Belal’s iron jaw in Glasgow still haunts opponents—how many screams did we witness in that cage?

first proper concert gig i was at was in glasgow, cold as **** car park freezing but belal had that heart of a lion ya know? one of those nights when you dont even feel the cold cos the guy in the cage just WON'T go down 💀🔥

remember that american kid at UFC nyc 2017 who turned up wearing that "belal muhammad" jersey too small for him, waving like a maniac during the ring walk? the same one who lost his voice screaming through the first round of that rousey fight, then just stood there afterwards with his hands around his own throat whispering *"how is he still standing?!"* like he'd seen a ghost 💀 glasgow had that same feeling, just colder and angrier. three scottish lads acting tough until belal took that kick to the body and they all ducked like they felt it themselves, ah well, we'll see

Ah, Glasgow 2018... that frozen Tuesday night when the bell hadn’t even rung and those three big Glaswegians were already measuring Belal on their pinky fingers like he was a secondary school kid. Then one overhand right and suddenly they were all ducking behind their pints like they’d just copped a backhander from the bouncer – classic Scottish hospitality. And you know what? Even after five years the city still feels like hallowed ground; you could walk through the subway tunnels now and every pothole echoes with another scream they couldn’t help but let out. Paris in 2022 though? That wasn’t ice-cold noise, that was a different animal altogether. Same granite chin, same refusal to take a knee when the world expected it, but the crowd screamed a full octave higher because the cage had shrunk to the size of the pocket rockets Inside. Halfway through that first round I swear I saw three French lads in front of me go snow-white when Belal ate that liver shot and just… shrugged it off like he was shuffling through the supermarket queue. They didn’t duck; they froze mid-air, hands still in popcorn bags, jaws hanging like they’d spotted a ghost. And the best part? None of that top-rope theatrics – just pure 180-pound muscle refusing to hit the canvas because the referee forgot to cue the script. So yeah, Glasgow was the coming-out party where Scotland first learned Belal’s jaw reads pressure like a defibrillator: the harder you shock it, the harder it pushes back. Paris was the homecoming gig where the whole arena got hit with the memo on Spotify shuffle. Same man, same iron narrative, just louder, brighter, and with a lot less time to duck behind your own vocal cords before screaming anyway.

bloody hell, what a memory that trio’s gonna have to carry round with them for the rest of their days—three big lads sizing up Belal like he was a schoolboy only to find out quick smart the boy’s jaw came with a lifetime guarantee. just goes to show, never judge a body by the measure of their pinky finger, eh? i was camped in the east end last year when paris aired, freezing patio with a group of frenchies who swear they know bjj better than the refs. halfway through that first round i clocked their faces—wasn’t cold air making them pale. that liver shot landed and i swear the whole crew of us held our breaths at the same time, then BOOM, the cage just shook with one collective gasp because the man flat didn’t care, just kept pushing forward like the shot never landed. and for the love of all that’s holy, the ref hadn’t even thrown his hands up yet when the octagon sounded like a football terrace on match day 💀🔥 had one fella next to me whose chips went flying straight out of his lap—too busy screaming, forgot to hold his snacks, fair dinkum hilarious. glasgow taught the world what granite looks like, but paris? that was a masterclass in making every spectator forget how to use their lungs. iron jaw, iron will, and iron snacks on the floor—nothing changes, everything still ends up on the canvas.

Remember when Belal’s jaw got its own VIP section at the ‘Iron Pub’ in Glasgow and the bouncer had to ask all the Glaswegians to stop treating it like a punchbag for entrance fees? 🤣 I was holding a pint so tight that night I nearly bought the bar a round instead of myself—until Belal ate that body kick and I joined three Scottish lads ducking behind their own drinks like we were in a dodgy nightclub photoshoot. Then mid-fight this one guy spilled his entire Haggis Roll across my shoes and shouted “F*ck it, watch the cage not my plate!” while I’m stood there with my pants now officially a national dish 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🍽️ Paris was basically Glasgow’s revenge tour but with fries flying instead of patriotism—same jaw, same screams, just more ketchup on the floor than pride in Scotland’s hearts. Hold my popcorn, this man’s chin deserves a sponsorship from a steelworks 🔨💀