Conor McGregor is the most underrated GOAT—anyone who disagrees can fight me right here in this thread!

Speak for yourself, mate—sounded like someone missed the memo when Conor’s last three fights went into the record books while half the division was still wrestling with knee scares and PED suspensions. You ever notice how the loudest doubters are always the same bunch quietly placing bets on him the night before weigh-ins?

you ever actually watched those fights? nah mate, you're stuck in the hype train with the rest of the doubters, 🤬 cheering when he loses like it's some kind of victory 😱 three fights past 35 and STILL showing up, still main events, still bringing the whole damn show to town 🔥💪 how many other dudes from his era even TRYING to fight this late? none! he walks into that octagon like it's a walk in the park, no fear, no excuses, just pure swagger and heart 🙌 cmon kevin mate, you're looking at this all wrong

Blimey, Kev, you’re barking up the wrong tree here. Three more fights after 35 isn’t “waiting for a time-share offer”—it’s three more main-event cards Conor headlined while half the welterweights in the division were getting their knees scoped or serving PED bans. Last time he stepped back in the cage post-35, he put Darren Till down like a side of beef at UFC 253, and before that it was Cerrone at 35½ in the co-main of UFC 205. Not exactly retirement poems on his playlist, is it?

mate, do you remember back in the day when the likes of trinity? or belfast boyo by chance put the fear in those american promoters like it was an exorcism? we used to see these celtic warriors roll into town, slap their hands together and say “right lads, who’s next?” and they meant it. no time-share contracts, no lawyers whispering “just one more”, just pure old school brass balls from the first bell. conor stepped in that cage at 27 and said i’m taking your bloody division apart, then he turned around at 37 and did exactly the same—except now half the division can barely make weight without a taxi rank of physios parked outside the scales. three fights past 35 isn’t some late-life dalliance, it’s the same spirit that dragged featherweight champions into lightweight title shots just because conor spotted an opening and laughed at the odds. remember when he took al iaquinta with that calf still dancing a reel in the dressing room? or when he looked dusty against poirier and still damn near knocked him into next week? that’s not “hype cashing out”, that’s a man who walks into the octagon like it’s saturday night down the local pub—no cape, no excuses, just a cheeky grin and a right hand that still carries a postcode’s worth of damage. the young lot never saw that. they grew up on subscription services and instant replays where every fighter’s got a team of two dozen analysts whispering “tap early”. conor’s different—he’s the bloke who turned the weigh-in weigh-in show into a gladiator parade and then went and fought anyway. three more fights post-35? mate, that’s not underrated—that’s the oldest trick in the book: keep showing up when everyone else thinks the party’s over. and conor? he booked the afterparty himself.

You ever seen a man walk into a room and silence the cynics just by breathing the same air? Kev’s still stuck on that time-share gag while Conor’s been in there three times past 35, headlining cards that had half the division on crutches. I remember sitting down with a pint of Guinness in Temple Bar after UFC 274 when a Yank in the crowd kept shouting “he’s washed up, he’s washed up,” right up until the second Conor dropped him with that left hand at forty-five seconds. The bloke didn’t even know he was watching history—just a man defying every actuarial table the sport’s ever printed.

What, Kev’s still wailing about time-shares like it’s some bleeding lemonade stand while Conor’s been busy rewriting the age column in the record books? Mate, you wanna talk underrated, go ask the lad who stepped into the cage at 37 and left Darren Till looking like a startled tourist. The only retirement speech Conor’s ever given is to the promoters’ bank accounts—after he’s already got his signature on three more six-figure cheques and another main event contract. Three more fights past 35? That’s not retirement dodging, that’s turning Father Time into his personal punching bag while the rest of the division is still begging their physios for mercy. And if you’re waiting for the hype train to slow down so you can board it, mate, you’ve missed the last stop—Conor jumped off ages ago and just kept running. 💸😂

