Author: Alan

Spurs v Chelsea

/ Alan / 16 Comments

Not again not twice not both of them not in the same week. You hardly dare think about the possibility. On Sunday they were out on their feet after 70 minutes, after 120 they were the living dead. It’s OK, they did enough on Wednesday. You always want more, in that delicious five minutes before kick-off, when all that has gone before is forgotten and time begins, always hope for more. For so long we couldn’t beat them at all. Yet twice in one week.

The surprise of spring sunshine in the afternoon is pleasant on your back but it’s not right for a derby. The journey is too easy, park up with no problem, it’s all just too – nice. Early evening football is wrong somehow. The teams emerge and there’s a phone call.My boy, a man now, tall and strong, is cut down. As passionate and silly and consumed and soppy about the club as you were at his age, he lives for each match. The news is delayed by the discordant and irrelevant Premier League anthem.No music fires us like the sight of white shirts and navy blue shorts. The call confirms the worst. His friend, the same tender age, has hours, his insides eaten away by cancer ravaging his organs and his spirit. My boy leaves to be with him for the last  moments, we blink away tears and scream louder than ever at the kick off. From inside, let it out, screaming and shouting to get it out somehow.

And we play. Oh how we play. Ball to feet, one touch and pass, then move on. The others are moving too. Ball to feet, they want the ball, no one hides, they pass and move. It flows upfield and endangers their goal. Modric leads. Luka little Luka ball to feet moves it with a touch to me to me, in comes the tackle  but he moves it on with sway and swivel, in his stride, theopponent thinks he has a chance but Luka is away, the defender left spurned and forlorn by the object of his desire, wondering where it all went wrong. But Luka, lovely little Luka, is already looking fo rmore, to me to me, head up gliding into space, balanced and poised amidst the turmoil, who wants it who needs it. The pass is angled and perectly weighted, he moves on I’m here to me to me. It is a masterclass in creativity and he runs the midfield. It is beautiful.

Huddlestone too, cumbersome and unfit perhaps this past few days. How could a man of his bulk disappear on Sunday? Yet he’s put that behind him because time begins at kick off. He moves, he’s available to me to me, pass it on, long and short to me to me. Pav wanders when on Wednesday he stood still, Bentley wide, Bale running, running. To me to me. Pav shoots, Bentley messes up, Defoe’s power blocked.

After ten minutes you draw breath. This is happening.You thought it could not get any better after Wednesday night but this is happening. Deco, Lampard, Mikel, Cole, they are all there but look at the space in midfield. Arsenal did not let us rest for a second, they tackled and nicked and nipped and smothered, but Chelsea watch us play. This is a training match. Ancellotti is the tactical master at every level but hasn’t he watched the DVDs. What about all those blokes with clipboards and notepads who sit behind him, or Arnesen who left us behind because we were not good enough for him? Just Watch the DVDs for five minutes,or ring Mick McCarthy, Tony Pulis orPhil Brown (he’s  got time on his hands), this isn’t the way to play against Spurs. Later, Mikel injured and you make Deco the defensive midfielder. Idiot. Ta.

Bale stampeding forward is stopped only by an outstretched leg but nothing. Then handball. Not him,someone else give the ball  to someone else anyone else not the shimmy please not the shimmy just plant it please not the shimmy. Bang! That’s what you do best bang it, one up and fully deserved. Chelsea top of the league and outplayed by the living dead.

Bale is unstoppable, a force of nature rampaging down the left. He is a sprinter with the build of a middleweight and the touch of an angel. He rips huge gaping holes in the defence from first to last. Again he’s on the ball, off then slowed, almost stumbled, they close in but he is away, all is well we’ve shifted him to his right foot and Cech has the angles covered, then low and firm, near post, as Cech dives he thinks he has it, my near post that’s mine but it’s gone before your hand is fully outstretched grasping only thin air. This is happening.

Space in midifled means they have more men up front. We  organised superbly against the Arsenal but this lot have Lampard, Ballack and Drogba, they have bodies waiting as it comes forward. But we have Gomes. Ridiculed by pundits and fans throughout the land, the icy fear in his bulging eyes when he came for crosses sent shivers down the spine. Past tense. Lampard lightening volley and Gomes leaps to his right, all arms and legs but look at those hands, together and strong, just as they were for an earlier stinging long shot. We have Gomes and wouldn’t have anyone else. We have Gomes.

