Three-quarters of the way through Spurs’ undistinguished draw with Palace, the mood on the Shelf turned ugly. Having handed back the initiative to our visitors, Tottenham were dealing with a fusillade of attacks, badly. I can’t recall exactly which one provoked the outburst – one of many saves by Lloris, not the shot that hit the post and bar before rebounding out, probably yet another shot just over that should have been on target. Spontaneously hundreds rose as one in uncomprehending fury – how could we fall apart so easily?

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Poch stifles a yawn

The Shelf loyalists are dedicated, committed Spurs supporters – if you drew a circle with a radius of ten seats around my spot, we’re the newcomers and we’ve been there for nearly ten years now. These people are it for the long haul. Never mind the bogus drowning-out of boos or social media whingeing, this is real anger and frustration from supporters who care. How could we make it so easy?

I’m sure it was repeated elsewhere in the ground – the players left the pitch to a chorus of boos. It’s not so much the result, certainly not inflated expectations. In fact, we were lucky to come away with a point. After all, these fans have seen enough disappointment and missed opportunities over the years. It’s that once again, we made few chances, failed to play together as a team and above all have apparently learned nothing since the start of the season. All the progress made in the Everton match long forgotten.

The crowd also called long and loud for Aaron Lennon, who was keeping his new haircut immaculate on the bench. Party this was affection for a player who has recently reminded us that he still has a role to play at Spurs. Mainly though it was tactics. As the game went on, Spurs has become bogged down in a central midfield morass. I suspect that beneath the turf at White Hart Lane there is some mysterious force-field generator impossible to resist that sucks our men into the middle, where if they don’t run into a defender they will surely bump into each other. Flicky this, clever touch there, may beat one or two but eventually Palace swallowed up each and every attack without being seriously stretched.

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A rare shot

Against Everton, we shone with a right-footed player wide right. Yesterday, the inverted wingers achieved nothing. Azza is no world-beater but at the very least would have given us some width. One substitution put Chadli on the left where in Davies we have a good attacking full-back, Dier on the right not so much. Still no width therefore. Lennon came on finally with less than 10 minutes to go and did not have a run at his full-back. And they say the fans don’t understand the game like professionals. When this happens, frankly we don’t understand it at all.

The signs were ominous from the start as Fazio and Vertonghen occupied the first ten minutes by passing to each other. The whistle should have been our alarm call. Instead we reached over and hit the snooze button. The 3 o’clock start, unheard of these days,was confusing – what time train do I have to get? – but you would expect the players to be ready. Less high-tempo, more sleep-walking.

Credit at this point to Palace. With two forwards wide they forced us into the middle and were quick and dangerous on the break. More than capable of dealing with us, Warnock is a manager whose admirers say he has no tactical nouse. I’ll leave you to ponder the implications.

We did little constructive to find a way through and nothing to get going early on although we did buck up after the break, bearing in mind that yesterday everything was relative, and took the game to our opponents without ever looking especially dangerous.

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At least the kids enjoyed it. And Chirpy.

Palace meanwhile always posed a threat on the break but missed several chances. They also came up against our only class player, Hugo Lloris, on impeccable form. As if trying to make up for his errors against Chelsea, he kept Palace at bay with a series of outstanding saves to add to flypaper handling.

Despite it all, we did make some chances. Three good ones fell to Soldado, none were on target. The worst was in the second half, slicing wide after he was bang on to score from a sly little through ball into his stride. Eriksen made a couple of openings, the best coming early when Spurs finally woke up a bit. He cheekily nutmegged the defender on the byline and shot when three white shirts awaited the pull-back.

As I say, Spurs were better (not good but better) after the break then after Palace realised they could contain us, we nearly succumbed to ten minutes of sustained attack to which we had no answer and the midfield were all over the place. The afternoon was summed up by a vignette in front of the Park Lane when Eriksen did well to prevent a corner, short pass to Dier who then passed it into touch – for a corner.

Some promising signs from Fazio and Davies, both of whom had their best games for the club. Fazio was especially strong in the box and at the near post, moving with confidence to the ball to deal with danger. Davies deserves an extended run. I like his appetite for the ball, berating team-mates for not passing to him and hitting early balls with confidence when he moves forward. One such cross after a fine ball from Lamela gave Soldado an opportunity.

Sadly the phrase ‘fine ball from Lamela’ applied only to that moment. When he’s tackled, as he so often is, he always looks surprised. What’s Spanish for ‘how did that happen?’ Soldado will know… Lamela should have got used to the PL by now. Twice yesterday he burst clear with the ball, looked up only to be tackled from behind. That’s the PL and he’s got to learn.

