I've been meaning to go through my old programmes for ages. Last night, the challenge of finding "Hall Of Arse" candidates galvanised me into action. But at the top of the first box I found some old photos, appropriately in black and white, of a trip to Coventry and I instantly knew where to start.
We still laugh about the game. The idea was to take the girls with us to see the Golden Boys in the Cup and make a day of it. It must've been winter because we're all wrapped up. In the background there are just bodies, no sign of a ground. The terrace was packed. So busy that the girls saw bugger all of the game (which is why God invented chatting for them, not for men) and the taller amongst us could only see half the pitch. The half we couldn't see is where we scored the only goal of the game, a header, allegedly by one Trevor Senior. So you can see, the joke is that we didn't see Trevor Senior score but "We Were There".
He was a Bassett signing, which says a lot. He came from Reading having poached eighty-eight goals the previous season. He scored four for us, only one in the league, and left within the year, to eventually return to Reading.
He looked pleasant enough, in a nerdish, living-with-your-mum, sort of way. Perhaps it was his Mum who told him passion was a fruit because he wandered around the pitch in a somnambulant state. God, he was awful. Hold the ball up? Forget it. Create chances? Not me. Get stuck in? Uummmmm, no thanks. He was the sort of player that made you embarrassed to admit that Watford were your team and I still loathe him for that alone.
Maybe it's too easy to pick on someone like Trevor and I'm sure, and hope, others will do a better annihilation. But he was cack. And he was the first in a depressingly long line of cack strikers that epitomise The Wilderness Years. Remember Kennedy, Beadle, Willis, Butler, Quinn, Dixon, Moralee? All Trevor Senior's fault.