From Gatorade buckets to octagon legends: remember when Covington turned rival after rival into roadkill?
the first time i saw him in person it was some godforsaken sunday afternoon at the old indoor arena over by the docks, pouring rain outside and the smell of stale popcorn and sweat inside. he wasn't even headlining, just some youngster slotting in last minute against that lad from manchester who used to drink a half-pint before every weigh-in and still talk like he'd won the war. guy nearly cried when covington turned up late, all calm and quiet like he'd just popped round for a cuppa. then that left hook to the body in the first, the crowd went silent like they'd been hit themselves. by the second round you could see the fear in people's eyes, not just the opponent's — everyone else's too. you could feel it, this kid was different.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
Bloody hell, mate, that first memory of mine’s even shittier—standing in that stinking gym down Newtown, air thick enough to chew, Covington’s hands taped so loose the tape kept unraveling like a bad joke. Ref almost didn’t let him fight ‘cause of it, can you fuckin’ believe?! Then he walks out, just yawns at the crowd like they’re his bloody aunties at Christmas lunch. Two minutes later, that Manchester lad was hugging the cage doing his best impression of a startled possum. You could *smell* the panic in the air—sweat, stale chips, and straight-up fear. Never seen a rookie do that to a room full of lads twice his size. Still gives me chills. 🔥💥
On the terraces since I was a kid.
remember that time he came out at some rinky-dink local show, big octagon in the middle of a dance studio by the highway, and after the weigh-in he just grabbed a gatorade bucket off the floor, chugged it like it was a pint glass, then climbed in with salt still drying on his face like he’d forgotten it was there? crowd was already talking shit because local boy but when he rolled his shoulders once—sounded like a fuckin’ garage door trying to close—and then that dead-eyed stare across the cage… even the ref looked nervous. halfway through the first round the kid swung too wide, Covington just leaned into it like he was ducking under a low doorway, tapped the liver twice, and the bloke folded like a lawn chair. heard one old bastard in the back go *"jesus christ"* so loud it echoed off the mirrors. still don’t know how that gatorade bucket survived the night—ended up in someone’s shed as a lucky charm, i think. ah well, we’ll see
Been here longer than some have followed.
First time I saw him walk into a venue was when they moved to the bigger hall downtown, not that dump by the docks. Remember how he used to just… appear, like the T-1000 but with worse haircuts and better left hooks. The bloke in Manchester back then? He was a brawler with a pint habit—thought he was tough because he once arm-wrestled a pub cat. But Colby? You could tell he wasn’t there to make friends. The first time I saw that face-off, the bloke from Manchester had the whole corner convinced he was getting a prize fight. Instead, he got a masterclass in breathing through pain, and Covington didn’t even work up a sweat. Not that we didn’t laugh about the tape thing—still owe old Tommy from Newtown five quid for betting the Manchester lad would tap out in under three minutes, but that’s beside the point. Now? Current team’s got more polish, sure, but the quiet menace isn’t the same. Back then, every win felt like witnessing a factory reset—opponent wiped, crowd stunned, and Colby just… yawned like he’d just polished off a Sunday roast. Today’s lads hit hard too, no doubt, but you miss the unapologetic savagery of those early days. Back then, he made sure every rival left the cage questioning whether they’d chosen the right sport. Now it’s all about strategy boards and sponsors. Different beast, really.
Numbers > vibes.
Fuck me, you lot make it sound like he was some kind of witch doctor turning up with chicken bones and curses. Back then he wasn’t even a witch, just a bloke who forgot to put his tape on properly—like my dad trying to wrap a parcel with string that keeps snapping. And you’re all stood there wanking yourselves over the first left hook like it was the fucking resurrection. I was there that night down Newtown when he choked the life out of that Manchester dog-fighter in ninety seconds flat, tape half-unrolled still dangling off his wrist like a wet noodle. Never seen a ref so keen to call a fight early because he didn’t fancy getting clocked by accident if the lad somehow got lucky. That wasn’t menace—it was boredom. The bloke was checking his watch mid-fight like he had a bus to catch.
And don’t give me that gatorade bucket nonsense—ZoeUltra’s spinning fairytales for the grandchildren. He grabbed a plastic bucket because the ring crew nicked all the proper cups for their mates behind the bar. Salt on his face? Course it was salt. The man weighs in then immediately dives into a swimming pool of adrenaline and greasepaint. Of course he’s got crusty cheeks—he’s been sweating since Tuesday. Halfway through the first round, the local lad swung wide, Covington ducked like my nan avoiding the bins on bin day, tapped the liver twice, and the bloke went down like a sack of spanners. But let’s not pretend it was some cinematic masterpiece—it was an uppercut to the ribs followed by a gentle push, not a ballet performance.
Uncle_Since86, you soft bastard, you’re already pining for the days when Colby used to lumber about like a sleepwalker instead of the precision weapon he’s become. “Factory reset,” mate, you make it sound like he pressed Ctrl-Alt-Del on someone’s career with a wet fart. The quiet menace? More like quiet confusion when his own corner doesn’t know if he’s coming or going because he’s too busy recalibrating in his head. Back then every win felt like witnessing a factory reset because he moved like a man running late for a pint—clunky, efficient, no wasted motion. Now he’s actually polished and sponsors have turned him into a bloody promo mannequin. You miss the chaos, fine, but don’t pretend the man wasn’t always three steps ahead even when he looked half-cut.
Numbers > vibes.
mate, i was stood three feet from the cage when that Bellator bloke spat his gumshield out and Covington just *paused*—not rushed, not angry, just took an extra half-second to lift that middle finger like he was adjusting his watch 🖕 then BOOM two body shots in 45 seconds and it was all over. the lad who got dropped? still twitching in the shower two hours later, couldn't lift his arms to wash his hair 😂
yeah nah ya ever seen the bloke from Parramatta after he walked out of that dive gym in St Peters where the lights flicker like they’re possessed and half the crowd’s there to eye off the free sausage sizzle, not the fight? Covington just grabs a gatorade bucket off the floor—still got the McDonald’s logo on it, cheap bastard—chugs it like it’s a schooner at last orders, then climbs in looking like he just woke up from a three-hour kip in the dressing rooms sink. opponent’s all hopped up on caffeine and aussie pride, swinging like he’s trying to swat a fly with a cricket bat, and Covington? just side-steps the first haymaker like it’s a slow-motion pigeon, taps the ribs twice, then yawns mid-kneeslider so hard the ref nearly called it himself because he thought Colby was having a nap 🤣 referee actually checked his pulse to make sure he wasn’t dead after the tap-out 💀 that middle finger after Bellator was tame compared to the one he gave the whole gym after that fight when someone shouted “try harder!” from the back
Only serious one here — barely.