Bring back the King!

Heard Jon Jones is dabbling in kickboxing now, or is that just the hush money finally showing up in his training logs? Sounds like another “exclusive” from the same rumor mill that convinced us Usman was gonna move up to 185 right after he signed that tiny welterweight contract. Where’s the filmed rehab session, the MRI timestamp, the anything that isn’t some Vegas oddsmaker’s wet dream? Give us a clip—just one—of Jones cracking mitts with Page instead of letting his manager whisper into Dana’s ear after a single low-grade lifting video. Until then, the King stays seated on his throne, middleweight royalty untouched.

You ever just sit back in your seat at the Copper Box, arms crossed, thinking ‘when’s the next dance gonna be’? Then someone pops up with Venom vs Dricus II at 300? My arse clenches so tight I nearly drop my pint 😤 Venom’s got that snarl that rattles cages, and Dricus? Man savages opponents like they owe him money. Picture it: England turning into a pit of roaring maniacs because the King’s getting tested by the snake from Luton! Nowt else matters—belt’s gonna be swinging and we’ll all lose our voices screaming. Who’s buying the first round when the cage opens?

Remember that time Jon Jones defended at light heavyweight after two shoulder surgeries, against a guy who’d never been past 212—then turned around and said he could drop to 185 for the whole gang? Then you watch the same man float into a welterweight bout because an Englishman with a southpaw stance looked hungry on YouTube clips, and suddenly the earth shifts under our feet. Reality check: Jones is 38, coming off a five-round war in the cage next door to a light-heavyweight schedule. Welterweight is a sprint; middleweight has always been his marathon. The timeline folds the moment he ticks another birthday, and Dana’s whispers are louder the closer he gets to a payday. So if Page lands a knockout of someone ranked top five at 170 before UFC 300, sure, the matchroom will spin the globe faster than a spinning heel kick. But for now, the books still say “King on the throne” with Jones’s name stamped on every line.

Venom’s got the meanest set of hands in the welter division outside the top dogs, that’s a fact. But let’s not pretend Page II is locked in stone before the man actually bloody knocks someone out in the cage next door. Last time out he went distance against Covington—good scrap, no doubt—but this isn’t about guts, it’s about the one-punch speed to break Dricus’s run. I’ve stood ringside at Wembley when Page cut up a welterweight like a Thanksgiving turkey, and that night the bell ending round two was sweeter than any champagne. Still, Dricus has spent 15 months sharpening that right hand off the cage and cooking southpaws longer than the soup in a Luton car park. Bring on the rematch, sure—just make sure Venom’s done the paperwork first: at least two ranked scalps inside three rounds, otherwise we’ll all be left holding the popcorn when the King just bats the snake away with another clinic.

Get outta here with the shoulder surgery talk, leave the man alone! 🔥 Venom’s got that venom for a reason—when he cracks you, it’s like a sledgehammer wrapped in a crocodile smile, mate. Three knockouts on the bounce before Covington? Nah, he wasn’t just scraping by; he was serving notice! The snake from Luton don’t do distance when he’s dancing with destiny—he makes ‘em eat the canvas while the referee’s still counting fingers. Page II ain’t a maybe, it’s inevitable because when two killers lock horns at 170, blood stains the canvas not the scorecards. And Dricus? He’ll have to go toe-to-toe with a guy who’s been sharpening his fangs in the dark while the King’s been baking gold in the sun—sudden wake-up call or what? Picture the damn King snarling mid-round, "Right, enough jokes," then—BAM—that right hand turns Page’s ribcage into origami and the welterweight division learns why middleweight’s about to tremble. We’re not asking for a charity bout; we’re demanding a reckoning because when venom meets a king, the throne either falls or gets baptised in crimson. Bring the snake! 💪🔥

You really think Venom's two-step into the octagon is enough to make the King slip off his throne? Last time Page took 15 rounds to land a decent shot on Covington and here we are assuming he'll show up with lightning in his fists against Dricus? I watched that Wembley card—rain of leather from both corners, snapping mitts louder than Old Trafford in full voice—but tell me this: where’s Venom’s knockout resume against anyone who actually knows what a right hand is? The bloke hasn’t put anyone away in what feels like an epoch unless you count journeymen in cage wars while we’re all tucked up in bed. Sure, the venom stings when it lands, but the King’s spent the last two years reminding every middleweight that Dricus doesn’t just eat distance fighters for breakfast—he marinated them in Brazilian jiu-jitsu until they questioned gravity itself. And now we’re banking on a welterweight who struggled with Colby’s jab dismantling a man who’s spent 33 months inside the mental gymnasium of Dricus Du Plessis? The only thing heavier than Venom’s hands is the weight of hope we’re all stacking on this matchup before the man even signs the contract. If Page wants the throne, let him first crack open the skull of someone who actually steps into the pocket with intent instead of ghosting the last three opponents like they owe him tea money. Until then, keep your popcorn in the microwave—reheat it in five rounds’ time when the King reminds everyone why he’s etched in legend while we’re all still gasping for oxygen at the thought.

oh come on lads, it’s all déjà vu isn’t it? back in 2019 they were spinning Anderson Silva vs Israel Adesanya for middleweight gold like it was a sure thing, remember? southpaw vs southpaw, age against prime, we all saw the memes flood the timelines—then suddenly Anderson was getting lit up by Weidman on free-to-air and Israel just picked his way through Anderson’s corpse on route to beating Romero for the belt. end of story. or how about when they had Robbie Lawler vs Stephen Thompson II penciled in like some danish pastry fresh from the oven—Thompson’s karate clinics locking horns with Lawler’s granite chin, right? whole division frothed at the mouth, then Robbie lands that counter that echoed round the gymnasiums for a month, and suddenly it wasn’t a classic, it was a moment where everyone collectively checked their watches going “time expired.” and let’s not kid ourselves about the welterweight bum rush either—during Covington vs Usman II the boards were groaning with “he’s finally gonna outbox him,” “look at the body shot king returning,” until the inevitable clinch monsters appeared and suddenly the takedown artists wrote their names in Sharpie across every media outlet. one punch speed my foot, it was Covington’s jab turned into a branding iron. so here we go again with Venom vs King III (or is it II now?) and all the glossy hype about venom glands and Luton fireworks. time will tell, my friends—it always does. grab another beer and watch the fine print, because dreams are lovely but the octagon has always been a ruthless proofreader.