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Chapter 250: He's Having a Party Part 2 (End)
🕑 Added 2025-08-07 06:54:30 +0000 UTCThey were warm-ups. That’s how the world saw them.
Manchester United in the League Cup? Wolves in the FA Cup?
Just scenery. Just filler. Background noise before the main act.
Because no one cared that Leicester thrashed United again. Even when the final score read:
Leicester City 4 – 2 Manchester United
Tristan Hale: 2 goalsJamie Vardy: 1 goal (assisted by Mahrez)Riyad Mahrez: 1 goal (assisted by Tristan)
No one blinked when Tristan sliced through United’s midfield like silk. No one gasped when Mahrez bent another screamer into the top corner. Once, that win would’ve set headlines on fire.
Now? It was a footnote.
And Wolves?
Just another page turned.
Leicester City 2 – 0 Wolves
Jamie Vardy: 2 goals
Assists: N’Golo Kanté, Tristan Hale
Two more for the tally. No viral threads. No panel debates. No ticker-tape celebrations.
Because all of it — absolutely all of it — was leading to one thing.
One stadium. One opponent. One goal.
White Hart Lane.
Tottenham Hotspur.
One more match. One more strike.
Eleven.
To break the record.
To leave Van Nistelrooy in the rearview.
To etch his name alone into Premier League history.
Jamie Vardy was coming.
And the whole world was holding its breath.
January 13, 2016 — White Hart Lane Tunnel
A long corridor of concrete and nerves.
Above ground, 36,000 voices murmured like waves waiting to crash. The air was thick, heavy with floodlight heat and unsaid prayers.
Tristan rolled his shoulder twice and adjusted his armband. His chest felt light but his stomach had a knot in it — the good kind, the big kind. He was excited, finally Vardy could make history and hopefully a record thats a little longer than his past life.
Beside him, Vardy leaned against the tunnel wall, stretching his left calf. He couldn’t stop moving.
“You good?” Tristan asked.
Vardy didn’t look up. “Been dreaming about this since Wrexham away.”
Tristan huffed out half a laugh. “Back when they gave you one boot and a tangerine?”
“Back when I scored,” Vardy muttered, “and it didn’t count because the ref went for a piss.”
That got a real chuckle from Tristan. “Yeah. Proper football, that.”
They stood in silence again.
Then Tristan leaned in slightly. “They’ll mark me. Dier, maybe Alli if I drop. But if I roll my shoulder and the right side opens—”
“Cut in and chip the back post.”
Vardy finished it like he’d rehearsed it in his sleep.
He didn’t even blink. “Mate. I’ve watched every goal we’ve scored. On the plane. On the bog. I know your shoulders better than your missus.”
Tristan’s lip twitched. “Just making sure.”
There was another beat of silence, then Vardy said, softer now:
“I don’t need ninety minutes. Just one chance.”
Behind them, Mahrez was bouncing lightly on his toes, focused but loose like a cobra about to strike.
“Anyone else feel like pissing themselves?” he muttered.
“Shut up,” Huth growled. “You’re jinxing it.”
The sound of footsteps echoed. Spurs were arriving. White kits.
Harry Kane walked forward first. Slapped hands with Tristan. “Alright, mate.”
“Yeah been good” Tristan said. “Can’t complain. How about you?”
“You taking away all the spotlight from us. I don’t know weather I should hug you or punch you.” Kane replied smiling before he turned to Vardy next, bumping fists. “Break it tonight and I’ll be pissed. But I’ll still clap.”
“You won’t have a choice,” Vardy said. “Stadium’ll do it for you.”
“Even Poch?” Kane asked, smirking. Although on the inside he was feeling a different type of pain. With Vardy in such a form, he couldn’t see himself being a starter on the England team.
“Especially Poch,” Tristan said. “Striker’s union. He’ll understand.”
Alli shuffled forward. He gave Vardy a look.
“Internet’s gonna collapse if you score tonight.”
Vardy cracked his neck once. “I’m not here for Wi-Fi, mate. I’m here for blood.”
Dier piped up. “Bit dramatic.”
“Bit worried?” Tristan asked.
