More cluck than pluck with Harry's headless cockerels

Matthew Norman
24 Feb 2009

Midway through a first half of a match that would have graced one of those Welsh leagues in which the sides tend to have Computer Software or Car Parts in their names, the camera dwelt on a familiar face. It was Chris Hughton, a coach at White Hart Lane not long ago but now minding the Newcastle shop for the recuperating Joe Kinnear.

The first thought on finding him in a Hull FC stand was bemusement that he wasn't on the pitch, in accordance with chairman Daniel Levy's pioneering policy of rehiring every player who's ever worn the lilywhite.

The second was outrage. Setanta may be a sports broadcaster of unimpeachable mediocrity but I hadn't previously noticed the cruel streak that led them to taunt us with the hint of a different Tottenham age.

Then again, perhaps they meant it kindly. Maybe the director, in his innocence, thought that invoking the memory of the 1980s side in which Hughton played a key supporting role to such luminous leads as Hoddle, Ardiles, Villa, Archibald and that Russian-speaking son of Hull Tony Galvin would delight a supportership known for seeking sanctuary in the distant past.

If so, thanks for the gesture, but a word of advice. Next time the compassionate instinct takes hold, go that extra mile and replace the live game with a tape of the 1981 FA Cup Final replay against Manchester City, to remind us of a time when Spurs played clever, controlled, flamboyant football, and to hold out the hope that such a time may come again.

On the evidence of this unmerited win over a rapidly fading Hull, it will be one of those waits for which the holding of breath contravenes all mainstream medical advice. Harry Redknapp has had several months in charge now, and by way of honouring the "plus ca change" philosophy that guides this Groundhog club, his major achievement has been to replace one comedy goalkeeper with another.

When Carlo Cudicini gifted Hull the equaliser by airily flapping at an incoming corner, he brought to mind a partially-sighted man shaking his fist in the vague direction of an abusive neighbour the other side of his garden fence. If the cause of this apparent blindness was stars in his eyes, it was obvious that tonight, Matthew, he was gonna be Heurelho Gomes. And so he was, repeating the error time and again, and rescued from added humiliation in the second half by a post.

The perplexing thing here is that at Chelsea, originally as first choice and later as Petr Cech's stand in, Cudicini looked rock solid.

But then Gomes, whose recall for Sunday's League Cup final will amuse Sir Alex Ferguson, was regarded as a genius with PSV Eindhoven in Holland. 

All one can decently do, I think, is adapt that hackneyed old break-up line, and assure these chaps that isn't them, it's Spurs; that Tottenham is the succubus of the Premier League, draining all the talent and confidence from all who come into close contact.

While Martin Jol continues to challenge for the German title with Hamburg, for example, Juande Ramos has wasted no time in transforming ailing Real Madrid into an unstoppable La Liga force.

So none of this is intended as an attack on Harry Redknapp, who has at least imposed some drive and discipline on the dishevelled, semi-detached rabble he inherited from Ramos. But oh my giddy aunt, Spurs were abysmal for 45 minutes. Out-thought, outfought and thoroughly outplayed, they had no business leading this game at all, let alone through such a piercingly accurate, high-quality strike from the usually wayward Aaron Lennon.

That they swiftly yielded an equaliser of doubly comic ineptitude seemed as much out of a sense of guilt as the usual cluelessness at defending set pieces.

In fact Hull should have led by two goals after a half in which Spurs were feckless at the back, disjointed in midfield and barely existent up front, where a hologram of the late Magnus Pyke would have been contributed more than a phantasmal Robbie Keane.

Whatever pithy thoughts Harry voiced during the break had a clear galvanic effect. Tottenham showed more urgency and commitment when they emerged for the second half. Through Luka Modric they even showed the occasional touch of class and, for a while, they dominated spirited but technically limited opponents.

They had long since regressed to the headless cockerel mindset of the first half, however, when Benoit Assou-Ekotto's delicious cross and Jonathan Woodgate's imperious header produced the late, jewel-in-a-dungheap winner that neither they nor this shapeless, witless, joyless encounter deserved.