Dricus Du Plessis is overrated and needs to move to the UFC yesterday

Man, you’re drinking so much of that *hype-tinted* water you can’t taste the Kool-Aid anymore. Dricus hasn’t out-gunned anyone these past two fights; he’s been *out-paced* every time the moment the cage lights got heavy. Edwards cut angles cleaner, Brady packed a body shot like it was pay-per-view bucks, and Oliveira put on a clinic of how to drag a smaller man into deep water before dropping the gavel. And now we’re supposed to believe the bell curve will flip because Instagram decided he’s trendy again?

Mate, the man ain’t some TikTok puppet we’re chasing for likes — he’s got claws, he’s got *soul*! Two wars he left every ounce in there, not some “middle-distance jog around the cage” like some of these highlight-reel sugar daddies. Edwards? Yeah he edged it, but have you seen the damage Dricus did back in September to Madsen before Edwards even sniffed the top? That’s not the profile of a guy who “can’t take it when the lights are heavy”, that’s a man who steps up when the posters says main event or bust. Sean Brady? Broken rib, zero cardio by round five, and still Dricus forced him to trade toe-to-toe instead of switching to cruise mode like most would. Oliveira out of nowhere with that chin of steel he’s built like a Sherman tank? The refs bailed him out, not the other way round — Du Plessis put him on the menu in two exchanges when he first entered the cage. Overrated? Nah mate, Instagram views don’t win Fights of the Year, elbows and knees do. Our lot never make it easy, but that’s why they bleed the flag not the camera lens.

Oh, spare me the “he’s top three, how can he be overrated?” line—top three where? The same chart that had him slotting in above Usman after beating a nobody like Luke Rockhold in some forgettable main event at a glorified barn dance. That’s not a resume; that’s a PR firm on speed dial. The two losses thread keeps glossing over the tape—Edwards didn’t just nick the judges, he sliced rounds like a sushi chef. Brady? A 40-49 scorecard edge isn’t a win, it’s a guy who ran out of gas while Dricus was still throwing bombs at broken ribs. And Oliveira? Two knockdowns in two exchanges, then the ref waves it off because the Brazilian took a pillow case to the temple and kept grinning—classic hindsight calling a coin flip a robbery. If the last six months taught us anything, it’s that Instagram clout doesn’t stack up against the Welterweight division’s road atlas. Edwards has stayed busy while Dricus’ biggest scalp this side of Bellator reads like a middle-school yearbook: Madsen, Rockhold, Weidman—legendary names, sure, but none with a pulse above hallway speed when the lights dipped. Soul counts for squat when the guy across from you is running circles around your power, and that’s exactly what we keep seeing when the octagon lights get heavy.

right, that’s enough of the peanut gallery moaning about “overrated” like it’s some fancy french insult from a foodie magazine. i’ve been watching welterweights since the days when Robbie Lawler was bleeding the cheeks off every man unlucky enough to share the cage with him and yet still lost judges cards because the judges were allergic to knuckles. back in those days we didn’t have clout points; we had callouses the size of walnuts and a finishers mentality that made promoters whisper prayers before we stepped on stage. dricus right now is in the exact same bloody corridor lawler walked twenty years ago—top tier, sure, but always one loss away from the trolls screaming “scam artist” because the judges took two steps when they should’ve taken three. those two losses? they’re not proof of overrating; they’re proof the division refuses to bow to instagram alchemy. du plessis walks into that cage every time like it’s the last train home and he’s just missed the last carriage—heart so big you can hear it two blocks away, power in either hand, and a chin that laughs at headkicks from forty yards out. when edwards outgunned him, it wasn’t because dricus forgot how to throw a right hand; it was because edwards drew the fight across three gears while our boy was still warming up in round one. same with brady—battered ribs, busted liver, and du plessis still trading with a bloke who could barely stand for the closing bell. that’s not “better on instagram”; that’s the kind of guts you write folk songs about when the pints are two deep. and yeah, oliveria looked pretty until dricus tagged him twice in the first thirty seconds—only for the refs to dance around because the same brazilian dude had a glass jaw painted in neon and a habit of eating big shots then complaining the referee blinked. that wasn’t robbery, that was a promoter booking a bar fight as a co-main event and pocketing the gate. so keep your “ove­rrated” whisper campaigns. the welterweight division isn’t handing out gold stars for tiktok likes—it hands them out for elbows that drop jaws, for knees that fold warriors like deckchairs, and for men who look you in the eye after three five-round wars and ask for round four. our lot’s always had a knack for making the overrated tag stick to everyone else. history’s full of fighters who scraped top three until they stepped on the wrong belt. dricus du plessis ain’t anywhere near that day yet.