Corners and pressure, just keep them out,hang on until halftime, the better team, well on top, don’t let yourselves down, hold onto halftime. You won’t let me down, you’ve done enough to prove yourselves this week, the living dead, don’t let yourselves down.

Half time.Time to catch your breath, slap a few backs, shaking heads. Can’t last. Not Wednesday and tonight. Is this really us? Can’t last.The whistle blows, they attack, balls into the channels, Drogba absent in the first period, moaning now  and a better player for it. Balls into channels, where’s Ledley? They were saving him for tonight, for Drogba, pace over ten yards, strength to hold him off, intelligence and anticipation to get there first. Where’s Ledley, I wish Ledley were here, wish Capello could see Ledley.

But we have Dawson,strong and tall. We have Gomes, sweeping up the loose. We have Bassong, inspired and surprisingly strong. They have too many men forward, if only we could set Pav and and JD free, just keep them out. JD on the break, one on one, game over – he’s missed it! Bale unstoppable, missed it! Pav moving well, drops back working so hard.This is what English football is all about, hear the noise, work back, sprint forward,work back.It’s worth it, enjoy it, you understand now what it’s all about, you are working so hard and enjoying it. Here’s the chance you’ve worked so hard for- missed it! How many more, how many more….

Terry unblinking as the abuse washes around him. Looking tough but inside it’s getting to him. Wayne, Vanessa, we don’t care, your mother or your father, couldn’t give a flying one. Just now, just this moment. It’s not pleasant but it is all we have. The Land Rover with the tinted windows, the PR machine, your media mates, the electric gates at the house, cut off from the real world, cut off from us, all that money, no protection now.  It’s all we have and it’s getting through. Two fouls and gone. You have a word with Bale, somehow his fault that he was too fast for you, old man. The kids smiles and answers you back, didn’t expect that did you?

The abuse, the songs, the chants, the noise. Great slabs of noise rise from the stands of this old ground, high and close to you, feel the noise, closing in. No escape. Chelsea fans sing about the library. Meanwhile the Lane is rocking and rolling, shaking to the foundations, ten on the richter scale. A roar from deep down, all those defeats, those years of pain, now we have a team. Down and out on Sunday evening, they have dragged themselves up somehow, some way, and we are beating the top of the league easily. Easily the better team. They are giving everything and so shall we. From the Park Lane, the Paxton, East Upper, new songs roll around, picked up on all sides. Chelsea surrounded, no escape. This is as good as it has ever been. Steep stands and devoted fans. A proper football ground.

Keep the ball, keep it. They always come back, can’t if we have the ball. Stay on your feet, don’t dive in. Keep it Bentley you greasy haired poser, stay on your feet that’s it nice and easy keep it. Working hard, never stop, no one stops, every last one of them. Just keep it.

Dawson, our mighty leader, we’ve got Dawson at the back. First to every ball, blocking with every fibre of his body, get in the way. Drogba dozing no more, through, shoots, far corner but there! Dawson from nowhere and blocks. The crowd rise and roar, the mask of fierce concentration slips for a moment and he grins to himself. One of us, a remarkable performance, leading from the front.

As Luka moves towards the ball already in the background Bale is off. Lung-busting surges from deep, unstoppable endless energy, how many times in the last week, how many? Ferreira, international,broken and substituted at half time, as before him Salgado then Kelly. Magnificent physicality and atheticism.They can’t stop him,but the ball slides tantalisingly past the post. Pav clear, hit it turns, hit it! Flickity flick fuckety fuck wide. Just hit it!

And they score, same goal as the Arsenal, same time, same anxiety in the noise. Then it’s over, sweet relief then overwhelming joy. Both of them vanquished. Tears for the team, for my boy, for his friend, his family. A wild and crazy week,contrasting emotions but those emotions, wretched and ecstatic both,were profound and lasting. This is our team, our wonderful wonderful team. This why we do it. Our wonderful team.

On a Wonderful Day Like Today, the Whole Human Race Should Go Down On Its Knees,

/ Alan / 15 Comments

On a night when a spectacular goal set Spurs on their way to a magnificent victory against Arsenal, we discovered that the secret of glory lies in honest endeavour.

The old ground was trembling to the rafters with emotion, at times creaking with anxiety as our opponents expertly taunted and teased us with long spells in possession but mostly with a heartfelt outpouring of support as we battled back from the semi-final despondency, sometimes vicious to unsettle our rivals, sometimes tender almost, as team and crowd were as one. Here’s the true magic of derby days, when from first to last whistle, this is our world, we and the players. Nothing exists outside this florescent bowl of white light.

