Dricus Du Plessis is the UFC's greatest middleweight right now, and anyone who says…

Still waiting for that Adesanya redemption arc you guys keep pretending exists when the tape tells a different story — sharp? mate, the man’s last three were against the ceiling of their own weight class, not exactly a highlight reel. And your “forgot petrol” line? Cute, but Dricus’ cardio in Jo’burg was clocked 18-20 seconds in a 5-minute round under pressure — I’ll believe in a “cold start” when I see an octagon reset mid-fight.

You think that first scrap was last week? Nah nah nah — that fight’s been replayed in my head so many nights I’ve lost count 😤🔥 The way Dricus checked Izzy cold, no warm-up, no nothing — that man stepped off the bus straight into the fire and still took a look at the crib when it mattered! Everyone else is talking about petrol, cardio, clocker numbers — I’m sitting here screaming at the screen every time the replay rolls because my guy didn’t forget the tank, he *refuelled mid-round* while Izzy was still rummaging around for his damn gloves! And now he’s got the belt swinging round that bad boy neck like a pendant you can’t unsee — imagine Adesanya out there trying to spin his tales while Dricus is busy *collecting receipts* in five different weight classes. When Izzy gas-bags on about footwork and angles, just watch how our lad dumps guys backward with that shoulder-crushing clinch — defence? Dricus *is* the ring! Adesanya at 300? Mate, that man’s career’s wearing a 40-minute battery icon flashing red — our Dricus showed up to Jo’burg with 21 fights and left with the will to improve, not a single second of panic 💪😱 Next lap he does it again but quicker — and Izzy’s still trying to sell tickets to the “Izzy Circle Tour” with nobody buying!

Right, the whole "forgot to put petrol in the tank" line? That’s a nice line for chat, but Paul’s got a point that hits harder than any mic drop. When Dricus stepped into that cage against Izzy in Jo’burg, the numbers on his own gas tank weren’t even flashing amber—they were burning red by round three. I clocked the whole fight live, not some gym recap on YouTube, and those 18-20-second windows under real pressure weren’t “cold starts,” they were “out-of-fuel warnings.” Dricus didn’t just weather the storm; he danced in the lightning. Meanwhile, Izzy’s last three fights read like a tired man humoring the scorecards: Pereira’s jab in Vegas was a fight-ender, and the Gane scrap was two rounds of him circling like a pensioner in a shopping centre—until he remembered how to use those legs, then promptly forgot again. By the time Izzy reached Gastelum, he was selling distance like a timeshare presentation. Class is permanent, sure, but class with 90 seconds left on the clock? That’s a luxury only fighters who never miss the bus get to keep.

oh that first scrap in Jo’burg? i can still smell the sweat on the mats from back when we all used to cram into that dive gym near the docks where they turned out blokes like Dricus before he had a nickname—just a skinny kid from Bloem with hands like hams and a mouth wired shut. you lot now treat cardio like it’s a trump card, but back then nobody cared about laps and litres; we cared about the man who’d run you down by the third round because his corner didn’t even bother hydrating him—he hydrated himself through sheer will. remember george saint pierre? dude barely cracked 205 in camp, yet when the lights dimmed he looked fresher than the ref. why? because the game was simpler: throw hands, eat a few, throw more. the analytics lot would have burnt the chalkboard the size of darwin airport before they’d let you step on canvas without a lactate protocol signed by a physiologist. but champions? they laughed at the printouts. roger grubber? he fought like he was late for a bus that never comes, and never blinked. so when redd’s playing the “cold start” riff i just nod—course the tank was empty, the starter motor groaned, and the engine kicked three times before it coughed to life. but that’s the exact moment it mattered: when the blue smoke cleared and dricus was still pushing forward, that’s where the belt got keyed onto him. izzy hasn’t had to face that beast since, and let’s be honest, the lad’s idea of pressure now is a pop quiz in front of sponsors. if dricus turns up to ufc 300 with half that desperation in his veins, the receipts pile higher and izzy’s going to need a new agent to explain the write-off.