“Mate,” Dele added, gesturing, “you’ve got Mahrez drifting inside, Kante breathing down everyone’s neck, and Tristan spinning us in circles. Honestly go easy on us so we can draw again.” He added as a joke.
Mascots began filing in tiny hands gripping jersey sleeves like lifelines. One kid in a Leicester shirt looked up at Vardy like he’d walked straight off a video game cover.
Vardy knelt in front of him. Fixed his collar.
“You ready?” he asked.
The boy nodded, big eyes wide.
“You nervous?”
Another nod.
Vardy leaned in close. “Good. So am I.”
Tristan watched it, heart hitching for a beat.
This was it.
The whistle came from the official.
Time.
Boots scuffed. Gloves tightened. Players straightened.
The tunnel began to hum.
Before stepping forward, Tristan reached out, tapped Vardy’s wrist.
“Whatever happens,” he murmured, “you already made it.”
Then they stepped into the floodlights.
White Hart Lane erupted.
Banners waved. Flags snapped. The roar rose like a firestorm.
Directly opposite the Leicester bench, a massive banner unfurled behind the goal.
“YOU SHALL NOT PASS — UNLESS YOUR NAME IS JAMIE VARDY.”
And for a single moment — across millions of homes, phones, pubs, hearts — the world held its breath.
The chants hit first.
White Hart Lane was buzzing loud, alive, and on edge.
Spurs fans were in full voice, drums pounding behind the goal. But Leicester’s corner wasn’t quiet either. Their section was small, but they were making themselves heard — blue flags waving, “VARDY’S ON FIRE” signs bouncing in the stands.
Camera panned down the tunnel.
The players walked out.
Leicester in bold blue. Tottenham in white. No flash, no pageantry. Just serious faces and sharp focus.
Andy Hinchcliffe broke in first.
“Right. Here we go then.”
Clive Tyldesley, always calm but dialed in:
“Yeah… this one’s been circled on the calendar for a while, hasn’t it?”
The camera caught Jamie Vardy as he emerged — mouth tight, shoulders up, eyes straight ahead.
Andy nodded to the screen.
“You can see it on his face. He knows exactly what tonight means.”
Clive added, keeping it simple:
“Ten in a row. One more and he breaks the record. That’s what’s on the line.”
A pause as the crowd roared again — “Jamie Vardy’s having a party!”
Clive chuckled slightly.
“They’ve been singing that all week. And honestly, if he scores again tonight, they’ll be singing it for the rest of the season.”
Andy leaned in, watching the wide shot.
“Look, forget stats. Forget the numbers. This is the kind of match that decides momentum. Title runs. Legacy stuff.”
The players lined up. Vardy didn’t wave. Didn’t look around.
Clive said, more to Andy than anyone else:
“He doesn’t look nervous, does he?”
Andy shrugged.
“I don’t think he gets nervous. Not anymore. This is just another game to him.”
“Another game,” Clive repeated, “with the eyes of the country on him.”
Andy looked down the lineup.
“And he’s got help. Tristan behind him, Mahrez out wide, Kante in the middle — this Leicester team isn’t just hoping for a miracle anymore. They’re here to win.”
Clive nodded.
“Spurs’ll have something to say about that. Strong side. Physical. Sharp in attack. One of the few teams to draw against Leicester this season. But they’ll be watching one man.”
Camera cut again to Vardy.
“One goal away,” Andy said. “Just one.”
“Big night,” Clive added simply.
And with that — the whistle blew. Players took their positions.
Kickoff was seconds away.
And so was history.
The whistle blew.
Vardy stood over the ball, Tristan beside him, weight forward, focused, ready.
They shared a quick look. Nothing said, but everything understood.
Vardy rolled it back.
Tristan took a clean touch.
Leicester City kicked off.
White Hart Lane erupted. Spurs fans were loud early — boos, whistles, jeers. But Leicester’s end had their answer, chanting loud and proud.
Clive came in smoothly, like he’d been waiting all week for this kickoff:
“And we’re underway in North London — Spurs hosting Leicester City, and Jamie Vardy chasing Premier League history.”
Andy already watching Leicester’s shape shift forward:
“Straight away, you can see it — they’re not sitting back. Tristan’s already drifting between the lines, Mahrez is wide, and Vardy’s on his toes.”
