Martin Chivers: The Striker Who Made Defences Despair and Hairdressers Prosper

There's something particularly galling about a striker who simply has your number. For years, Martin Chivers seemed to pop up wearing whatever shirt opposed yours, poking the ball home with a ruthlessness that made supporters gnash their teeth.

His trajectory began at Southampton in 1968, where the young marksman plied his trade alongside Ron Davies, that towering Saints institution. When the south coast club cashed in for the eye-watering sum of £125,000—a record fee at the time—they dispatched him north to Tottenham. The compensation arrived in the shape of Mick Channon, whose windmilling arms would become equally familiar to English football crowds.

At White Hart Lane, Chivers carved out a formidable reputation. Across 358 league appearances, he found the net 150 times, establishing himself as one of the division's most lethal predators during his pomp. His European pedigree remained unmatched at the club for nearly four decades, until Jermain Defoe finally surpassed his continental tally in 2015.

The latter stages of his playing days saw Chivers venture further afield. A summer sojourn to Switzerland in 1976 took him to Servette, before English football reclaimed him. Norwich City hosted him during the 1978-79 campaign, with Brighton & Hove Albion following in 1979-80.

Internationally, Chivers earned 24 caps for his country, though the experience proved frustrating. England's struggles throughout the 1970s limited his opportunities to shine on the grandest stage, and his final appearance came in October 1973—a draw against Poland in that notorious World Cup qualifier that still stings in the memory. His club form rarely translated when pulling on the Three Lions.

What truly defined the 6'1" striker, however, wasn't merely his predatory instincts in the box. Those who witnessed his prime recall a particular specimen of follicular ambition: a bubble perm of such magnificence—or audacity—that it demanded as much attention as his finishing. The hairdo was formidable, unmistakable, and utterly terrifying in its scope. Comparisons to a certain aunty Janet were not entirely wide of the mark.

Playing centre-forward in the First Division during that era required backbone and belligerence. Chivers possessed the height advantage over most competitors, yet he lacked the sheer aggression of contemporaries like the bruising Bob Latchford, Stuart Pearson's physicality, or the bow-legged menace of Supermac. Instead, his gift lay in economy of movement—one touch, and the ball nestled in the corner. Had Spurs managed the consistency of supply their talent deserved, rather than indulging in their characteristically erratic ways, his goal tally would have climbed considerably higher.

It's the permed magnificence, though, that lingers longest in the mind. A career bookended by follicles as memorable as his finishing. Few footballers achieve such enduring notoriety for both their prowess and their grooming choices.