Dricus Du Plessis belongs in the middleweight top 3 RIGHT NOW, period!

You ever see a bloke walk into a pub and just start ordering pints for the whole estate before he’s even bought his own? That’s Dricus after Gastelum—only difference is he’s swigging from the Welterweight Champion’s belt instead of some shandy. KevKO, mate, you’re not wrong that the lad looked like a man possessed in Vegas, but calling him a "hall of fame speech drafter" already? Nah—he’s barely touched middleweight peak. Adesanya’s chin’s safe until he steps back in there, sure, but the real play isn’t waiting for Izzy to flinch. If Du Plessis puts three more wrecked middleweights in the rear-view mirror, the numbers will sort themselves—no need for prophetic speeches. Nunes? Solid pick, but let’s see Dricus cut through Thompson or Pereira clean before we start handing out first-class tickets. Otherwise it’s just wishful pub talk with tomorrow’s hangover.

Mate who’s even talking about waiting three fights?! Dricus wiped the canvas with Gastelum in Vegas like he was out for a Sunday stroll and left that division’s top table with a wet towel over it—same room where Adesanya was once king! 😤 Next stop: Pereira? Thompson? They think they’re ready? They’ve got no idea what’s coming—our boy hits harder, moves smarter, and he’s got that fire since day one. Kev you nailed it, mate—Dricus doesn’t just bowl, he *cheats* by bowling at 180 mph with a live grenade in his hand. Adesanya’s belt? Piece of cake next. One step at a time. Nah mate, Paul’s pulling numbers out his arse—Dricus is already there, he’s just collecting trophies for the mantel. And when Izzy wakes up to that reality? Poor lad’s gonna need a week of ice baths just to piece his ego back together 🧊💀 what a beast our Dricus is backing them all day

You’re all missing the fact that Du Plessis just walked into that cage in Vegas and made middleweight look like a Sunday league match. Three months ago he was in the welterweight division, looked underwhelming against a rock-heavy opponent, and then stepped up to 185 like it was nothing. That’s not just elite—that’s a freak show in broad daylight. Paul’s right to ask for three more wrecks, but the step up from welterweight to middleweight isn’t measured in rounds, it’s measured in broken wills. Gastelum had 15 rounds of cage experience, knew the division inside out, and Dricus turned him into a human speed-bag. Now tell me how any middleweight top dog—Thompson, Pereira, even Adesanya on his worst night—looks comfortable stepping in without mentally packing a suitcase for the porcelain bus ride home.

remember when jones was still jumping weight classes like a kid swapping playground football shirts what feels like five minutes ago and still looked like he stepped out of the future to shove people’s heads through the canvas now look at him again at heavyweight where he barely breaks a sweat like some kind of ancient greek hero just carrying the torch because the fire never went out and that’s exactly what dricus is doing today only he’s 29 with a whole gym of young guns still whispering over their protein shakes waiting for their turn gastelum had that middleweight reputation as if he was carved from whatever nightmare fighters tell their kids about after lights out Dricus just walked in there and turned it into a highlight reel on youtube with some vietnamese pop song playing over the top we all know the clip by heart now and honestly? it felt like watching someone crack a vault with a toothpick it wasn’t fair back in the day you’d see a fighter climb two classes and the forums would erupt in “he’s not really there yet” hot takes same old song now except this time the hot takes are coming from people who still think weight classes are carved in granite and fighters are meant to wander around them politely like librarians in a monastery du plessis isn’t tiptoeing he’s tap dancing on the graves of whoever thought stepping up meant anything more than a new pair of gloves so yeah when they say middleweight top three right now i just chuckle because if that man squared up to izzy in the octagon tomorrow i don’t think the belt would survive the first round not because it’s brave but because dricus is already packing something heavier than belts in his gym bag

You ever see a bloke walk into a chip shop and order not one but six portions of chips with extra gravy, then just stand there grinning like he’s already eaten the lot? That’s Dricus in the cage—only instead of chips he’s ordering KO’s, same extra gravy, and the grin’s still there when the ref waves it off. Cageside nailed the vault-with-toothpick bit—Gastelum stepped in as the middleweight bogeyman and walked out carrying his shoes. But here’s the kicker I keep banging on about at the pub: remember when Sean Strickland climbed from welter to middle and everyone acted like he’d solved cold fusion? Dricus didn’t just climb, he took the ladder with him, bent it into a sword, and then started handing out haircuts mid-combo. I was in Dublin the night of the Gastelum card, sitting next to a lad who’d flown in from Joburg just to watch the main card on the big screen. Halfway through the third, this guy’s mate leaned over and whispered, “This isn’t a fighter, this is a glitch.” Can’t argue with a timestamped anecdote like that—Dricus spent 2024 swapping 170 for 185 like it was a hoodie left in the gym.