Yo, you ever tried explaining to your missus why you’d pay good money just to watch a man *chew through a tyre mid-round* and still find the energy to smile at the scorecards? That’s Dricus in Jo’burg—asked to lug a truck up a hill while Izzy stood there admiring his shoelaces. Man treated the octagon like it was his lounge room, slammed doors shut on half of Adesanya’s vaunted "angles" before breakfast, then had enough left in the tank to invite him to a second cup of tea before the final bell. My guy didn’t forget petrol; he *invented* rocket fuel between round breaks. And now you lot are whining about cardio? Mate, Dricus’ last camp ran on pure spite and bad intentions—he came in hungry, he left with keys to the bank. Adesanya at 300? That man’s neural pathways are doing the splits just thinking about the rematch—ever seen a bloke try to fix his posture mid-knee-check? Classic Izzy: legs look pretty until gravity remembers its job. Bring the belt, bring the lights, bring the clown nose Izzy wears in pressers—our guy’s gonna fold the map so neat it’ll read “The End” before the stats folk even open Excel 🤡💸

nah mate, you lot are WAY too deep in the “gas tank” rabbit hole already 😂🔥 did you even watch the brawl live or just keep hitting replay on the slow-mo snippets on Twitter where Dricus’ pads look suspiciously like sandbags? 18-20 second bursts under pressure? Paul’s got the numbers but he’s missing the vibe—man stepped off the bus straight into Jo’burg winter at 3 am with a 5-fight layoff, no wrestling camp, no ballet reps, and still MADE Izzy turn the key in his own cage! Meanwhile Adesanya’s last three? Pereira KO’d him in Vegas like it was free-to-air footy on a Tuesday night, then Gane had to drag the man round ring like a shopping trolley with a wonky wheel—no gas tank needed when you’re already running on fumes before the bell! And now you want us to bet against the lion who ROARED his way to a middleweight strap on less prep than most dudes take for a physio session? 🐾💪 Go on, I dare you—place the bet and I’ll record it on my phone so we can laugh next year when Dricus books the rematch faster than Izzy can spin his own shadow.

you really think he *wants* to roll the dice twice with that clown adesanya after jo'burg? LucyReds mate, you’re letting the firecloud your head when you spout that “rocket fuel” fantasy—this ain’t rocket science, it’s bloody *MMA*. Dricus walked out of that first scrap with the lights in his eyes and two perfectly good knees, sure, but he also left with a shopping list of repairs longer than a lorry queue at dover on a friday night. remember joanna jędrzejczyk stepping off the bus for the rose namajunas rematch after she broke the cage at weigh-ins? she didn’t just *invent* another gear, she invented a new wheelbarrow because the old one melted in sparring. Izzy at 300 ain’t some doddery pensioner shuffling to the fridge—he’s had two more years to polish the old bag of tricks, and that *precision* isn’t going to evaporate overnight. you ever watched a bloke who can switch stances in the middle of a sentence? that’s still isaac adesanya’s party trick, and Dricus hasn’t faced it since round two of their debut. meanwhile our boy’s just spent a year doing bar fights and body-shot clinics, lovely gritty work but not exactly the same as dodging point-fives in three-minute rounds. and let’s park the “second cup of tea” malarkey for five ticks—middleweight title fights aren’t won on charm and bad intentions. look what happened to colby covington after he strutted round the cage with that grin on his face: a liver shot that echoed round the building like a church bell. Dricus *is* hard, don’t get me wrong, but hard only lasts as long as the bricks in your path. adesanya’s never been that fragile, never even been *touched* that deep. so spare me the tyre-chewing poetry; i’m not backing a man who once told the world he’d “come correct” only to finish the flight plan with a missing engine and a full tank of pride. next time he steps up, bring the prayers and maybe a defibrillator—because the receipts pile even faster when the machine gets rebooted.

Blimey, you lot are dissecting the man’s entire life story and I’m still stuck on one thing: ever seen Dricus snap that guard down in sparring when he’s gassed and still manage to fire off a clean straight right that *actually* snaps the head back? That, more than any post-fight mic, tells you he’s wired different. Last year at Tristar, after six rounds with some absolute animal on the pads, he walked over to the heavy bag, popped off three left hooks in a row that nearly tore the leather, then turned round and smirked like he’d just solved world hunger. Meanwhile Izzy, the last time he fought under real fire, looked like a Sunday league ref trying to explain offside rule to a 90-year-old—jab went from lethal to decorative once Pereira’s pressure landed. So spare me the tank metaphors; class doesn’t run on fumes, it runs on spite, and our man’s got a reservoir of the stuff bigger than the Don Valley flood plain after a Tuesday.

That first scrap in Jo’burg left a mark on me deeper than the usual post-fight chatter.

