It is dark now. The lights have been dimmed. In the corner of the dining room, a 45-year-old man who refuses to answer to any other name than ‘DJ Derek’ is playing his infamous ’90s dance playlist while swigging back a passionfruit VK. Draped over the front of his decks, a banner in Leicester City colours reads: “Best MC in Kirby Muxloe, 2013”. The strobe lights he picked up from the local market finally wink into life, zapping the room with shutter-vision blasts of white light.
Alone on the dance floor, naked from the waist up, decked out in combat boots and camouflage trousers, face smeared with glow-in-the-dark rave paint, is N’Golo Kante. He is pulling lithe shapes to the thumping beat of Mr. Vain. Plump beads of sweat drip from his chiselled muscles, soaking the raspberry-pink carpet below. Meanwhile, everyone else is in the living room watching the last few minutes of Chelsea vs. Spurs.
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Skip forward 10 minutes. Robert Huth is trying to extract his head from the bathroom door, which he has headbutted with immeasurable force. Danny Drinkwater is face down on the sofa, with a couple of teammates trying to rouse him long enough to make him drink a pint of water. Christian Fuchs has put the TV through the front window, while Shinji Okazaki has ‘accidentally’ urinated in a Burberry kit bag he found in the hall. Riyad Mahrez has been sent out to persuade the neighbours not to call the police, nominated by his teammates for his boyish good looks and especially innocent delivery of the line: “We’re calming it down now, honest.”
In the centre of it all, above the marble kitchen top, Jamie Vardy is swinging from a loose light fitting, wearing nothing but a pair of Emporio Armani boxer shorts and necking a bright green bottle of Apple Sourz. This is his house party, and he’ll do what he fucking wants.
It should probably be said, at this point, that these are our fantasies and bear no reflection on the reality of Jamie Vardy’s actual house party. The only facts we really know are that Jamie Vardy had a house party on Monday evening; his teammates were invited; Leicester won the league and then this video happened.
We want our fantasies to be true, however. We want to live in a world where Jamie Vardy throws insane, post-adolescent house parties with his victorious Leicester teammates. Where Vardy mixes all the flavours of WKD in a giant tankard, downs the whole thing and vomits a rainbow into his swimming pool. Where Vardy offers himself out in the mirror, as Wes Morgan tries to calm him down with the offer of nibbles and dip. Where Vardy’s old Stocksbridge Park Steels mates crash the festivities, huff hippy crack in the toilet and pour poppers into his home aquarium. Where Kasper Schmeichel gets a bit too intense and smashes a bottle of Biscotti Baileys over his head, and everyone decides it’s finally time to go home.
When Jamie Vardy’s mum goes away for the weekend, when she tells him that – if he really must have a party to celebrate his Premier League title – he should keep it a small gathering amongst friends, this is the sort of madness we imagine ensues. When she tells him not to put it on Facebook, and certainly not to tell those awful Stocksbridge Park Steels boys, this is the sort of out-of-control shit that happens.
This is the house party of our dreams, our wildest reveries. This is how the unlikeliest achievement of the Premier League era should be celebrated – Jamie Vardy and all his friends, getting shitfaced on alcopops and having a deservedly great time.
