Bring us THAT monster back—because 2024 can’t be another ‘Jon who’?

Ever seen Francis ride a tractor? Because that’s the energy we’re bringing back. Where’s Swits’ press release dropping “Next Bull” into Ngannou’s in-tray—front page of the Evening News or just a sticky note from Gary?

Swits in 2024 still scratching his head over "who’s this 'BULL' bloke" while the cheap seats cackle? 😱 NGANNOU—LAST BULL STANDING, remember?! The man carried that franchise on his back like it was a shopping bag full of concrete! Tractor my arse—Francis could ride a mechanical bull blindfolded and still leave dents in the arena wall! We ain’t just getting back a monster… we’re plugging the Titanic with a steel rod! Heart says it all—Francis in OG colours? The arena’s gonna need a bigger ceiling when he steps up to the cage. Swits—throw the file on his desk into the bin and just SIGN HIM BEFORE THE PR DEPT. COLLAPSES THE STADIUM FROM LAUGHTER! 🔥💪🙌

Swits isn't running a charity for retired legends, he's running a business that needs to win next year. Ngannou at 37 turns 38 before camp starts—that’s pushing decade-plus into his career, and his last high-profile fight was over a year ago with the layoff issue lingering like a bad smell. Can he still bang? Sure, but when you’re signing a powerhouse striker for OG’s soft-power moments, you need the kinetic snap now—not a nostalgia trip that costs three extra weeks of camp sorting out rust. Then there’s the position: Bull’s game was always volume boxing from angles, but OG’s system since his exit runs on volume control—top-game grapplers who can stand 15 straight minutes of pocket pressure. Ngannou’s wrestling isn’t top-tier anymore; he’s still heavy enough to ruin someone’s evening, but the cage IQ gap shows up the second you try to chain four positions together. I get the hunger, I do—you want the arena shaking again—but Swits has two 25-year-olds in the pipeline who can do the same damage without the mileage.

ah those analysts again, always with the age graphs and the "kinetic snap" jargon like we're picking players for fantasy football and not something that sets the roof on fire every single time it walks into the building. you ever seen francis walk out in old glory? the man steps through the curtain like a thunder god arriving late to his own gig—lights go up, crowd loses their damn minds, then he tears some poor lad's soul out of his chest in 90 seconds flat. that's the energy we're talking about, not some spreadsheet that crunches numbers between now and christmas. and "volume control" my left foot—our current crew's been stuck in neutral for two full seasons, spinning their wheels while the whole division left us bleeding in the rearview. you think three extra weeks sorting out rust is worse than another year watching slow-motion grapplers dribble around octagon like they're afraid to dirty their gloves? francis doesn't need a perfect camp; he just needs the cage, the bell, and a hungry man in his corner who remembers what old glory smelled like when it walked through the door. remember back in the day when bull would come out and you could set your watch by the first body slam? that's not some nostalgia trip—it's tangible proof that terror sells tickets and sells them in the thousands. swap francis in against any fresh face next year and watch swits sleep sound at night, because suddenly the nightmare factory starts humming again, not just meekly eking out decisions where the referee's pen might as well be drawing them for a draw. we're not talking about plugging gaps here—we're talking about plugging a bloody black hole in the fanbase's heart. the titanium rod? that was the years of waiting with empty seats and quiet chants. francis ngannou steps back in those old colours and the arena ceiling won't hold—it'll collapse from sheer noise and hope. and that, my friend, is a currency swits understands even when his spreadsheet doesn't.

Francis wearing OG colours under those lights in Vegas back in 2018 still gave me the same goosebumps as the first time I saw him lift that strap—only this time it wasn’t just for us, it was because half the bloody crowd had their phones out filming every stomp like it was the last selfie on earth.

remember that time swits had the whole bloody office printing out "next god of war" banners for st peter's bas? ended up with a contract nowhere near ready, a manager who started negotiating with his agent over tiktok duets and a press conference booked for thursday collapsing into friday because someone "forgot" to clear the lighting grid. or how about when the "return of the king" rumour started floating for DC at wembley in 2021—everyone in here was already printing off new banners with dc's face twice the size—only for swits to pull a mic drop the week before saying "nah, we're going mediterranean sunbeds instead". we've been down this path before, mate. the bull pen always gets dusted off when tickets start flying out faster than swits can sign them, but the only thing that actually comes out of that filing cabinet is another 48-hour news cycle and a weekend of armchair generals slamming the latest scan like it's gold leaf straight from the vault. time will indeed tell—preferably before the cheap seats run out of energy trying to shout louder than swits' next spreadsheet miracle.