Mostly tosh, with a sprinkling of tish and fair amount of an anagram of that last, made up, noun.
It’s no surprise that a team shorn of Alderweireld, Dembélé (for most of the game), Rose, Kane and Lamela isn’t good enough to face Europe’s, ahem, finest, but the performance, more than the defeat, left so so much to be desired. Mistakes at the back, no composure in the middle and huge lashings of anonymity up front. We looked slow (Sissoko), bereft of confidence (Son) and desperate (Dele).
Time, I salute you. You’ve sucked not only the joy, but also the ability to defend, pass and shoot from so many in a white shirt who only wish you well.
An extraordinary transformation has taken place to the team that saw off Barcelona whupping Man City exactly a month ago and it’s not a pretty one. At that time, Son was a world beater, Alli a mercurial genius and Sissoko more diamond than rough. No more. Sunday’s visit to South London may well be a game best watched through fingers, behind the sofa, out the corner of the eye on a TV with the sound and brightness down.
Wembley, the concrete monstrous creation that is the FA’s Godforsaken, atmosphereless, beerless, homage to the folly of Ken Bates is due to do another job on us in December and then probably another 19 times in 17/18. I hope it disappears into a sinkhole before then.
Pah.
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