A NON-STOP PARTY: LONG LIVE LEICESTER’S JAMIE VARDY

Jamie Vardy scored his final Leicester goal in the 84th minute of a nothing game. Leicester were already relegated, the match was drifting, and the sunshine in the King Power stands felt more like an escape than a celebration. But then he did it. Peeled off the back of the last Ipswich defender, took a breath, and bent it into the far corner like he’d done hundreds of times before. Goal number 200. A round, perfect number for a man who was never supposed to get anywhere near three figures. It was the end, and it felt like magic.

For 13 years, Jamie Vardy ran at defenders, ripped up expectations and redefined what was possible. Not just for himself, but for a club, a city, and an entire idea of how far self-belief can take you. He leaves Leicester not just as a record-breaker or a cult hero, but as the face of the most astonishing underdog story English football has ever known. That 2015-16 Premier League title win – still so surreal you occasionally have to check it really happened – simply wouldn’t have worked without him. His 24 league goals that year were more than just numbers. They were chaos. Blistering runs in behind, scrappy finishes, lightning bursts beyond the last man. Eleven consecutive games scored in. Ruud van Nistelrooy’s record broken. Vardy playing like someone who knew he was lucky to be there, but was also absolutely sure he belonged.

Leicester’s system was built for him, yes. Kante to Mahrez to Vardy was a kind of holy trinity of defence into counter-attack. But it only worked because Vardy never stopped. He hunted. He hassled. He scored. You couldn’t rest for a second when he was on the pitch. That season, he made defenders – proper, seasoned international defenders – look like they’d turned up late to five-a-side after a pint. It was relentless. And he never let up.

Even after that miracle season, as Leicester gradually returned to earth, Vardy kept producing. He didn’t chase a big move. He turned down an approach from Arsenal. He stayed. He scored. He cared. When Leicester won the FA Cup in 2021, he was there. When they fought relegation, he was there. When they went down, and then back up, and then down again, he was still there. Running. Pressing. Grinning. Screaming at the ref. Refusing to let the fire go out.

His last season wasn’t what he’d have wanted. At 37, there were fewer goals, fewer minutes, and a deep sense that the club was slipping away from what it once was. Leicester’s relegation wasn’t a surprise, but it stung. And when it happened, Vardy stepped up again, this time with a different kind of leadership. He apologised. Took responsibility. Not with platitudes, but with actual regret. “We haven’t been good enough,” he said. “I take responsibility as a senior player.” It wasn’t performative. It was personal. He’d become part of Leicester’s identity – their story, their myth, their mural – and watching it unravel hurt him. You could see it.

And yet, when he announced he was leaving, it wasn’t with bitterness or self-pity. Just clarity. “The time has come,” he said. “This club changed my life.” A quiet goodbye from a man who rarely did quiet on the pitch. No fuss. No farewell tour. Just one final game, one final goal, and one final lap around the pitch, clapping the fans who had sung his name for more than a decade.

The thing is, Vardy was always a bit of a footballing glitch. He shouldn’t have made it. He was too old, too raw, too weird. He didn’t come from
an academy. He came from the Conference, via Halifax and Fleetwood, and arrived in the Championship at 25 with a chip on his shoulder and an electronic tag around his ankle (not really, although he did have to wear one back in his non-league days after once being convicted of assault). By 29, he was scoring against Liverpool and Manchester United. By 30, he was leading the line in the Champions League. There was never a plan. He just kept running.

And it wasn’t just the goals. It was the aura. The nonsense. The folklore. The port-in-a-plastic-bottle routine on the night before games. The pre- match triple Red Bull. The time he turned up to training in a full-body Spider-Man suit. The man was half deadly finisher, half sitcom character. And yet he terrified defenders. He loved terrifying defenders. When he celebrated by screaming in their faces, it wasn’t petty; it was theatre. You knew he was having more fun than anyone else on the pitch. And it rubbed off.

Now he’s gone, the chance remains of a final swansong somewhere in the footballing pyramid. But if this was it – if goal number 200 really was the last – then it’s hard to imagine a better ending. A home crowd. A crisp finish. A wide grin. And a long, slow walk off the pitch, a legend not just in his club but in all of football. In a sport that increasingly rewards polish, pedigree and patience, he brought chaos, cheek and conviction. He wasn’t meant to make it. But that made it all so glorious when he did.