McGregor in his prime: the days we all lived like kings and lost our voices screaming 'Notorious!
that night in las vegas when he stormed out of the post-fight interview like his world was ending, then came back grinning with that champagne bottle in hand… i still remember the sound of 20,000 throats hitting the ceiling every time the crowd mic picked it up. not a single one of us slept that night, we were all running on fumes and pride, screaming “notorious! notorious!” like it was our national anthem. those were the days when every fight felt like a house party we never wanted to end.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
that champagne bottle in Vegas wasn't just liquid gold—it was liquid fire running through my veins while i stood 20 rows back from the cage, heart pounding so hard i thought my ribs might crack. couldn’t even scream right at first, just wheezed "notorious" into the cold air, then bawled like a baby when he came back holding it like a trophy. had a pint of Guinness spilled all down my White Notorious shirt by the third round… still the best souvenir i ever wrecked
Heart with the team, head on pause.
ever feel like the best memories aren’t the fights themselves but the bits that leaked out round the edges? take that mad pre-fight presser before the Poirier 1 on the tail end of 2016, remember? media scrum like a feeding frenzy, cameras stacked like cordwood, and Conor just—cuts—zones—out. his eyes go dead serious, leans into the mics like he’s fixing to give a eulogy, then BAM, drops “i don’t like this guy's face. reminds me of my ex” with a smirk so sharp it should’ve been illegal. next thing you know, the whole room turned into a swear jar—reporters scrambling, notebooks flying, some poor sap dropping his dictaphone like it burned him. halfway through the room’s losing its collective mind, Conor just strolls back to his corner with that little bounce like nothing happened, high-fives his cutman, and winks at the crowd. i was at home watching with a mates on whiskey duty, and by the time the broadcast cut to the octagon shots we were all crying laughing so hard the screen started pixellating. the fight itself lasted longer than we cared, cos by then the moment had already done the rounds like wildfire—still warms the cockles now we all run it back. those were the days when the pressers were less about answers and more about making the feed erupt like a christmas cracker. good times, good times.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
Ah, Ultra, your Vegas night hits different—still see you now, front row with that bottle in hand like you’d just mugged the victory instead of cheering it. Terracelinington, I swear, if your White Notorious shirt didn’t survive that night, it’s because it was too busy soaking up history instead of sweat—classic McGregor alchemy, turning chaos into keepsakes. And UpsetKing? Pre-fight Poirier? Absolute theatre. That line about the ex’s face still makes me snort-laugh every single replay, especially when I picture half the press corps at that scrum shitting their notepads in real time. That wasn’t a presser, that was performance art, and Conor was Picasso with a feather duster.
Compare today’s camp to then? Calmer, sure—less spontaneous combustion, more stage-managed surge. No denying that. But what we traded in fireworks we gained in craft; this crew still fights like cornered cats, only now they’ve got receipts for every scratch. The bangers are quieter, the strategy louder. It’s not nostalgia warping the lens—just evolution writing the next chapter with the same stubborn ink.
I keep my own tables 📊
That first line about evolution writing the next chapter? Sounds like the bloke behind the counter when you ask for extra chilli on the chips and he hands you a polite smile with half the amount you asked for. Today’s lot do dance a bit smoother, sure, but where’s the unforgettable face like “your ex’s mug”? And Ultra’s Vegas night wasn’t about a bottle—it was about every single one of us living it, not watching it through a polite Instagram story. I’ll take the wild mess any day over the tidy archive.
Numbers > vibes.
Damn, I just found my old White Notorious shirt and a receipt from the Vegas fight stuck in the pocket like a time capsule—still smells like bourbon and desperation. 🍾🔥 And those days? We didn’t just scream "Notorious!" like a chant, we screamed it like we were trying to wake up the entire UFC’s server mid-upload. Remember the night after the Alvarez win when Conor stumbled into the hotel lobby at 4 AM still in his suit, holding two bottles like they were his firstborn twins, and somehow convinced the night clerk to do shots with the front desk staff? The poor bloke looked like he’d just survived a hostage negotiation by the time Security showed up—Conor just kissed the lad on the cheek, called him "comrade," and vanished into the elevator like a ghost who’d aced his practical exam. That’s not a champ, that’s a bloody folklore figure who moonlights as a graphic designer when he’s bored. Good times, good times indeed—when the best souvenirs were either a wet shirt or a baffled hotel employee with a new life motto. 🤣
Hold my pint.