An original Goonersphere blog.
It wasn’t often he mulled.
Everything was normally so straightforward, but as he sat hunched over his bowl of Ricicles, the same thought buzzed around in his head, the drone echoing around in the loneliness.
Should I join Arsenal?
The spoon in his hand had drifted from his mouth, and now hung lazily over his other arm, dripping milk all over his new armcast. The missus had persuaded him to go a little out there with decoration on this adornment of late, and the white fluid from his spoon was at odds with the leopardskin pattern.
She had got behind this prospective move with gusto.The noise from the hairdryer was in full effect, and worked in tandem with the annoying thought buzzing around in his consciousness, creating a crescendo which spoiled his appetite. He didn’t even shove his hand deep into the cereal box for the free gift – which was something he always did. He was conflicted.
He stood up and abandoned the cereal bowl, filled with forlorn – and now soggy – rice puffs. He navigated around the gargantuan ceramic lions which adorned his open plan kitchen and dining room, his bare feet enjoying the plush – but extremely colourful – rugs as he walked. He now stood at the massive french windows, overlooking acres of land.
Wasn’t this what he had always dreamed of? When famously grafting away in amateur football, he would always dream of such things. Now it was in his grasp, and he was happy. The problem with happy though, is that it is notoriously difficult to pin down, and now, with a simple decision to make, it all seemed worthless.
His eyes peered further down the lush green garden. The only structure spoiling this serenity was the assembly of an exact copy of his local park where he grew up and used to get drunk on cheap cider. It was now tarnished, as he still invited friends round to reenact his childhood, binging on cheap alcohol and experimenting with their boundaries.
Anything for the good craic. That was Jamie Vardy.
The missus had now finished her beauty rituals, and boy, was she a sight to behold. Her eyecatching curves were now poured into a leather skirt, and her top half was simply two TGI Friday napkins kept together by dental floss. Apparently it was the ‘new look,’ and she was pushing him to move with the times, but he struggled.
Just like the jungle gym in his garden, and his nighttime drinking proclivities, he couldn’t separate his early life with the luxury he was now afforded. He was adored in Leicester, and the fans had put him on a pedestal so high, if he thought about it, he would get dizzy. If he was honest with himself, if he concentrated too much on anything, he was prone to dizzy spells, so this was nothing new.
One of the biggest clubs in the world – Arsenal, had come calling. They offered him everything he had ever wanted, and the best platform to perform on.
The problem was, Leicester didn’t want to give up their striker, and had countered Arsenal’s offer with their own. He knew he couldn’t spend what he had at the moment – there was only so many cellars full of vintage WKD you could buy – so money wasn’t the issue
As he turned round to watch his wife cavort and contort herself on the black marble kitchen table and take three hundred and twenty eight selfies to upload to Instagram, his mind, which had been fighting with the decision to stay or go, finally left the white noise – and struck gold.
He realised that he was a big fish in a small pond at the Foxes. He was adored by everyone, and the millions of replica armcasts in the area was testament to this. His agent had even set up a company to take advantage of this, flooding the net with these arm decorations, for a tasty twenty quid a piece.
At Arsenal though, they had Mesut Ozil, Alexis Sanchez, Granit Xhaka, Petr Cech, Koscielny, Mertesacker, Bellerin, Ramsey, Theo…..
His head, which continued to reel off these stellar names, gave him a familiar dizzy spell and he instinctively flung out a trailing leg toward the new age dining room chair, constructed entirely from the whiskers of an otter, and tumbled to the floor. His mind had panicked with the speed of thought and used its backup muscle memory as it rebooted.
From his position, he didn’t get up straight away. Instead, he thought of his good friend Jack Wilshere, and the advice he had given him.
Jack said that the cocoon-like atmosphere at Colney, and the protective staff at the club, would help him with any difficulties. Plus, if Vardy truly wanted to touch greatness, then Arsenal really can propel a player to where his hard work deserves.
His mind, his chief tormentor this morn, sensed that he was near a decision. As is every persons mind when they feel they are close to escaping a dilemma – it adds more ingredients to the already messy broth. Vardy now recalled the many occasions his current manager Claudio Ranieri had aided him. He thought of his teammates, and of course, the fans in the stands.
The only thing that could help him, was his friends. His missus gave him a kiss as she was going to meet some pals, so he immediately grabbed his Mickey Mouse house phone and called round the squad.
He grabbed the tablet which controlled all electrical devices in this open expanse of a house, and cranked up the music. The soundtrack to his life was supplied by none other than The Blazing Squad – those young idiots that made a fortune from expelling dire music for tracksuit-clad teenagers.
His squad were on their way, and The Squad were belting out of the speakers.
Jamie Vardy was having a party, perhaps his last in Leicester……