Otherwise, Kane and Mason were industrious but quiet. Bentaleb at least tried to move the ball forward late on when playing the deepest of the midfield. He attempted to get something moving even if he wasn’t always successful.  The sage fellow supporter to my right pointed out his fair impression of the Parker pirouette, twirling in midfield without getting anywhere. A fair point, and like Parker he depends on having someone to pass to. Our collective failure meant so often he was disappointed, as were we in the stands. Progress, such as it was, stalled, or perhaps a figment of the imagination.

 

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Try as they might, the new breed at Tottenham who did so well against Everton couldn’t overcome a Chelsea side that seldom shifted out of cruise control. Instead, familiar failings returned to crush early fresh-formed hopes that emerged from our bright, bouncy start. Taking on our opponents plus the momentum of recent history is hard enough without making the sort of crass defensive errors that we have come to know and – well, just know only too well.

For the much of the match, Spurs reprised Sunday’s diligent approach. Bentaleb was excellent, especially in the second half as we pressed more men forward, often leaving him as the rearmost midfielder. They earned by far the lion’s share of possession, in contrast to the Everton game where we won with around 35% of the ball.

However, beyond the opening 20 minutes there was nothing much going up on front. A few oohs and aahs, maybes and could-have-beens as Eriksen and Lamela almost but not quite played the perfect ball. Last night almost was a long way. Chelsea dispassionately despatched their opportunities, grateful no doubt for not having to work very hard to get them, whereas we huffed and puffed without making a proper chance in the second half. Add a couple of defensive implosions and we were nowhere near competing in this one.

Spurs opened well and as so often flattered to deceive. Harry Kane continued his one-player offensive against complacency. Playing on his own up front, from the kick-off he took the game to our opponents. A different position compared to Sunday but the same result. Chelsea backed off and chances came our way. Vertonghen headed over and Kane’s header hit the bar. Lennon’s cross was slightly behind him but he did everything in his power to twist it on target. Lennon was dangerous too – a right-footed winger on the right, taking people on. Don’t how the tactical geniuses in charge of Spurs recently missed that one.

Kane then left Cahill on his backside, cut in from the left and his shot slithered across the goal and wide as three white shirts pleaded for a cut-back. For a time Spurs had control of the game, but that was pretty much that. The Blues stretched, wiped the sleep from their eyes and awoke. Lennon tracked back on Hazard but did not get goalside. Chiriches drifted forward a couple of yards to cover space at the edge of the box. Fractional errors, put them together and suddenly a one-two opened up yards of room on our right and Hazard scores. Such are the margins. Almost is a long way.

Our system depends on not conceding the ball as we build from deep. The fullbacks push up and the centre halves split. Off they dutifully toddled as Hugo had the ball at his feet. They could only watch as the Frenchman’s feeble kick was picked up 35 yards out by a Chelsea player. No surprise the pass was good and Drogba made it two. Again a fatal error from our best player, and sadly not for the first time. All his athleticism and commitment, which we saw on several occasions in the hour that followed, wasted if he can’t kick the ball away very far.

Second half, Lennon went left and the ineffective Lamela right, allowing Eriksen to be busy in central areas. For Mason this was one match too far. He was replaced by Paulinho early on. Chadli helped Kane out up front but as I’ve already said, plenty of ball without getting anywhere, and there’s no point in saying more about that.

Time dragged as the match reached its inevitable conclusion. Not expecting much but I would have appreciated getting a shot in. 2-0 would hardly have been a consolation but the third still hurt. With Spurs pushing forward, Vertonghen was left one on one with sub Remy. Twisting and turning, Verts tried the block, thought about the foul but opted for falling over.  An easy finish.

Chelsea are streets ahead of the opposition this year, one of the best teams in Europe. No disgrace in losing to them, we’re not the first and won’t be the last, but it would have been nice to make them at least break sweat. They won at a canter, easily absorbing our pressure despite our best efforts.

Bentaleb was our best player, keeping things moving despite it all. Pochettino has gone from suit to blazer to tracksuit and now gilet (I shuddered at the memory). Still, it seems something is getting through at last. Develop this style and shape and good things will happen. Yesterday that was nowhere near sufficient to bridge the gulf in class between the two sides but tell me something I don’t know. Eyeballs out for Palace on Saturday, put everything into that game and come away with the points.