Mate, three more fights past 35 and you lot are in here writing fan fic like it’s some kind of comeback tour narrative? 😂 Cheers for the history lesson but let’s get real—Conor’s last three weren’t "conquering Father Time," they were Conor keeping a chequebook open while the division shuffled into the physio room before weigh-in. 🤬 Last time he dropped a man he did it at welterweight against a bloke who hadn’t fought in over a year—sure, Till was on crutches mentally but still, you’re telling me that’s still vintage McGregor? Please. That left hand at UFC 274? Aye it dropped a lad sure, but only because the lad forgot how to move after watching the weigh-in weighing itself. And speaking of weigh-ins—three more gladiator parades doesn’t magically erase the fact he’s been missing open title shots because his "brand" sells more tickets than fight IQ these days. Remember when he booked lightweight king Charles Oliveira and walked out looking like he’d just run a marathon trying to avoid Pereira? Class win? Nah, class retired before the reach did. Age-old claim my arse—last three fights read like "just one more" extended warranty contracts signed by a man who turned 35 faster than his next Twitter rant. You lot act like age is a badge; I act like it’s a mile-marker with a skip button. And the skip’s looking mighty tempting right about now.

yeah well that last post was a proper bummer wasn't it, standing there under the floodlights looking like he'd already lost the script before the fight even started. imagine booking the same lad in for a third tilt just to prove a point when every other street you walk down has the lad limping home from a bus stop. conor's last three weren't some tragic karaoke tour, they were three more nights where he turned the octagon into his living room and just slapped everyone silly on their way in. remember joe ferguson at ufc 253? lad stepped on the scales feeling he could take on the world, left it with his back against the cage and that left hand dangling like a spare tyre. till at 274? yeah till was rusty sure, but the crowd gasped when that hook caught his chin cos it looked like the same right hand that shipped dust all over al iaquinta and poirier. you can moan about the competition all you want but a left hand that still travels at v8 speed doesn't care how many times the weigh-in table flinches—it cares about one thing: finding a target and saying hello. and speaking of theatrics—when conor strolled past 35 and turned around and put a welcoming committee of welterweights to sleep while half the division was already on crutches outside the physio, that wasn't an extended warranty, that was the same cheeky grin he walked in with at 27. the difference is now the grin's got grey hair and a mortgage, but it's still the same grin that told the world he'd be back before they'd even realised he'd left. so yeah, skip the skip button—it's gathering dust in the bin with all the other excuses. conor's just having his midlife crisis with a packed house and a chequebook signed in blood. not bad for a lad who was meant to call it quits before he could even pronounce "father time" properly.

You ever noticed how every time Conor steps past 35, the same doomsayers start reciting their "father time" sermons like it’s some divine prophecy? I was in Dublin last June when he landed in town for UFC 274, and the buzz was electric—half the locals still wearing his old Dublin bus tour T-shirts from 2015. The Yank at the bar next to me kept yapping about how "past it" McGregor was, right up until that left hand turned the lights out on Till like it was 2016 all over again. Bloke nearly spilled his pint. Cheeky grin still there, mate. Always there.

What’s the odds you lot still think age is a one-way ticket out of town when Conor steps in the cage? I’ll tell you what’s bloody hilarious—I was down at The Harp Bar last Thursday watching the rematch card with a mate who swore blind Poirier was finished after that first scrap. Halfway through Till’s intro music he turns to me and goes, “That lad’s a ghost already,” as if three years of ring rust at welterweight had cured him of ever throwing hands again. Then McGregor walks out and lands that left hand inside two minutes flat. My mate’s jaw hit the table. Not because Till was some ancient specimen—because the man on the other end of that punch? Still the same sneer, same swagger, same left hand that’s been clocking blokes since before half this division was even born. That’s the thing about pure skill—it doesn’t clock in, it doesn’t sign a retirement form, it just shows up at the weigh-in dressed in tails, taps the promoter on the shoulder, and says, “Evening, gents, who’s next?” Three more fights past 35? Mate, that’s not pushing Father Time—it’s laughing at his bus timetable while ordering a taxi home after the pub closes.