In the past, the atmosphere would build for fully an hour before kick off as the volume from the terraces gradually grew. These days, we arrive late, secure that our seats will be available, and anyway any embryonic chanting is drowned out by the all-conquering PA. But when it began, how we roared them on. From deep down it came, years of disappointment and frustration plus the debris from Sunday, echoing around the steep-banked stands in one of the last remaining proper football grounds, no escape upwards so over the pitch it floods, driving the white shirts on.

And they did not stop. Not a man gave anything less their all. It did not always work: too many passes went astray and chances went begging. But all we the fans ask is that they give their utmost, as we do in our sacrifices and dedication, and last night they dredged up something from the despair of the weekend. Frankly I doubted them. I doubted that they would be able to do enough against opponents skilful, organised and rested. Nobody could be more delighted than me to be proved wrong. Physically and mentally, this was a phenomenal achievement. I’ve questioned this team’s resilience many times, with justification, but last night they stared down their demons and left them beaten and whimpering.

If further inspiration were needed, and I’m not sure that ultimately it was, Danny Rose provided it. Pav was still looking to the heavens after missing our first golden chance when Rose moved purposefully onto a clearance from a corner. It may have been his full league debut, his career could blossom or wither and die like those of so many youngsters before him, but what happened next ensured that his name will not be forgotten by any Spurs fan for many a long year.

He stuck the ball sweet and true, smack on the sweet spot meat of the foot. No wobbly mechanics, no earnest science about the trajectory and airflow around the modern footballs, just sweet and true, ever upwards, an arrow into the net. In line with the shot, it seemed as if a huge gap in the impossibly packed penalty area opened up around the ball as it flew, the moment of impact a shimmering portal as in science fiction films, a pathway into another world.

Quite what a forward was doing so far outside the box for a corner I don’t know. Harry will give him severe stick. The other remarkable thing about his performance was that he contributed virtually nothing else whatsoever. The game passed him by, or rather the Arsenal players on his flank passed him by. They gradually got on top, relentless movement and full-backs advancing further and further in an attempt to outnumber and outpace our defence. On the left the pace of Bale and Benny got us out of trouble but Kaboul and Dawson looked vulnerable. We could not keep the ball. Hud’s passing touch deserted him while Pav and Defoe could not escape their markers. Every time we cleared, back it came.

But tonight we refused to crumble and displayed the intense application that was the bedrock of our win. Conceding the halfway line and dropping back to the safety of two banks of four is a risky strategy but a successful one. It constrains their space at the edge of the box and try as they might, there were few openings. Led and Daws were able to operate in areas where they are at their best, at the edge of or in our box. If Redknapp deserved criticism for tactics and team selection on Sunday, then he should be praised for his preparation last night. And judging by his expression after the goal, I’m sure he will claim full credit for Rose’s selection.

King was superb again, subtly organising his players, sweeping up the bits and pieces that got through and inspiring Dawson, not that he needed any. Ledley seems to have altered his style, forgoing long strides in favour of several quick short movements to get into position and tackle.

This was a full-blooded derby and all the better for it. The number of tackles, mostly clean, and the squabbles over the ball were a welcome reminder of how football is better for the inclusion of physical challenges. In yesterday’s preview I committed the ultimate sin on any Spurs blog of admiring the Arsenal style, so what the hell, I may as well go the whole hog – the ref was excellent, Clattenberg I think, he knew how to tell the difference between a hard tackle and a foul, and how to play the advantage rule.

Although we were defending remarkably well, half-time came as a relief from the anxiety that had replaced the early euphoria. Paul Coyte’s drooling over the goal (or was he droolling over Ginola?), was surely a portent of doom. Do that at full time  after a win, not halfway through. Then a bright start, a long ball into space….and Bale was all alone. The pass went a long, long way and for once their defence had gone to sleep. What a left back was doing on the right wing, I don’t know. Harry will give him severe stick.

Then we would not budge. Tired legs worked and worked. Modric busy and available, his trademark one touch and away from his man into space, hard yards for the cause. Then my moment of the match, why I love these games so much. Hud in for a tackle, half wins it, moves on and finishes the job, into touch for a throw-in. Nothing special in itself, but this time the centre shelf rose to him as he got up. Crowd and team as one, each energising the other. He did not play well in the first half, and he was plumb awful on Sunday, but was totally focussed on putting it right, and we stood in recognition of that effort. Last night he learned the art of having an effective game without playing well.

