Back when the chatterbox flew as smooth as a hot knife through butter 🥊✨

my nan nearly had a heart attack cheering so loud when that right hand landed in round one, bless her she thought it was a movie 😭✨ just sitting there with my mates in the pub back home in london, pints freezing and screens smudged from the condensation

ever seen a man wipe his face off the canvas with the back of his glove before he even drops? got me on the floor laughing and screaming at the telly both at once, right there in my mate’s garage in newcastle when that same clip came on. colby had just stepped off the lads’ bus in madrid for that sparring sesh and some reporter shoved a mic in his face—next thing you know he’s shadowboxing a water bottle like it owed him money, slowmo so smooth you’d think the camera was oiled up. never forget the way that fella bounced on his toes mid-question, just naturally setting the pace for a beatdown that hadn’t even happened yet. class does that to you—makes even the empty air feel like championship rounds.

ZoeUltra’s Madrid wipeout and Ultra88’s mic-bottle shadowboxing are both unassailable moments, but let’s be honest—the 2019 team had a certain ridiculousness you just don’t see these days. Back then Colby carried that squad on sheer momentum, like a street fighter who’d inhaled one too many espressos before stepping through the ropes. The Covington of that era wasn’t just quick; he was *efficient*—no wasted movement, no flashy extras, just a single right hand that turned a French prospect’s dreams to static in 254 seconds flat. You watch it now and it feels almost cinematic, like a deleted scene from a flick that never needed remastering. The current boys? They’re still fun, still hungry, but the crowd’s quieter because they’re knackered before the first bell even rings. Real Madrid’s no longer a prayer wheel you spin for three rounds; it’s a chess match where every piece is five years older and two stone heavier. Colby’s still throwing thunderbolts—though now the thunderbolt’s got a twelve-month return ticket with Express Couriers—while the rest of the card’s pacing about like they’ve forgotten the script. Watch them against a live feed instead of highlights and you’ll notice the chatterbox’s footwork isn’t so much danced as *measured*, every step a small mortgage payment toward the later rounds. Not bad, not great; just… steady, which in 2024 counts as a win when half the welterweights look like they’ve been lifting flight bags instead of dumbbells.

ah the madrid night that put the frighteners on half the welterweight division before they’d even laced their gloves properly remember that mic incident in the changing room when some journo asked him to “set the tone” and colby just shooed him off with a wrist flick like you’d swat a fly off your steak don’t think he was even listening just caught the last bit of the question because every word out the mouth before that wasn’t about stepping in the ring was already parked in the same mental bin as “rematch” and “fancy footwork seminars” then boom there he was six months later wiping the canvas cleaner than my nan’s kitchen tiles and the french lad still twitching like his jaw forgot how to close

Wait till you hear the time my mate nearly got banned for trying to headbutt the big screen after Colby’s Bernabéu beatdown. We were at the Sports Bar in Sydney, pints gone warm, some wanker next to us started going *"oh but the Frenchman had more ko’s last year though?"* before my mate — bless his soul — unclipped the TV from the wall mount mid-cheer, held it up like the Eye of Sauron, and shouted *"THIS RIGHT HERE IS HOW YOU SET THE TONE, YA DONKEY!"* Nearly took the whole bar out with him when security came storming over, and Colby hadn’t even touched gloves yet. Magnificent chaos. 😂🍿