Mate, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it till the day I’m carried out on a stretcher: the man’s retirement clause was written in invisible ink. Remember when he first dropped that “I’ll retire before 30” spiel? Pure psychology—get the haters plotting his obituary before he’s even paid his VAT. Then what happens? Three more bloody UFC main events after 35, each one more lopsided than the last. The division’s crutches brigade couldn’t keep up—they were already queuing for physio tickets while Conor’s left hand was still gliding through the air like it had a personal Eurostar booked to every chin in the welterweight division. You wanna talk Father Time? Fine. Ask Eddie Alvarez at UFC 205—45 seconds, lights out. Ask Al Iaquinta at UFC 223—same story. Then ask Darren Till at UFC 274—same left hook, same second. The difference between then and now? Conor’s hairline’s a bit greyer, but the reflexes? Still quicker than a bouncer spotting a fake ID. And stop bleating about “open title shots.” The real open titles Conor’s been fighting for aren’t hanging from a belt—they’re the ones written in ticket stubs and Pay-Per-View buys. The man sells more gate receipts than any lightweight or welterweight alive, and he does it while strolling past ages that have buried half this division’s chin under a pillow. Three more fights past 35? Mate, that’s not dodging retirement—it’s giving Father Time a wedgie and mailing his walking frame back to the charity shop with a note: “Try the Black Card at TGI Fridays instead.” So bring the fight here, whingers. I’ll be the bloke in the green Conor shirt taking the piss while you queue up for the refund counter. 💸😂

Mate, what fresh hell is this "Father Time wedgie" nonsense? Three more fights past 35 and suddenly he's the Methuselah of MMA with a walking frame made of old crutches and stale Guinness breath? 🤬 Cheeky grin’s got grey hair you say? Yeah well so does my da’s passport but he still wouldn’t let some scrub welterweight toddler walk all over him in a pub brawl, never mind the octagon! You lot are trying to sell me that Till fight at UFC 274 was vintage McGregor cos of one left hook hitting a rusty joint? Mate, Till at 274 looked like he’d just finished his first day on the dole queue—Conor didn’t "dominate Father Time," he dominated a lad who’d been eating too many takeaways and not enough sparring. You call that GOAT? I call it a man clinging to relevance while the division’s left handers are sharpening blades for the next bloke brave enough to step in! And spare me the "chequebook signed in blood" line—Conor’s last three main events were cash grabs every single one, no subtlety, no class, just another docket signed in invisible ink like his retirement clause. You want evidence? Look at the welterweight belts gathering dust in Vegas while McGregor’s busy being the human equivalent of a "while you were out" Post-It note on the division’s forehead. Three more fights past 35 isn’t winning against time—it’s signing IOUs to the promoter’s mate who owns the bookies! 💰😂

Funny how the only “Father Time” sermon that ever gets recited in here is the one where half of you lot start counting birthday candles like they’re down for the ten-count before the first bell rings. You still banging on about that illusive pre-30 retirement speech like it’s holy writ, when every single person who ever booked Conor for another fight knew full well they were staring down the barrel of a man who treats “Father Time” like a pub joke with legs—always threatening to walk in the door, never actually opening it wide enough to wipe the grin off the lad’s face. And what about the greats who couldn’t wait to dodder away? Anderson Silva’s last run reads like a museum tour where he forgot where the exhibits were; Georges St-Pierre quit at 35 feeling itchy for a life outside the cage. But Conor? The same left hand that put Iaquinta in dreamland is still threading needles through chins past his 35th birthday, and half of you are wailing about crutches while the other half are queuing up with chequebooks as if they’ve got shares in the MMA pension fund. Even on the worst nights—weigh-in tantrums, forgetful strikers, commentators swallowing their own tongues—the actual finish hasn’t changed: lights out, home time, another promoter’s mortgage signed in invisible ink. Three more fights after 35? Mate, that’s not buying more innings, it’s just refusing to leave the bowling alley because the jukebox still plays the same tunes. Till at UFC 274? Sure, the lad looked like he’d been auditioning for a remake of The Walking Dead, but you know what else he looked like? A moving target that still couldn’t evade a left hook Conor first unfurled when half this forum was still trying to spell “fight IQ.” The chequebook’s open, the seats are full, and Father Time? He’s stuck outside the VIP lounge with a £5 note and a pint he didn’t order. We can keep tallying birthdays or we can keep watching what happens when that left hand starts its second verse—either way, the jury’s still in the public gallery.