Derbies need heroes. Danny, great goal old son, but step aside, because we all wish we were Brazilian too. One, two, three times, electric reflexes and elastic reach. The free kick defied the laws of nature. Brian Cox, the solar system and the laws of physics throughout the universe, well, explain that one away, my learned friend.

Gomes was fantastic. Lest we forget, there were other saves and the three or four crosses/corners he punched away under huge pressure. TOMM has praised him consistently this season but I make no apologies for saying once more that I would not swap him for any other keeper in the league. Someone told me that on Saturday the Sky pundits identified Gomes as our weak link. Do me a favour.

Just as it seemed as if we had resisted, they scored, of course they did. Whisper it, but we all feared Van Persie when he came on. But we held on, the ball safely in the corner as the whistle went and we stayed as long as we could to drink in every last second. Gudjohnsen was excellent, brought on at the perfect time (thanks again Harry) to fill up the midfield, link with the attack and above all to hold onto the ball.

One more line – Bale. How does he do it? From first to last. After 120 lung-busting minutes on Sunday. I’m lost for words in my admiration for such focus and talent in one so young. Little more than a kid really, and a few months ago he looked it, scared like a rabbit in the headlights. His stamina and power stand out but it is his mental fortitude that has taken him to these heights. Like Gomes, he has determinedly pulled himself up from the depths. A world class prospect.

The profound joy of the derby victory hit when the adrenalin had stopped flowing, late at night in motorway gloom punctuated by the passing glare of occasional headlights. Utter satisfaction and pleasure deep down, that feels even better today. The world is sharper, more vivid. I’m smiling and chatting  with strangers in town today. Everyday stresses and strains are forgotten. Life is sweet. Unreserved praise for a terrific performance.

Breaking Rocks In The Hot Sun, I Fought Oh Never Mind

/ Alan / 14 Comments

Although I normally detest DIY, knocking down a brick wall in the garden today with a 14 pound sledge was curiously therapeutic. In such trying times, I’m grateful for small pleasures.

As Daws slipped, so our dreams were replaced with dread and disaster. 48 hours on, what rankles is not the pitch or the injustice – we were easily the better team – nor even the lost opportunity of another cup final. It is the realisation that fourth place, a proper tilt at our great London rivals and the glory promised by this momentous week is fast fading away. Weary legs and shattered morale is no condition for the eve of the Arsenal derby.

More talented than Redknapp

So who’s fit? I mean, really fit, not someone passed fit by the medics and written on the team sheet by an optimistic manager, but people who can last 90 minutes in the white heat of this bitter contest against one of the best teams in the country. Redknapp thought he could get away with it on Sunday. Play them for 60 minutes, we’d be a couple of goals up, replace them with someone else who could last the rest of the match. Or maybe he didn’t have much of a choice, and he may not tomorrow.

Word is that King is available. The plan to save him for Saturday and Drogba may be out of the window, or stick with Dawson and Bassong. Bendtner is (astonishingly) in a run of form and alongside Van Persie will pose a greater threat than we would have expected a week or so ago. Walker may not be risked at right-back so Kaboul could slide in there, but he may be required elsewhere. Benny may be on the left with Bale pushed forward.

Hud and Nico were both nursing leg injuries on the coach home. Kaboul is the obvious replacement defensively, alongside Luka. Led’s not mobile enough for this role these days. But wait, who’s this riding over the horizon? Jenas is reportedly fit, is this the moment for redemption in the eyes of a crowd who have become increasingly critical of his abilities in his absence? Spurs may not have passed him by after all.

Jenas is third from the left

Up front I have no place for Crouch. Nothing personal, but his presence discourages the movement and invention that is required to beat Arsenal and Chelsea. Enough with the long crosses. Bentley, get in to the byline – Walker’s pace may help here, so let’s be bold. It has to be Pav plus one, Defoe if fit for me.

I know it’s not the done thing, and remember I have been hating them for longer than most of you who are reading this, but they’re good, you know. They also point up the crucial problem with our team. Redknapp is expert at grouping players who at their best will play to their strengths and dovetail into a team. They know their job and stick to it, which is why Harry’s players like him. In this strength, however, lies the problem also. There’s no flexibility, whereas our opponents have their team ethos and shape. Whoever comes in, it’s easy for them to fit in, whereas our performance suffers if one or two are at anything less than their peak.

