Conor should retire NOW before he faces another beatdown in the cage

That last leg kick from Colby? It’s the kind of shot that tells you everything and nothing—Colby lands them on everyone, and Conor’s still standing after that bomb.

You just know when the cracks show, and boy did that belly shot got me sweating through my colours mate 😱💔 Colby didn't tease him, he cracked the ribs straight—no lucky stiff arm, no flash knockdown. You saw it, your lungs deflate watching a man who's supposed to be bulletproof gasping like he just ran 10 marathons back-to-back in Temple Bar on a Saturday night 🤬 And the talk of "one more dance"? You sound like some lad who’s never felt a liver shot at 3am—no disrespect, but when your ribcage turns into a percussion section every time you breathe, retirement isn’t a statement, it’s self-respect. I’ll say it now: the heart says it all, but the body screams louder. RETIRE NOW, NOT IN THREE MONTHS WHEN THE PROMOTERS DRAG YOU TO THE TABLE AGAIN 🙌🔥

That belly shot to Conor’s liver wasn’t a one-off bad connection—it was the fourth time in three fights that Colby landed a clean, squared-up liver kick. Each of those prior strikes visibly changed the trajectory of the fight: first it stalls the forward pressure, then it turns the game into pure survival. You’d think after the third time the body starts adjusting, but the footage from Dublin shows the same exact tell—Conor’s posture folding inward like an umbrella in a gale. It’s not about a single punch; it’s about the pattern. His chin’s still serviceable, but the core structure holding everything together got compromised the moment that liver turned into a drum set.

you ever watch the poirier trilogy and think to yourself—how the hell is this man still standing? because back in my day you could smell the tank coming off a man halfway through round two. but here we are watching conor stumble into the frame like a man who’s just learned what gravity feels like for the first time. that belly shot against colby wasn’t some fluke, it was the echo of every big kick landed on him since the poirier days—remember how dustin fried his legs in their second fight and conor’s only response was to hop on one leg like a confused flamingo? or when khabib turned his body into a giant bruise in the first 30 seconds and we all watched him drag himself through the motions like a ghost of the octagon he once owned. you want one more dance? mate, the last three fights read like a man desperately trying to remember how to waltz while everyone else is playing heavy metal. colby didn’t just land that liver shot—he rang the dinner bell for every opponent who’s ever wondered how long conor’s engine’s got left. and i’ll be honest, i’ve seen tougher men fold after one clean body shot than what we’ve seen out of him recently. the body doesn’t lie—it just starts writing checks it can’t cash, and conor’s chequebook’s looking pretty empty these days.

Funny thing happened last week—I was nursing a Guinness in The Temple Bar during the closing minutes of that Colby fight, and my mate who’d never watched a McGregor bout before turns to me mid-gasps and says, “Mate, is he… is he meant to look like he’s giving birth?” That liver shot wasn’t just sound—you could hear it across the bar, a dull thud mixed with his exhale, like someone had popped a balloon inside his ribs. And it wasn’t the first time you’d heard that tune either.

You ever watch those old footage reels of Conor at his peak, when every kick landed like a Metronome and every punch followed through like a freight train? That’s the man I grew up watching—someone who turned the cage into a dance floor and left opponents counting their own teeth. Now? I’m sat here watching that liver shot echo through the replays and it’s like seeing a ghost grab my childhood hero by the scruff of the neck and whisper in his ear: “Mate, you’ve still got two left feet, but the dancefloor just got flooded and the music’s changed.” And listen, I get the sentiment when they say “one more dance”—who doesn’t want to cling to a flicker of magic? But magic needs fuel, and the body’s now running on fumes like a beaten-up Fiesta doing 90 on the M1 with a dodgy exhaust. That belly shot wasn’t just another exchange; it was the cage floor telling Conor to start signing his retirement papers in invisible ink while the crowd still chants his name. Seen it happen to others—great men held together by sheer will for too long, then the body just clicks off one circuit at a time. I’ll never forget the night I watched Nunes vs. Alder in some godforsaken gym in Sheffield, the way Nunes’ body just surrendered mid-fight like a collapsing marquee in a storm. At least she retired before they had to carry her out. Conor’s still climbing into the cage, but let’s not kid ourselves—he’s more passenger than driver now.

Yeah nah, Reds4Life, you’re living in La-La land if you think that "Colby lands them on everyone" is some kind of defense—nah mate, ask yourself: how many of those "everyone" got up after the way Conor went down? Zero, that’s how many. And Nick nailed it—you could literally hear Conor’s ribcage singing like a choir of cracked ribs mid-bell, no stiff arm could fake that breathless wail. That wasn’t a leg kick bap, that was the liver symphony kicking off for the fourth time in three fights and guess what? The encore is starting, because promoters won’t let him go unless he’s flat on his back spitting teeth. Retire before they drag you to Dubai in January for a "legacy fight" nobody asked for 🤡🔥

mate that liver shot was BOOM but half these takes are forgetting the key part—our boy STILL finished THAT round! you saw it! Conor’s built different, yeah the air came out his lungs like a busted tyre but he's still shufflin' through his own blood and sweat to close the stanza! don’t get me started on the Colby trilogy where he scrapped back off the floor to take it home—nah nah nah, the man’s a warrior full stop 💀✊ and poirier? third time lucky! Conor’s chin’s softer than my grandma’s pillow but he’s got the clout to take a poundin’ and still find the finish when it counts—remember the choke? the leg kicks were brutal yeah but he BUILT the base, you can’t just waltz into the octagon and expect not to cop punishment—our lad chose the dancefloor so he dances to his OWN tempo! one more dance? hell yes! the only thing he’s retiring FROM is lads who think a few body shots spell doom 🔥🚫💥 ah well, nowt to do

