Jamie Vardy almost became an Ibiza party rep and we found out how

Ben Mountain
Contributor

Jamie Vardy; the man, the myth, the Ibiza party rep.

Jamie Vardy can sometimes be a man of style. A man of sophistication. A man of grace and class.

He can tell his vin rouge from his vingt-cinq and everything in between.

Not only is he a man of culture but also a man of the people, too. White Ace and Sterling menthol are not pleasures lost on this versatile legend.

All of this means one thing and one thing only. He is the perfect candidate for becoming a party rep. Specifically, an Ibiza party rep. The absolute Eden for party reps across the world.

By combining a touch of good taste and luxury with an unrivalled knowledge of what the people are crying out for, Mr Chat S**t, Get Banged himself would suit the role down to a tee. He’d take to it like a duck to water. Or a gobby bloke to selling 50p shots of Sambuca.

And Jamie Vardy clearly had this vision himself one day.

Back in 2013, current Leicester gaffer Craig Shakespeare has revealed, the Foxes forward came blissfully close to quitting his life as a footballer and hitting the strip of Ibiza instead.

If it hadn’t have been for Shakespeare, former Leicester boss Nigel Pearson and the head of recruitment Steve Walsh persuading Vardy to continue his career path on the pitch; then the world of football would have lost one of its most prolific strikers.

Who knows, maybe the greatest title victory ever wouldn’t have happened if it had.

Anyway, in a recent interview with CLICKON Soccer, Vardy took a look back over that difficult time of indecision in his life and lamented over the choice he made.

We met with Vards in a park in Leicester City centre.

Here’s what he had to say…

Alright, lads. You made it, then. Fancy a Tennant’s Super?…Nah? Suit yourselves. Me uncle Rob nicked ’em and give me crate of 24 for £13. Your loss.

Having settled the situation with our respectively preferred beverages, we got down to business.

“Well it were a few years back, fellas. I was feeling a bit low, you know? The football weren’t quite cutting it for me. Then, after a heavy sesh with the lads at me nan’s house, I belled the boys at Leicester.”

“‘Where the hell are you, Vards?’ Nige [Pearson] piped up. You see, it was two in the afternoon and I was missing training. In my defence, I was half asleep in a mankini with the word ‘dickhe’ written across me forehead. The lads run out of ink, you see.”

“Anyway, I’ve gone ‘Oi, Nige, shut yer trap, son. I’m hanging like a fruit bat here and got some deep stuff to talk with you about. Don’t make me spark you.’ Naturally, he kept quiet after that.”

We probed about into what said ‘deep crap’ was and the Foxes striker didn’t hold back in detail.

“Well, I’ve said to him ‘look, I ain’t big on the football lifestyle. It’s not really my level of class, pal. I’m thinking of throwing the whole lot off and upping sticks. Somewhere on my sort of wave.'”

“Then it come to me. Ibiza, of course. Then the ideas just started flooding into my mind, like some sort of Pablo Picasso imagination thing. If Picasso was hungover and imagining plastic flamingos and a load of foam and a bird’s knockers, that is.”

“Wanna hear them?”

We didn’t and actually wanted to continue the interview but, as we tried to intervene, the 30 year old from Sheffield cracked open another Tennant’s and screwdrivered it with his house-key, necking it in one messy go.

“Here, I’ll tell ya.”

Great.

“I was thinking; blow this crap off and head to Ibiza. I could become one of the world’s top, top party reps and I’d be living the bloody life.”

“I’d start off steady, you know; one of them quad-bikes and a load of flyers. I’d go gym every morning and work on my wolf-whistle. Get a hang of the basics early.”

“Then I’d move on; chat up lines, tattoos, opening beer bottles with me eye lids; master the trade. Obviously, that would take a bit of work. I can only do them with my teeth right now.”

He proceeded to demonstrate this skill on his knuckle, assuming we were impressed with imagining it.

“Once I’d got the ropes, I’d step it up a gear. I could start promoting the top clubs on the island. I’d have like 15 girls on my quad-bike all the time and people would be like ‘ah, Vards is coming through. What a legend.'”

“I had visions of doing handstands off neon bars whilst people poured Jägermeister down my throat and did that old ‘lad, lad, lad’ chant. I’d become the king of the island.”

Then came the biggest plan.

“Once I’d become some sort of Hugh Heffner figure, I’d drop the game-changer.”

“‘REEBOK: Ratchet, Get Banged’ the club à la Várdy.”

“Imagine it, boys. I’d have a strictly tracksuit wearing policy with my mates Steve and Gaz on the door. I’d have foam parties every Friday, massive inflatable palm trees, nothing but Pitbull on the speakers and £5 off if you have an ASBO or are under-aged and being a bit cheeky like I used to be.”

At this point, he was on a roll and wouldn’t stop.

“I’d have the flag of St George hanging from every corner and a little smoking lounge with free Superkings in it. I’d do buy-one-get-one-free shots of Sourz and have a 60ft wide bar, loaded with Lambrini, Stella and Bacardi Breezers.”

“Then I’d obviously have a VIP section for me and my boys and we’d pass around an empty bottle of Grey Goose to take photos with for our Snapchats.”

Lads spending £300 on a bottle of grey goose thinking they’re the boy when they dress like a barcode for a living working in footlocker.

— JustSomeLad. (@SomeEvertonFan) February 10, 2015

“Boys, I can’t stop smiling.”

“Stuff the England caps, Prem title, Player of the Year and Ballon d’Or nomination. I should have longed it all out and got a one-way Ryanair ticket to Ibiza.”

“Man, I’m in the wrong profession.”

And with that, Jamie Vardy began to sing happily. We decided not to interrupt his moment of bliss and ended the interview.

As we left him on that park bench, we could hear the sound of thin metal being pierced a harsh fizz as Jamie Vardy gulped desperately fast.

We then only heard gentle tears and the faint murmuring of ‘Timber’, by Pitbull.

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