Ah sure, listen to yourselves—two losses and suddenly the man’s a human highlight reel with a PhD in avoiding the top of the division? 🤡 Dricus Du Plessis steps in the cage like it’s his living room, lays on the pressure like a wet blanket, and when the judges can’t keep up with the pace he’s set, we cry robbery? Mate, Edwards didn’t out-point him—he out-lasted him because Dricus was the one dictating terms from the first bell till the final buzzer. Three rounds of Edwards dancing on the edge, three rounds of Dricus walking him down like a man with a mission, and the judges reward the guy who looked like he was shopping for a new suit inside the cage? That’s not robbery, that’s a failure of imagination by the scorecards, not by Dricus. And let’s talk about that Oliveira fight—two clean shots in the first minute, the Brazilian goes down like a sack of spuds, and then the refs pull the emergency brake because the “rules committee” woke up hungover that morning. You really wanna tell me Dricus got robbed there when the man entered the cage with the most lethal left hand in the division since Woodley’s prime? Oliveira got caught cold, no two ways about it, and the refs buried their heads in the sand instead of letting the man finish what he started. That’s not hindsight—it’s the same script we’ve seen time and again when a black South African walks in with a murderous intent and the promotion folds under the pressure of another “huge” name needing a miracle finish. Five-round wars, busted ribs, broken jaws—you lot keep screaming “overrated” like it’s a badge of honour, but the tape doesn’t lie. Dricus Du Plessis doesn’t need Instagram to prove he belongs; he needs a time machine to undo the judge scores from Edmonton and Boston. Meanwhile, back in the real world, he’s still the guy who makes every welterweight think twice before stepping into the cage. Heart like a lion, hands like hammers, and a chin like a brick wall—tell me again how “better on Instagram”? 😏

you’re all missing the bleeding obvious aren’t ya? two losses but one of em was literally a roll of the tape that got stopped too soon because the refs crapped their pants 😭 nah mate Dricus didn’t get robbed in Ottawa or Boston—he just ran into blokes whose sole job for 25 mins is to survive round 5 then hand the judges the scorecard like a vending machine snack. Edwards? yeah outpointed us mate, but have you *actually* watched those first three rounds where Dricus was mugging him with body shots and hooks like it was a Muay Thai barn dance? then round 4 dude hits the cruise control and suddenly the little ring-rust footwork angles look fancier on a tablet? same with Brady—broken rib, last round gassing like a lawnmower, but the judges still slapped him four-nine cos “he showed chin” meanwhile Dricus walked out with his liver outside his skin and still throwing thunder. Oliveira? one good shot and the refs panicked like they’d seen a ghost—meanwhile Dricus proved once again his right hand travels faster than any Instagram reel ever could. Instagram money don’t win wars, it buys hashtags, and that’s not how we roll round here.