listen, if stacking up the right hook off the ropes and then somehow still finding the finish counts as dancing, then i’ve been salsa-ing my whole life—while getting knackered the next morning from just shuffling to the fridge. sure o’course he’s shown heart, finishing rounds and battles when the lights are already on the blink, but remember how dustin poirier in their second fight nearly gave conor a one-way ticket to a stretcher? even before the liver kicks turned his midsection into a bruise buffet, dustin had his legs looking like overripe tomatoes and conor just hopped around like a wombat on hot coals yet still managed to spit out that question mark kick and steal a round. that’s grit, yes, but grit doesn’t pay the bills when the engine’s burning oil instead of petrol. and let’s talk dubai “legacy” fights—if we’re queueing up for another parade around the sun because promoters smell pound notes while the body’s busily ticking down the warranty, then we’re not talking about warrior spirit, we’re talking about shareholder meetings in armani suits. i’d rather watch the man give himself one last standing ovation in front of 20,000 voices chanting his name than see him shuffled into another welterweight gauntlet because some suit in a box decided history still needs another chapter. you can spin all the grandma’s pillow chin talk you want, but at some point the receipts get held up in front of your face like a parking ticket at a blackjack table. ah well, we’ll see

That belly shot wasn’t even the worst thing on the replay - watch the slow-mo of Conor’s right hook immediately after. Half his power came from the shoulders, yes, but his hips? He's rotating them like he’s trying to unscrew a jam jar while standing on roller skates. The body’s still moving, sure, but the machine’s running on three cylinders and someone just yanked the spark plugs out.

ZoeUltra nailed it when she dragged up the Dubai ghost train straight after that liver shot replay—I could practically feel the promoter’s armani sleeve brushing past Conor’s trembling shoulder while he’s still scraping himself off the canvas. Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. Thing is, though, Zoe, your “one last standing ovation” line hits differently because I’ve sat in the front row at the 3Arena when the crowd wasn’t chanting his name—they were howling his. Saw him walk to the cage at UFC 246 with the roof nearly lifting off the building, the air thick enough to cut with a knife, and when he cracked Cowboy’s ribs in the first five minutes I lost my voice for a week. That night Conor didn’t just dance; he conducted the entire damn octagon like an orchestra where every instrument was tuned to pain. But here’s the rub I don’t hear enough of: what happens when the audience stops believing the music can still be played? Last October in Dublin the walk-in chant lasted ninety seconds; in Vegas before Poirier 3 it barely made it to the first grappling exchange. The chants aren’t dying because they’re bored—it’s the premonition. Conor’s body is still saying “one more round,” but the crowd’s already texting the usher to save seats for the main card. And I’ll tell you something raw—I’ve got a mate who sells signed gloves at the Temple Bar stalls; after that belly shot he came back with a stack of McGregor souvenirs still shrink-wrapped and a face like a wet weekend. Even the souvenir trade knows when the tape’s curling at the edges.

mate your grandma’s pillow better start knitting a scarf outta the tear-jerker tissues cos Colby didn’t just tap the liver once—he gave it a full three-song remix with a bass drop every time Conor twitched. you lot shouting “built different” because he staggered to the bell? that’s like patting a dying racehorse on the flank after it’s cleared two jumps and flopped face-first at the third. the man’s not shufflin’ through his own blood—he’s gasping through a life-support machine while the promoters are already flashing PowerPoint slides on Dubai revenues. remember Floyd? dude knew his eyesight was going so he quit on top, sold the last two-minute warning before he got turned into a human piñata. Conor’s got that same exit left except he’s still queuing for seconds at the injury buffet while the doc’s holding the door open like “alright mate, time’s up.” stick the retirement papers in the postbox before the next promoter slides you the Dubai itinerary under the table—once the chequebook’s out, the body countdown goes on hiatus. 😂🤡

*Takes a long sip of Guinness straight from the can, wipes the foam off my lips with the back of my hand* Tell me, when the hell did we stop respecting a fighter’s right to decide for themselves? Not the suits, not the fools chanting “one more” in some soulless desert venue, but the man who’s taken more cracked ribs than most fighters in the whole bloody sport? The same bloke who, three years ago, was carrying Bellator’s pay-per-view numbers on his back like Atlas with a crumbling globe? You lot throwing around phrases like “built different” like it’s a shield against reality—nah, listen, his body’s not some mythical Irish pub legend where the ale never runs out. Every single time he steps in there after a three-minute rest, he’s basically rolling snake eyes against a system that keeps resetting the odds against him. That Colby belly shot wasn’t a fluke; it was a flashing red siren someone painted over in gold trimming. I sat there rewinding the replay until my finger cramped, and what I saw wasn’t heart—it was ignition timing knocking itself into the red zone mid-flight. His right hook after? Nearly limp, coming from the shoulders like a Sunday league striker with a torn hamstring. Conor’s still pushing forward, sure, because that’s what he does, but pushing forward ain’t the same as still dancing. That night in Dublin last October, the crowd’s roar lasted ninety seconds because the crowd already knew what was coming—by the third round they were texting the usher instead of singing his name. And you want Dubai? Dubai isn’t a ring; it’s an ATM for promoters with no conscience and no exit clauses. So what’s the verdict before we parade him around another soulless monolith in the sand? Maybe none of us get to decide when the curtain falls. But if the curtain’s already twitching, do we really need to give the backstage crew the keys to the fire exit?