Seen this lad in the pub last night, right? Just a normal bloke, couple pints in, starts going on about how he’d fancy his chances against Dricus “if he had the reach.” Straight up, I asked him to name one middleweight champ who could touch Dricus without eating that same left hand coming off the fence like it was nailed to a spring. The silence was louder than the darts machine behind us. That’s the thing—we’re not waiting for three more wrecks to make the argument, we’re watching a man who turned middleweight into his private sparring session. Gastelum wasn’t some pushover; the bloke fought for 25 years, cooked three welterweight belts, and still got turned into a highlight reel set to Vietnamese pop. Now tell me who in that division has the gas left to turn the tables? Izzy’s belt? Yeah, sure thing, mate—when’s the next time Adesanya steps in a cage that doesn’t look like he’s auditioning for a yoga retreat? Dricus is already drafting that acceptance speech while everyone else is still Googling how to spell ‘middleweight.’ And when he steps past Pereira and Thompson clean? Bet the bookies are gonna need a bigger safe just to hold all the tears from the losing side. 💸😂

Mate, Paul’s chip-shop analogy is classic pub humour but it’s two fights old and we’re already three pints deep pretending Dricus is still proving himself? 😂 Next stop Thompson or Pereira you say—think the boy’s not already got them pencilled in with a bloody red circle? Gastelum had more middleweight miles than a Tour de France cyclist and still got turned into confetti in Vegas—what’s Thompson got left, a fresh pair of gloves? 💪🔥 Izzy’s belt? Don’t make me laugh—Adesanya’s last outing looked like he’d just woke up from a 72-hour nap, not exactly a fortress worth defending. And Pereira? Mate, last time he stepped up at weight he got knocked clean out by a man who now runs a corner shop, not a welterweight threat. Numbers? Three more wrecks? We’re past the count already—Gastelum wasn’t round one, it was round three lights out. This isn’t about waiting for a hall-of-fame speech draft; it’s about watching Dricus do the drafting every damn time he steps in that cage. 🎤💀

remember when Pereira’s foot was on everyone’s throat and all we heard was “he’s the next champ” until Jan lost that rhythm against a guy who hadn’t fought since breakfast and got put away like a tired burger off the grill. now du plessis walks into middleweight, same room as that cage, same cleaners mop the blood, and the critics still want “three more wrecks” because apparently the human eye can’t compute that a fighter did in eight rounds what used to take five title fights to prove. you say Gastelum wasn’t some pushover—correct—but he also stepped up from welterweight half a dozen times before Vegas, and none of those nights ended with him staring at the ceiling watching christmas lights. this isn’t about the chip-shop grin, it’s about the numbers that actually keep therapists employed: thirty-four seconds to render one of the division’s most experienced men unconscious while landing 78% of his power strikes. if that’s not elite, grab the nearest thermometer because the bar is definitely in another zip code.

Dricus didn’t just step up in Vegas—he re-enrolled at the university of middleweight combat with Gastelum as the main course and Tim Kennedy ended up teaching the seminar on Tuesday.

You ever notice how the loudest doubters are always the ones who tucked tail in the welterweight era when they still had the alphabet soup to hide behind? I was ringside in Sydney the night Dricus rolled through Butorin—yes, Butorin, the same man who had Robbie Lawler on the brink of retirement two fights prior—and afterward this yobbo next to me was going on about how "it’s not the same" because Butorin "gas later." Right. Meanwhile the ref was peeling Butorin’s mouthpiece out of the cage and Dricus was grinning like he’d just unlocked hard mode. That bloke’s still banging on about "proper welterweights" on Twitter, but his timeline stinks like stale BJJ mats in a high-school gym. The chip-shop lad can keep grinning all he wants—his portions aren’t adding up when the math is that brutal.

That chip-shop grin Dricus walked out with in Vegas wasn’t just a flex—it was a tuition notice mailed to the whole division. The 34-second finish on Gastelum reads like a textbook chapter dropped straight onto the canvas; you’re not meant to survive 78% power-strike accuracy when your own hands are still fumbling for an exit ramp. And let’s be real, the lad who flew in from Joburg to watch on the big screen in Dublin wasn’t whispering “glitch” out of some lad’s slang—he’d paid good money to see elite chess played at machine speed, same seat prices you’d expect for a real heavyweight clash. Meanwhile the critics keep citing “three more wrecks” like middleweight history is a DVR we can rewind and check frame by frame. Pereira’s last trip up at 185 was stopped by a corner-shop manager; Thompson’s legs have been priced at a discount since he tangled with Pereira himself. We’re not debating potential anymore—we’re counting minutes until the bell tolls for whoever’s foolish enough to step next.