Here’s what (probably*) happened…
Jamie Vardy, of Vardy News (or so he claims), an apparently reputable publication little known to anybody else in the press room stood up confidently, a pen behind his ear and a fedora tipped down to his nose with a handmade press card tucked into the headband.
He wanted the truth, and he was determined to get it.
Little did he know he was about to ask the question that had been on everyone’s mind, as far back as the start of the Premier League season, even more so when the World Cup squads were announced and then once again after Harry Kane slotted the late, late winner against Tunisia in England’s opening game in Russia.
The ball had ricocheted into the skipper’s path by way of a large, planetary sized object that had seemingly fallen out of orbit and onto the turf within the Volgograd Arena.
“Mr Maguire…” he said, for some reason now sounding like he was from 1920s Chicago and reporting on the prohibition rather than, say, sounding like a WKD consumer from Sheffield pissing about during media duties.
“Mr Maguire” he repeated, steadying himself, knowing full well the importance of what he was about to ask.
“Mr Maguire… It’s Jamie Vardy here from Vardy News. Just how big is the diameter of your head?”
The room fell silent other than a single audible gasp that could be heard from the back. Then there was some giggling. It was Harry Kane, sat next to Maguire on the podium, trying to wipe away the water dribbling down his chin.
“I want an answer Mr Maguire. What do you have to say for yourself?”
‘Slabhead’ is what they call him at Leicester City, the man with a inner city tower block perched on his neck, the man they say could head several footballs at once should the rules allow, the Power Pod grown limbs and come to life.
No answer would come from the illogically graceful defender, a ballerina in steel-toe boots, as he turned his attentions to the more important matter of the game against Panama, a country he knows only too well due to a more than passing interest in canal engineering.
He knew he wouldn’t get the answer he wanted, so Vardy flipped his notepad shut in indignation and stormed out of the conference.
It was raining outside, and he stopped under lamplight to light a cigarette. It was a cold evening, and he turned his collar up and tucked his trench coat tight to his body as the wind howled.
His silhouette took a single puff – it never did feel the same as snus, he thought – before stomping out the weak flame in the puddle beneath the curb, lightly splashing his ankles in the process.
He looked up at the stars and knew there were more stories out there, he just had to find them. This wouldn’t be the last they’d heard of Jamie Vardy, reporter. Not by a long shot.
You could just about see his shadow disappear under the tunnel and into the night, and despite the noise of cars in the distance you could just about hear his footsteps and the humming of a tune: something about a party, something about vodka, something about someone called Charlie.
* it definitely didn’t happen like this