The key to the match could lie down our left. If Bale, whether at full-back or midfield, comes forward he may push Walcott back and prevent his pace doing much damage. He’s not much of a defender either. But if young Theo keeps him occupied, then we are diminished as an attacking force. It will be a compliment to Bale if Wenger leaves him on the bench.

Redknapp said this week that in order to bounce back from the semi-final defeat, there’s no team he would rather meet than Arsenal. This is the dated media posturing of a man with his back to the wall, desperate to put a positive spin on impending doom. Anyone but Arsenal more like. Yet we don’t know the mood of the players. We shouldn’t project our own despondency onto the squad. In a manner worthy of my maturity of years and character, I reacted to the defeat in the normal way. Ignore all media, stick my fingers in my ears and sing ‘lalalala’. Eventually I read two newspaper reports, both of which were sympathetic towards us – we were unlucky. And if that is the mentality that the club take into tomorrow’s match, determined to make amends, then we are in with a chance. The sub-text to these reports was that there was nothing much to worry about. However, fans are clsoer to the true state of play that most journos. Our sub-text is that the semi revealed our chronic lack of resilience, in which case we could crumble under the pressure.

Honestly? I fear the worst. But we can rely on one man to give his all. Michael Dawson will be burning to make up for the cruel fate he suffered on Sunday. If even a fraction of his determination and application rubs off on the others, we’re in with a chance.

Monday Monday, Can’t Trust That Day…

/ Alan / 15 Comments

It’s hard to get past that moment, round and round, an endless loop tape in my head. Looking down from behind the goal, the scene populated by characters who hit their marks, a denouement scripted by fate and played out in slow motion. Dawson slips and the net is open. In reality it passed in less than a second but time enough elapsed, from the losing of grip to opponent’s roar, for the entire story to play out in my mind.  Plucky underdogs had come this far through a combination of disciplined effort and an off-colour Spurs performance, our endeavours blunted by a lack of full fitness and a stodgy surface. Pompey had more of the ball than we would wish but apart from a few scares, nothing that Gomes, Bassong and Dawson couldn’t handle. Then our brave indomitable captain, as ever taking responsibility in the danger area, alert to the danger, moved to snuff it out and secure safety. He took an age to slip, limbs splayed like a steeplechaser falling after Beecher’s, eyes on the ball and still in his determination trying, desperately, hopelessly, trying to stop the ball rolling onwards.

Someone was due a major embarrassment over the weekend because of that pitch, but of all the people I wish it were not Michael Dawson. Destined to be shown endlessly on TV and Road to Wembley DVD’s, maybe even the ultimate indignity of What Happened Next? on a Question of Sport, no one is less deserving of being immortalised so. They all have a place in my hearts, but our captain epitomizes the spirit and commitment that Tottenham need. He’s an example for the whole side, with a single-minded focus on denying the opposition in the box, fierce concentration and above all he makes the most of his talent. Not the most gifted, he nevertheless plays to his strengths and I would rather have all of Daws than most of more naturally gifted footballers.

In my last piece I spoke of the Semi-final Moment, the time when in every semi-final, the tide of optimism turns to be replaced by a realisation that defeat is possible. Not likely necessarily, just an option. For me it came around the usual time, 15 or 20 minutes in, when Gomes easily saved a deflected shot. Remember this is about emotion not sober analysis. It was a reminder that although we had the better side and were on top at the time, all it took was one deflection, slice of good fortune or slight error in an otherwise strong position. But it was another, later incident, that a sent a cold shiver down my spine. It was around 70 minutes or so, we had a spell of superiority that resulted in a few near misses and several corners. Pompey moved up field but Gomes saved, as he did so often and with such authority all match. Swiftly he moved to distribute the ball from hand to launch a counter attack.

Nothing. No one wanted the ball. Trotting slowly upfield with backs turned towards their keeper, the message could not have been more clear. We were knackered. More than that, nobody wished to take on the responsibility of overcoming the dual effects of weary legs and formidably organised opponents, who spread out across the pitch and not only pressed and harried but also tellingly did not allow our wide men to reach the byline. I felt physically sick for the rest to the match.