 

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Families sitting together. Parties of young people singing. Women and girls. Happy stewards laughing along with the crowd. I’m at a football match but it will never catch on.

This weekend I forsook Spurs for the Petts Wood Under 10s girls’ team. Called in as a late sub for my lovely daughter, I took my midfield schemer of a granddaughter to the women’s international between England v Germany. If nothing else, it’s most probably the only way I’ll get to Wembley this year.

My last Tottenham On My Mind piece characterised Spurs as a club without a heart, the Tin Man of football. I found the heart of football beating hard not in the Premier League, the supposed pinnacle of the British game, but at a women’s football match.

You probably know this was a record crowd for women’s football in this country, over 50,000 in the bottom two tiers at Wembley, despite the FA and Transport for London predictably conspiring to make it as difficult as possible to get there by choosing to hold the game on a day of a planned closure of Wembley Park station.

That was the only thing that was typical of a big football match in the capital. The ground was full of families and children. It was hard to see who was more excited, the children or their parents. 99% of them would not be able to identify any of the players if they sat next to them on the team coach, including me. But that didn’t matter. They were here to watch a football match, together, for its own sake.

My granddaughter doesn’t take outings and treats for granted but being part of an extended family who love the game, she’s been to Wembley three times already, once for the Olympic football and for two internationals. Even she was impressed though by the historic nature of this fixture, the first ever England women’s international at the new Wembley. She and her friends wanted to be part of something. They didn’t know the players or the tactics, they didn’t care it was a friendly or even who won, but they knew it was a good place to be on a Sunday afternoon. It was important and they were there.

What it must be to discover the enthralling, compelling fascination of football for the first time. The ebb and flow of the game, the welcoming comfort of the crowd. These days it’s hard to find that at a Premier League match, a league which sometimes feels as if they make it as difficult as possible to enjoy a day out. You want to secure the involvement of another generation in the game we love? Group discount for football clubs, adults £7.50, children £1.

A different experience in many ways. We went by coach and parked about 6 feet from the ground, under cover. I pined for the 45 minute queue for Wembley Park, well almost. Dutifully in full school trip mode we followed our group leader off the coach. It took 10 minutes to realise that he had no intention of going in the ground but was looking for a leisurely meal in the shopping centre. It had never occurred to me that Wembley had a shopping centre, let alone eat beforehand.

We turned round and went in to watch and feel the crowd build up. I’m proud to say my granddaughter has been well taught in the ways of being a proper supporter. She knows that the most memorable aspect of her last Wembley trip, for the international versus Peru, was the paper plane thrown from the top tier that hit a player on the head. Regarding half and half scarves, she’s as disapproving as only a 9 year old can be. But nobody cared this time. Kids wanted souvenir of the match and wore their scarves proudly. Things were so different, I even joined in the Mexican wave.

Back in the coach, radio on, second half from Hull and I’m back to normal, hunched in my seat, stomach turning over, gloomy then relieved. I wouldn’t have it any other way, but then again I learned to love the club game from an early age whereas I can’t help feeling Spurs sometimes make themselves hard to love.

No detailed match discussion this week. It was the first game this season I’ve not seen as it happened, no chance to write in the middle of a 14 hour day yesterday and anyway the time is past. Maybe just re-read the Villa piece. I’ve seen it now and relief rather than elation sums it up. Credit to the fightback and to the way the side kept pushing for the winner. Delighted that Eriksen was prominent in that resurgence, taking command and using the extra space very well. The late winner was a re-resurgence because Hull had successfully broken the play up to take away our momentum.

I’m conscious of being critical of the team recently. Honest is another word for it. I take no pleasure in pointing out how poorly we have played and the total absence of leadership from anyone within the club, on or off the field. Regular readers will know how much it hurts.

So enjoy the win, always, and the Spurs away support came through loud and clear on the radio, which is never taken for granted even though it happens every away match. Credit must go to Pochettino, who has given several players a run in the side but rightly made changes for this one, including changes in the spine of the side where he seemed to have settled on his best options.

But we were awful, simply awful, for much of the first half. I was open-mouthed at times even though I knew what to expect. Harking back to my last piece, this didn’t answer the question of heart, of being able to find the strength from within to make progress rather than expecting something outside our power to lift us. We had to wait for a red card again. Let’s leave it there with the comforting thought that if an infinite number of monkeys at typewriters for an infinite amount of time can produce the complete works of Shakespeare, surely Soldado is bound to score this century.