Clive added:
“This Leicester side’s not here to park the bus. They’ve come to play. You can feel it already — they want the early punch.”
Andy leaned forward:
“I mean, why not? The way they’ve been playing lately, you back them to take risks.”
The camera panned to Mauricio Pochettino on the sideline, arms folded, already barking instructions.
Clive glanced at the monitor:
“Spurs will know what’s coming — Vardy running in behind, Tristan pulling strings. The question is: can they stop it?”
Andy smirked:
“They’ve got about ninety minutes to try.”
Leicester continued pressing forward, sharp and quick.
The game had started.
So had the hunt.
White Hart Lane was humming.
Not screaming. Not surging.
Buzzing.
Like electricity waiting for someone to flip the switch.
Spurs started fast — sharp and composed.
Dier dropped into the back line between Alderweireld and Vertonghen. Rose stayed wide left. Walker charged the right. Alli slipped between pockets. Eriksen pulled strings like he had magnets in his boots.
Kane floated just off the shoulder, waiting for the break.
Leicester didn’t chase.
They stalked.
Mahrez and Albrighton dropped into a flat five. Drinkwater held ground. Tristan hovered, drifting between Dier and Dembele, disrupting the shape.
And Kante? He wasn’t marking — he was haunting. Swarming Eriksen, shadowing Alli, intercepting shadows.
Vardy lingered up top. Ready. Dangerous. Like a striker with TNT under his boots.
Tristan drifted again. Just enough to keep them guessing.
Up in the commentary box, Clive kept his voice calm but only just.
“First real possession spell here for Spurs. They’re trying to set the tone early.”
Beside him, Andy eaned forward slightly in his chair, eyes narrowing.
“They’re pulling Leicester side to side, trying to stretch them. Walker and Rose are practically wingers. That’s how you find space for the playmakers.”
Minute six.
Eriksen drilled one low into Kane’s feet. He turned sharply. Shot early.
Morgan read it. Dived in. Blocked.
The rebound spilled loose — Kanté snapped it up.
To Tristan.
One glance.
Two defenders ahead.
He dipped a shoulder — shifted past them — and was gone.
Then came the pass.
Early. Measured. Lethal.
It soared over the top — Vardy already sprinting before it left Tristan’s boot.
One bounce.
Two.
Lloris charged. Vardy lunged and just missed it.
The ball skipped off the wet grass into the keeper’s gloves.
A groan rippled through the away end.
Gasps from the rest of the stadium.
Clive let the silence hang for a second, then breathed out:
“That’s the warning. That’s the one they’ve rehearsed a hundred times. It’s coming.”
Andy chuckled softly into his mic:
“Vardy knows it too. That’s his angle. That’s his run. And Tristan’s weight on that ball — I mean, come on. That’s precision.”
Vardy jogged back, chewing his cheek, already replaying it in his mind. Tristan met his eyes and gave a slight nod.
It was there.
The feeling. The charge. The storm coming.
The crowd started again. Louder now.
🎶”JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY!🎶”
Over and over. The away end in full chorus.
Minute nine.
Mahrez danced around Rose. Flicked it inside — tight space.
Tristan again.
Quick touch. Quick turn. Another pass — threaded like a needle.
Vardy peeled off to the right. Controlled it. Left foot shot — wide.
He dropped his head into his hands.
So close again.
Andy winced:
“That’s two. But he’s getting the looks. He’s got them on strings right now.”
Clive nodded:
“And every ball is coming from the same man — Tristan Hale pulling the strings in the middle. That chemistry? You can’t teach it.”
Spurs fired back. Alli to Kane — who cut inside, snapped off a shot.
Schmeichel saved.
The whole ground jolted.
Back and forth now. Fast. Relentless. Breathing fire.
But every time Vardy touched the ball — Every time Tristan found space —
The pitch tilted.
Even the Spurs fans could feel it.
Minute Fifteen.
The match was a blade — sharp, coiled, dangerous.
Spurs buzzed with pressure, but they weren’t breaking Leicester down. Not yet. And that “not yet” sat heavy in the stands, humming beneath the chants.
You could feel it in the timing. In the touches.