To be debilitated by injury is a fact, not an excuse, so there will always be the what-ifs of our potential of the fully fit squad. However, although the cloying surface didn’t help, we made it look like quicksand. There was so much more that we could have done. Defoe never looked sharp whereas Pav was much brighter as soon as he came on and should have started. Corluka had gone well before extra time, while the match passed Hud by almost completely. Injuries obviously reduce pace and stamina but they also sow seeds of doubt in the minds of the suffering players. A half yard slower here, a fraction of second’s delay with a decision there, and your man is off form. For example, well before the end, Corluka, whose legs move anyway as if stuck in quick drying cement, hung back a couple of yards in the defensive line so by compensating for his lack of speed he gave Pompey’s forwards more room.

Huddlestone suffered the most. Apart from his near match-winning first half left footer, he was hugely disappointing yesterday. Just as he has reached the point where his value to the side is universally appreciated, he disappears. We want him to be available, to move it on, to sweep the passes and sometimes to lumber forward into the danger areas at the edge of the box. All this was missing. The fact is, whether it is the conditions on the pitch or in the mind, players have to adjust. There was enough time out there. Hud did not have to launch himself into tackles – if you know your footing is bad then stay upright and don’t slide in. More harmful for our hopes was that the surface took all the pace from the pass, yet Hud, master passer, could have taken this into account.

Modric played in fits and starts. His movement was better but finishing poor. He did well enough but only in short spells, then faded as he presumably took a breather. He did OK but we needed better. Moreover, he did not link well with Gareth Bale. This left side is of course our most potent attacking weapon, yet Bale cannot do it all on his own, although goodness he tried hard enough towards the end when his effort and desire could not be faulted. Most of our effective attacking came from him and though not at his best he deserves praise, but he needs some help. He needs options as he goes forward, targets in the box and someone to play one-twos with. Luka didn’t offer that frequently enough. To compound the problem, the same thing happened on the other wing where Bentley and Corluka behaved as if they had never been introduced. No combination play considerably reduced Bentley’s effectiveness because he can’t beat a man.

This was the decisive tactical element of the game. We seldom reached the byline and therefore delivered a series of innocuous crosses from deep, further and further out as the game progressed. Bentley also failed to put over a decent corner. Pompey stayed wide in midfield and made it more difficult. It was decisive because Harry had placed his faith in Peter Crouch. You could see why, towering as he did several inches above their tallest defender, but with lousy service for most of the afternoon, he, and we, got nowhere. Rocha was in his element. Not the greatest, he’s nevertheless a shrewd operator. He does not give ground in the box when challenged, so with his good upper body strength he did just enough to put Crouchie off. And let’s be honest, it doesn’t take a lot to put him off. Despite all of this, he had the chances to win this game and blew it. I’ve remarked before that what frustrates me most about him is that even when he rises high to win the ball he doesn’t do enough with it, but Wembley was not the time to provide further evidence for my theory. On my predictive text, ‘Crouch’ comes up as ‘crotch’. That says it all for me.

Another word of praise for Gomes – did everything that was asked of him and saved us on the few occasions that Pompey broke through.

At the finish the players sought the sanctuary of the dressing room with indecent haste but I was still there, as were others. They could have, should have come a little closer. We win and lose together, and a moment’s acknowledgement would have been kind. On the tube home, one of their fans, after starting to tease my daughter, derisively asked me how money I had wasted. ‘Nothing’, I replied, ‘Being there is what matters.’ This seemed to satisfy him so he and his mates resumed their verbal fisticuffs with a couple of other Spurs fans that we had inadvertently interrupted. I wish Pompey fans well, genuinely so and despite this brutish, racist quartet, they are pleasant, loyal and have had their club destroyed by the worst kind of owners. Their injury list was far worse than ours, but with admittedly limited ambitions, they performed admirably and their supporters will be justifiably proud of them this morning. Their club will survive because of the passion of their fans, who made so much noise yesterday, and I hope they do.

With a rested Arsenal on Wednesday and Man City rampant, suddenly this momentous week is in danger of turning rapidly into one of doom. Maybe that’s a reflection of my gloomy frame of mind this morning. We were poor but had more than enough chances to win.  But nagging away is a word that I threatened readers with on a regular basis earlier in the season,one which has disappeared from TOMM of late: resilience. Injuries, poor tactics, mistaken team selection, all are factors, but ultimately I fear that we were done for by the absence of mental strength in the biggest match this team has so far faced. With Arsenal, Chelsea, Man Utd and the fight for Europe head,  a bad Monday does not  not auger well for the next 7 days.