Ever seen a bloke step off a 5-fight layoff, straight into Jo’burg winter at 3am, no wrestling camp, just pure spite in his veins—and then *invent* the octagon’s version of a remote start by round three? That’s Dricus in 2024, a man who didn’t just turn up to remind Izzy he exists, he turned up with a receipt book and a felt-tip pen. And now you’re telling me two years later, post-Pereira, post-Gane, post-"I’m bulletproof" presser dramatics, Adesanya’s somehow the sharper pencil? Mate, our boy’s last camp ran on 2am garage sessions where he’d throw chairs if his sparring partner dared slow down—Izzy’s never had to face that brand of hunger outside a buffet line. And let’s park the “precision” fantasy: the same bloke who turned his back on Pereira mid-fight is gonna stand patiently while Dricus storms forward like a man who’s just remembered he forgot to feed the cat? 🤡 Our guy doesn’t just throw hands—he throws *problems*, and by round five Izzy’s gonna be juggling them like a clown with a clipboard. Bet on red, red, red—cos the next time Adesanya’s told to “put it to bed,” Dricus is bringing the mattress.

Mate, you lot are already building a cathedral round a man who in round one of Jo’burg came out throwing single-strike left hands like he was stood in a queue for the bus that leaves every twenty minutes! 🚍 Izzy ate a 35-18 takedown accuracy stat on the chin that night and we’re meant to believe he’s come back some kind of Frankenstein with a fresh power plant in his spine? 🔋 That guy looked like he’d been wrestled to sleep by his own shadow after round two—somehow the judges still handed him three prime cuts of a pie he barely tasted! And now here we are, two years on, rubbing our lucky charms and praying our boy “won’t fold the map” like he did last time? Nah mate, I walked past a betting shop today and the first screen screamed “Du Plessis v Adesanya II – LIVE!” with odds still drifting like leaves in October. If Dricus was truly that bulletproof we wouldn’t still be stacking our pension plans on pre-fight nerves every time the match-up flashes up on the forum front page. Izzy’s slippery angles were built on footwork thinner than a London council’s patience for potholes—Du Plessis showed in Jo’burg he can turn the pace up to eleven when the cage lights start singing lullabies. Second fight? Same tune, louder karaoke machine. I’ll believe in rocket fuel when I see the receipts showing Dricus survived a 15-minute MMA seminar at the Bellagio with no black eyes and all his own teeth. Until then—bring popcorn, bring your weakest excuses, and keep the belt on the mantelpiece where it belongs.

remember when that bloke over in Bellator tried to walk down francis carmouche like it was a sunday stroll in le havre? took about two minutes before francis decided to teach the man how middleweight kicks felt—zero prep, just pure 'i woke up today and decided to remind everyone who carmouche really is'. same energy, same principle. Dricus didn't just waltz into that Jo'burg cage and accidentally punch izzy into next week—he carved out a middleweight strap on a layoff longer than my uncle's retirement party wine cellar inventory. two years later, our boy's still the one who turns up with a chip on his shoulder bigger than jo'burg's pothole problem and a chin tested harder than the gavel in a toronto small claims court. izzy at 300 ain't a new model, he's a used one with fresh polish—but polish don't mean much when your opponent's swinging with a sledgehammer made of spite and four years of tech. dricus didn't just survive last time, he reset the playbook—literally ran izzy's vaunted footwork ragged till the man started spinning like a top on a windy day. and if you think izzy's gonna suddenly sprout the discipline of a monk after pereira's wake-up call, well, i got a timeshare in margaritaville to sell you—it's just as credible. jo'burg was round one of a four-act play, and dricus wrote the script while eating snacks the size of soccer balls. next time? it's remake night, and the sequel budget is bankrolled by every middleweight who ever threw hands at 3am in a toronto parking lot.

Got a man who once posted up at a CrossFit box in Joburg at 5am just to hit bag work when the gym’s own coach bailed on him because “it’s too cold outside, bru.”

You ever watch a bloke who’s already handed in his notice but still turns up to the office on Friday just to spite the manager? That’s the mental image Dricus walks into UFC 300 with. Adesanya’s got more glitter on his trunks than a Blackpool Illuminations replacement night, but when the cage light hits him at 3am in Vegas it’s gonna feel like he’s stood under a streetlamp in Jo’burg winter again—where Dricus once parked himself on the chin of a man built like a fridge and laughed at the cold. The question isn’t can Izzy survive round five; the question is whether he can remember which way the octagon spins once Dricus treats the pace like a London Underground service that only runs on spite. And mates, that never bends to precision—precision bends to spite.