robbie Keane undroppable, wingers
treated like lepers, long-ball upon long-ball. We're muddling through, but the sooner both the
Croatian genius and Lennon return, the better.
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"There would be something quintessentially Spurs about doing all the hard work and then gifting
away the game on a plate, through one moment of madness."
-AANP, yesterday
And sure enough...
It's easy to forget that honours were fairly even in the early stages, as misplaced pass was
matched by misplaced pass in a midfield absolutely jam-packed with bodies.
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We're great when we're winning. Opponents are forced to push forward, and we duly pick them off
on the break, with the clinical precision of a trained sniper (until Keane starts stumbling over
his own feet). We have the players, including those on the fringes of the squad, to counter with
pace and inventiveness, on top of which it makes for a cracking spectacle.
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A few weeks ago we hit Burnley for five despite not playing particularly well; this time our
scratchy performance did not have a five-goal veil to mask it.
Bravo Stoke
Stoke, labouring under the misapprehension that cracks would appear in the sky and the
apocalypse hasten if they let the ball ever come into contact with grass, showed precious little
attacking intent until we were down to ten men.
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Not so much a game of two halves as a game of two thirds and a third third. We seemed to be
cruising serenely after an hour or so – but then that wouldn't be the Tottenham way, would it?
Cue a wild thump of the self-destruct button, the halving of our lead and a daft sending off. The
three points were eventually achieved in slightly nerve-jangling, harum-scarum style.
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I miss Ledley. Some games we're so rampant going forward that he is barely needed at the back,
but on days like yesterday we cry out for someone to hold things together and be in the right place
– as well as dealing with any aerial bullying meted out by opposition forwards. The lack of a
commander-in-chief at the back was notable in the first half in which Spurs players competed
earnestly with each other to be the most obliging to our hosts.
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Curiously, our most emphatic win in recent years was achieved without us ever really hitting top
gear. There were some moments at the end of the first half when we played true champagne football,
and Defoe might have finished off a couple of moves so pleasing on the eye they ought to have been
put on canvass and stuck in a gallery.
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If you want to save yourself time you might as well just cast your mind back to the first round
tie away to Doncaster – five more goals, away from home, and despite the occasional early scare
the gulf in class eventually told. Deja-vu all over again. It's not the Tottenham I grew
up with I tell ye.
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And it had all begun quite encouragingly. Sitting back away from home and soaking up the
pressure just isn't the Tottenham way, so right from the off we took the game to that lot, giving
as good as we got in the first half. Jenas, Hudd and Palacios weren't far off with their long-range
efforts, and there was a gorgeous through-ball from Sergeant Wilson to free up Defoe in the early
stages.
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Before beginning the gruesome business of the post-mortem I think it's worth doffing my cap
towards Man Utd – they were a quality act yesterday. I demonstrated in my preview that
mathematics is hardly the academic subject of choice at AANP Towers, but nevertheless it really did
seem that being reduced to 10 men made them play as if they had 12.
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Well that's why it's called All Action, No Plot.
Away for one little weekend break, in the land of Erik Edman (note to eligible bachelors the
world over – do Stockholm. No ifs, no buts – do Stockholm) and 48 hours later I return to find
that all hell seems to have broken loose at White Hart Lane.
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We would have settled for a win by hook or by crook or by penalties, but another five-goal salvo
does no harm. For some curious reason, I also beam with a vaguely paternal sort of pride at the
fact that five different names were scrawled across the scoresheet. It's strangely wholesome.
It all went smoothly enough in the end, although that might have been a different story had
Carlo Cudicini not been alert and sprightly from the off.
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Good grief, what's come over them? The stylish win at home to Liverpool was in keeping with the
glory-glory Tottenham tradition, the demolition of Hull an all-action romp - but getting bogged
down in a scrap and emerging victorious? I plan to catch this, pop it in a jar and charge
a tenner for people to come marvel at it.
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Well first up I think it's only right to indulge in a moment of smugness from this lofty perch
atop the country's pile. While I don't think any of us are daft enough to make fanciful predictions
after four days of the season, the cockerel is crowing, and the morning-after smugness in the
office has proved particularly gratifying.
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Cracking stuff. Good performances all round, three well-deserved points in the bag, lots of
wholesome goodness to report – all in all a most pleasant jamboree in the sun.
Top Marks For Hunger and Intent
Lighting a pipe, contentedly sipping on a bourbon and stepping back to deliver verdicts on the
game as a whole, we at AANP Towers have been murmuring appreciatively at the general mentality of
the Tottenham team today.
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Well that, frankly, was pretty disappointing. I know it shouldn't matter – far wiser heads
have been calmly pointing out the various reasons why:
· Context – We spent the first half of the season avoiding relegation.
Anything above 18th was to be welcomed. Moreover, while victory would have taken us into Europe,
today's game was hardly the must-win affair that other teams found themselves facing.
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With the season all but wrapped up, preparations are well under way for the AANP End of Season
Awards. ‘Twas good of ‘Arry then, to produce a late contender for the Worst Half-Time Team-Talk
of the Season gong, because whatever he said between 3.45 and 4.00pm yesterday, brought about a
pretty stunning regression.