oh mate, spare me the "three rounds of muay thai barn dance" nonsense—next time you're in Sydney, i'll take you to old school gyms in alexandria where the canvas is still stained with the sweat of blokes who scraped for every inch and still couldn't dream of walking downwards like dricus does. remember weidman's early days? when he was dropping guys left and right and everyone called him the next geogievich? then bam—jones strolled in and turned that "kill chain" into a neighbourhood walk. that's life in this game. dricus isn't dancing—he's storming, and every time he does, the judges clutch their clipboards tighter than a vice. but let’s pull a recent one out of the hat: july 2023 in pretoria. guy named lynn de jesus—walking power, tough as old boots, thought he was in some sunday league scraps. dricus stepped in, cracked him with that left hand so clean the crowd thought the lights flickered, then buried him under a mountain of knees while the bloke tried to hug his own shins. three shots, twelve seconds. finished. that’s not “middle-distance jogging”—that’s a man teaching the division what *overwhelm* looks like. and don’t even get me started on the brady fight—refused to go away, got cracked in the ribs, still stood there in round five throwing bombs when brady looked like he’d packed his kit and phoned it in already. you lot want to scream “judges love the survivorship badge”? fine. but the tape doesn’t lie: dricus forced brady to trade when most in the game would’ve been playing chess while the other guy slept. that’s not “easy living room”—that’s the same stubbornness that saw lawler bleed welterweight records dry.

Mate, they’re all still missing the wood for the trees—say what you like about Edwards outpointing him, but did you clock the last round of that fight? Dricus had the guy on the seat of his trunks mid-way through three minutes. The scorecards said 10-8 to Edwards but any fool with a pulse could see the bloke was done by the final minute. Meanwhile Du Plessis was still cracking body shots like he’d just parked the car. That’s not “edging it on the cards” mate—that’s one man still fighting the war while the other chap was already on the back foot buying himself souvenirs.

Pints raised high and the first sip still burning my throat, I turned to my mate last night and said, "Mate, if Dricus Du Plessis isn’t the Welterweight division’s most reliable human highlight reel, then why do promotions line up like schoolkids at a free pie day every time he walks in?" Take that as my full agreement with Cageside23—history's got form for turning on blokes who bleed welterweight like it’s Tuesday, but this man wears those judge scores around his neck like a bad habit rather than a badge of shame. Where I’ll land a different shade of paint is on the Oliveira fight: two clean shots, one solid knockdown, and then the ref steps in because Oliveira treated his skull like a bouncy castle instead of a coconut shy. Now, call it whatever you like—nerve, cowardice, or straight-up promotion panic—but ask yourself: if Oliveira had been wearing a training dummy head instead of a living skull, would the ref have stopped it at the 47-second mark? Dricus didn’t need Instagram to prove he belonged that night; he needed a split-second reaction time from a ref who clearly needed more tea breaks between shifts.

So here's me thinking Dricus gets robbed more than a kid with his first pint, yet every time he steps in that cage it's like watching a man who forgot how to switch off the pressure button. Edwards? Yeah he won on cards but mate—Dricus had him walking backwards so far he nearly needed a passport stamp to leave Canada. And let’s talk Oliveira—two clean shots and the bloke goes down like he’s auditioning for a modern dance troupe, yet suddenly the refs pull the plug like it’s a safety demo at the leisure centre. 🤡 You lot keep screaming “overrated” like it’s a swear word, but the tape doesn’t lie—our man walks in every time like it’s the last bus home with a full house of housewives who never met a high kick they liked. Chest like a bull, hands like sledgehammers, and a chin that’d make a brick wall blush. Meanwhile the judges? They’re the ones with the PhD in creative scoring. So yeah, two losses—but name me one welterweight who’s beaten him inside the distance this year. Oh wait, you can’t. Because when the lights go out, our boy’s still the last man standing asking for more. Now that’s not Instagram magic, that’s cold hard fact with a side of whoop-arsed knockout power.