Eriksen looked annoyed. Alli was pulling wide more often. Dier barked instructions. Kane kept glancing over his shoulder.
Something was wrong.
Leicester weren’t just surviving. They were waiting.
Clive said it low, like the thought had just struck him.
“They’re walking a tightrope here, Spurs. They’ve had chances, but… you can feel something coming the other way.”
Andy leaned forward in his chair.
“You’re right, Clive. It’s not just the counter — it’s the timing of it. It’s like Leicester are stalking this match. Picking their moment.”
Minute Twenty-One.
Mahrez skipped past two, fed Vardy — edge of the box — first-time shot.
Blocked. Barely.
It sent a ripple of anxiety through the home end.
Minute Twenty-Eight.
A clipped diagonal from Tristan landed on Albrighton’s laces. The winger cut it across goal.
Vardy stretched — inches off.
Lloris claimed it.
Andy’s voice climbed:
“That’s two. That’s two times Vardy’s peeled off and nearly buried it.”
Clive responded, cool but certain:
“You only need to give him one. But the problem is… Leicester are starting to ask the question.”
Minute Thirty-Three.
And then.
Then it happened.
It started innocently.
Drinkwater received it deep, rolled it sideways to Kanté.
One touch. A second. No panic.
The tempo slowed — like the game took a breath.
Then came Tristan.
The storm, in blue and black boots.
He drifted toward Dembele, shoulder loose, like he wasn’t even interested in the ball.
Then bang. Quick touch. Feint. Gone.
Dembele lunged.
Too late.
Tristan peeled off and burst through midfield. Rose was caught inside. Dier stepped up — and froze.
Andy’s voice was rising.
“Oh, he’s away here! He’s away!”
Mahrez dragged a defender with him. Vardy darted behind Vertonghen.
The space opened like a trap door.
And Tristan saw it.
Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink.
He shaped his body like he’d go left — dropped the shoulder — and split the pass like lightning through water.
Andy was already half-shouting.
“He’s played him in—he’s played him in—”
Clive Tyldesley exploded.
“TRISTAN TO VARDY—”
One touch.
Left foot.
“VARDY SHOOTS—”
The net detonated.
Top corner. Crossbar still rattling.
“GOOOOOAAAALLLLLLL!” Clive roared, nearly losing his voice.
Andy’s voice cracked over the noise. “HE’S DONE IT! HE’S FUCKING DONE IT!”
“IT’S ELEVEN” Clive shouted. “IT’S HEAVEN FOR JAMIE VARDY!”
“IT’S HISTORY! IT’S LEGEND! IT’S JAMIE VARDY!”
Andy kept going, breathless.
“Top corner! Left foot! No keeper in the world’s stopping that — I don’t care who you are!”
Clive laughed over the madness, voice ragged with disbelief. “Eleven straight games! This is Premier League folklore— and it’s still being written!”
“That ball from Tristan Hale… inch-perfect. He knew. The second he saw the run — he knew. And Vardy?”
“He’s immortal now.”
White Hart Lane froze.
Half the crowd stood with their mouths open. The other half sat down in disbelief.
From the away end?
Carnage.
Blue shirts exploding behind the goal. Limbs flying. Fists punching the air.
Flags waved like war banners.
Vardy — screaming, sliding, fists clenched, veins bulging — hit the corner flag like it owed him money.
Tristan roared and tore after him.
Mahrez. Albrighton. Kanté — all charging, piling on.
The bench erupted.
And Ranieri?
He laughed.
Hands on his head, eyes wide, laughter spilling out like disbelief had broken him.
In the commentary box, Clive’s voice cracked.
“HE’S DONE IT! HE’S DONE IT! IT’S ELEVEN. IT’S HEAVEN FOR JAMIE VARDY!”
“JAMIE VARDY STANDS ALONE!”
Andy could barely get a word in.
In the directors' box, Barbara was already standing — hands over her mouth.
Next to her, Anita slammed her palms against the glass.
“GÓL! VARDY!IGEN!”
(Goal! Vardy!Yes!)
She didn’t care if anyone understood her.
Tristan grabbed the striker — both hands on Vardy’s shoulders — yanked him to his feet and shouted in his face, voice cracking with joy:
“FUCK YEAH! YOU DID IT!”