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There are lies, damned lies and statistics, but a scoreline never spoke a truer word than
Everton 0-0 Tottenham yesterday. We edged the first half, they edged the second half and neither
‘keeper had a serious save to make.
There were some interesting sub-plots though. ‘Arry Redknapp has developed a serious allergy
to change of any form, either before or during games.
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So one nil to the Tottenham, again. In the same way that a generation of kids will grow up
knowing Gary Lineker only as the irritating orange bloke of MoTD, a generation may also grow up
wondering why a Spurs blog is entitled "All Action, No Plot".
I jest. Four consecutive home one-nils may not exactly be all-action-no-plot stuff, but I am
certainly not complaining.
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Sven's England. They're the ones to whom we owe royalties for breach of copyright after that
second half, now down on record as officially The Worst Ever Attempt To Spend A Second Half
Defending A Lead. Sven's England regularly tried this approach, after scoring first in a crucial
game. It actually worked vs Argentina, but then failed abysmally against Brazil, France and
Portugal.
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One of these days, watching Tottenham will be the death of me. They'll score early and dominate,
but then instead of scoring a second against submissive fatted calves bred specifically for the
slaughter, they'll spend the final hour earnestly faffing. I shall chew my nails, squirm and curse;
and then swear and kick people; and finally become so wound up by the faffing that my heart will
pop and I'll keel over.
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Really not sure about this whole business of enmity with West Ham. I'm supposed to loathe that
lot, but it just seemed like too much effort to scream abuse at them until my face turned purple,
or go wandering the High Road afterwards armed with a deranged stare and a machete, or whatever the
kids are using these days.
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Profligate: adj. 1. Given over to dissipation; dissolute. 2. Recklessly wasteful; wildly
extravagant. Perhaps not precisely the word then, but as the second half wore on, comfortable
though it all looked, the sense grew that we really needed to convert all that possession and all
that slick build-up play into a second goal.
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As the final whistle sounded all restraint and reason duly gave up trying to make themselves heard
and discreetly slunk out of the stadium. It was neither the time nor the place for that sort of
behaviour. Instead it is the time for giddy over-excitement, the time to kill the fattened
calf and start making [.
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I'm willing to make a placard, but a whistle and go on a little march along the High Road
suggesting to the world that this was our best result of the season. Before you all go spluttering
coffee over you computer screens and rolling in the aisles, consider the evidence. Sure, we have
raised our game [.
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Confusion reigns amongst the great and good of Tottenham after yesterday's draw, with no-one quite
sure how to react. Typically, reactions at the Lane must be of massively unrealistic expectation or
miserable pessimism and criticism, as previously articulated. There is never any middle ground. The
draw at Sunderland has therefore baffled everyone.
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I write this with crumbs on my lips and a napkin gently dabbing around my mouth, having merrily
lunched upon several large helpings of humble pie. As I clicked my heels all bonny, blithe and gay,
and playfully pinched the cheeks of bewildered small children like a modern-day Scrooge
(post-enlightenment), I also began the quest [.
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First things first – credit to Three-Touch O' Hara and Brylcreem Bentley for volunteering for
the first and third pens. The execution from each was hopeless, but the sentiment was noble.
Conspiracy theorists dredging up "ex-gooner" rants can go boil their heads. Second things
second – the outcome was fair, and I emphasise that I have [.
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Dammit. One would think this sort of thing would become easier to swallow, after over two decades,
but it's just as bitter a bill as ever. This, presumably, is how a man feels when jilted on the
altar. Or a four year-old receiving a fluffy, wide-eyed rabbit for his birthday, only to see it
savaged [.
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What a curious three-point haul. It was neither outstandingly good nor egregiously bad, just
blisteringly average. Once upon a time Spurs played in an all-action-no-plot style, attacking with
free-flowing, gay abandon, scoring four and shipping in three. In a parallel universe this probably
continues.
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So mission all but accomplished then 'Arry? Elimination from Europe virtually guaranteed, and
mercifully we can look forward to far fewer of those pesky football matches that just seem to get
in the way of the manager's true raison d'être (trying out his latest gags on the sycophants
at press conferences), and the players' weekly [.
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Same old, same old. You'd think that after a couple of decades and probably the best part of a
thousand games it would be a bit easier to stomach, but no, Spurs' capacity to frustrate remains
unparalleled. Yet again, come the final whistle I was left looking around for a small puppy or
irritating child [.
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It makes no difference that I'm the other side of the world, there's no getting away from the same
old Spurs. Week in, week out, the usual boxes can be ticked, just as they will be next week, and
next year, and in 10 years time. Problem one. 4-5-1. Pav on his own, no support, no [...]
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Having spent the best part of the last 48 hours imitating a battery chicken in various planes,
trains and automobiles, I am now officially a Spurs fan in Oz. Worth noting that the arrival policy
in Australia appears significantly more stringent than at Spurs, where anyone who has previously
appeared is more than welcome to [.
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