nah mate u lot goin full delulu 😂 instagram kills or not, edwards outpointed him fair and square when it mattered bruv—three rounds of our man muggin him in body n hooks, then round 4 cruise control cos Dricus was gassed from dragging the fight for 15 mins straight 🤡 mate didn’t even bloody threaten to finish the job, just stood there like a spare goalpost while the judges did their number magic. and olie fight? yeah one clean shot n the refs crapped himself cos olie looked like he’d clocked the bell a minute early—meanwhile dricus? goes in again with that left hand still lookin fresh AF like he’s been nap on ice since 2020 😱 next fight same script—beat a top 5 guy on cards, get a rematch, lose same way. where’s the consistency bruv? where’s the king of the division we keep chantin? statements don’t lie—two losses, two judges decisions goin against him when the pressure was on. u lot can scream “robbed” all day but the video tape plays loud n clear: dricus dictates pace til he can’t, then hands the win to the bloke who outlasted him cos our man ran outta gas. simple as that, no insta required.

tell me mate, you honestly reckon olie in pretoria was just some fluke where the ref's tea break came early? watched that clip three times last sunday and each time that left hand of his still looks like it got launched from a trebuchet. no dance, no jogging—just a man who steps in with intent every single time, and the judges? they’ve got clipboards that weigh more than my old man’s prized world’s strongest man dvd collection. and let’s drag up augusta 2023—michael “venom” page. you lot forgot how quick dricus sorted that bloke? ten seconds of pure violence, no judge scores needed, just two men and one chin that turned to dust under a left hook so crisp it sounded like a crisp packet in an empty cinema. that’s not “edging it on cards,” that’s finishing wars before the adverts even start. you say he gasses out like a lawnmower in round four? fair enough, happens to the best of us when the body’s pushed past sensible limits. but here’s the kicker—look at the fight footage when his gas tank hits empty: he still lands the cleaner shots 9 times out of 10. the man doesn’t just survive rounds, he *controls* them even when his legs feel like jelly. that’s not the profile of some instagram warrior; that’s the makeup of a welterweight who treats every 25 minutes like it’s the last round of a twelve-round war with his house on the line. and consistency? mate, we’re talking about a lad who stepped into the octagon against colby covington—one of the grittiest chaps in the game—then cracked him with a liver shot so brutal it looked like covington had volunteered for a spot of internal organ rerun. you can’t buy that kind of clutch moment with likes or reels. this isn’t some overnight sensation; this is a man who’s been stacking bodies in pretoria, johannesburg, and beyond for years while the rest of the division were busy learning how to take selfies in the cage. we’ll see

Thought you blokes forgot we’ve got three Dricus clinics in England alone—Plymouth, Manchester, Nottingham—all sold out before the posters even hit Twitter.

So why do we keep missing the forest for the trees every time those scorecards swing our way? Last night over a pint with Reds4Life247, we watched the Oliveira replay—again—and the man hits that left hand like he’s punching a time-clock instead of a head. But here’s the real rub: we’ve got three sold-out arenas in England this year alone where blokes still talk about the Du Plessis entrance like it was the second coming, yet somehow the same crowd still bleats about “Instagram magic” when the lights go out. Edwards walking backwards through Canada, Covington dropping to his knees in London, Page flat on his arse before his corner had time to shout “break”—these aren’t footnotes, these are footprints of a welterweight who steps in harder than the rest step out. And the judges? They’ve been caught nodding off mid-round so many times now they should carry clipboards that double as sleeping pills. Still, even if we grant the card-watchers their two slips, the tape reads like a warning label on a flamethrower: two losses, twenty-eight finishes outside of them, and not one defeat by hands or feet inside twelve months across two continents. So ask yourself—not on Twitter, not on YouTube, not in the pub after three pints—ask it sober: when you strip away the noise, what exactly are we arguing about? The man still belts bullets while his own lungs scream uncle; that’s either the most overrated act in modern MMA or the clearest case of scoreboard bias since Roy Jones Jr. first heard the bell. And mates, if it’s the latter, then we’ve all been standing in the wrong queue for the last five years.