Vardy’s face split into a wild grin. “Thanks to you, bro!”
“NO,” Tristan said, smacking a fist against Vardy’s chest. “That was all you. All fucking you.”
Vardy laughed, breathless, still half-shaking. “Nah. You put it on a plate.”
“You finished it like a psycho,” Tristan said. “You see that top corner? Jesus!”
Mahrez shoved between them, yelling, “I told you! I told you it was tonight!”
The scoreboard flashed:
TOTTENHAM 0 – 1 LEICESTER CITY
Jamie Vardy – 33’ (Assisted by Tristan Hale)
The goal had hit like lightning. Now the thunder came.
First a ripple — a sound from the far corner of White Hart Lane.
Then a wave.
Then a roar.
🎶”“JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY! 🎶”
It detonated from the away end like a thunderclap.
That little wedge of Leicester fans jammed into the corner of White Hart Lane had lost all grip on reality. Flags whipped in the air. Scarves spun like helicopter blades. Fans pounded the metal railings so hard the stadium trembled with it.
A massive cardboard cutout of Vardy’s face bounced above the heads. Another fan held up a hand-painted sign in thick blue letters:
“11 IN A ROW!”
🎶”“JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY! 🎶”
Then the second row picked it up. Then the third. Then, almost impossibly the whole of White Hart Lane.
Home and away.
Tottenham fans didn’t fight it.
Even their own fans were grinning, half in disbelief.
🎶”“JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY! 🎶”
He hadn’t returned to the halfway line. He couldn’t. He was still by the corner flag, surrounded by teammates, grinning like he’d just broken the Matrix.
As the others peeled away toward midfield, Vardy turned around.
Facing the crowd.
Soaking it in.
He raised his arms — not above his head — just enough to invite them louder.
And they gave it everything.
The chant wasn’t just noise now. It was movement.
Vardy pointed at someone — bald lad, retro ‘97 away kit — and mimed a drink.
The bloke actually chucked a half-full bottle of water over the barrier.
Vardy caught it one-handed like a striker taking a cross.
Unscrewed the cap. Raised it like a pint. Chugged it, water spilling down his chin.
Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and roared:
🎶”“WHO’S HAVING A PARTY?!”
“JAMIE FUCKING VARDY! 🎶”
And then — like fate was DJing — the chant shifted, seamlessly:
🎶”“ELEVEN IN A ROW! ELEVEN IN A ROW!
JAMIE VARDY — ELEVEN IN A ROW! 🎶”
The stewards weren’t even trying to calm it. They were grinning like everyone else.
From the top row:
🎶”“SIGNED FROM FLEETWOOD, ON A FREE!
JAMIE VARDY, HISTORY! 🎶”
From the opposite end, Spurs fans joined in with gallows humour:
“WE’RE LOSING TO A LAD FROM STOCKSBRIDGE PARK STEELS!
A scarf flew through the air — Vardy caught it mid-step, wrapped it around his neck, kissed the badge, and pointed both fingers to the sky.
From the third row: “I LOVE YOU, JAMIE!”
Even the fourth official had to look away to hide a smile.
In the dugout, Ranieri was laughing now. Full-bodied. Head tilted back. Clapping above his head like he was watching a miracle and knew it.
On the pitch, Tristan, Mahrez, Kante — the entire starting XI — stood at midfield, just watching, just letting him have it.
Eventually — mercifully — the referee jogged over, arms waving.
Enough.
Back to the game.
Vardy bowed like a Shakespearean actor, turned, and jogged back toward the centre circle.
He tossed the scarf into the crowd as he went — a treasure now — caught by a teenage girl who clutched it like it was sacred.
But the chant didn’t die.
It followed him.
Across the pitch. Up into the rafters. Out of the stadium and into every pub, home, and phone across the country.
🎶”“JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY!”
“SIGNED FROM NOWHERE — NOW HE’S GOD! 🎶”
And this time?
It wasn’t just Leicester.
It wasn’t just the Premier League.
It was the world.
And they weren’t just singing.
They were witnessing football history.
.
Ending of the game will be shown next chapter but by a youtuber as writing the rest of the matcht would feel pointless after this moment.
