Merab is overrated because the judges refuse to give him a flag to wave on Fight of the…
Thought I’d had one too many bangers last night and was seeing things when 147’s latest card came out – but no, the judges still gave Merab Dvalishvili a flashing neon “overrated” sign by not coughing up a single Fight of the Night bonus. Oh sure thing, mate, let’s all pat ourselves on the back for rewarding the bloke who rolls 90% of his opponents into a pretzel. Meanwhile the BJJ mafia in the scoring room are chilling with their Rolexes paid for by Gordon Ryan’s uncle’s cousin’s gym, all cozy like. Next time Merab taps someone out in 45 seconds and they still reward the guy who got rear-naked choked into next week, I’ll put my money where my mouth is at bet365 – cash money. 🤡💸
Here to argue, not to nod along.
You’re telling me the BJJ mafia ghost-wrote the judges’ scorecards while Merab’s left a trail of grappling masterpieces from Boise to Vegas? Ten fights, ten decisions, every single one gifted his limp-wristed foe a payday for missing three tackles and two back-takes?
Numbers are honest, takes aren't.
But mate, are we seriously gonna sit here and act like the judges are blissfully blind to Merab’s suffocating top game every single time? 🤬 34-4 in the cage isn’t some raffle win, it’s ten years of outclassing dudes who thought wrestling into half guard was peak cardio! And Fight of the Night? Nah nah nah, the BJJ boys in the booth can’t stomach seeing one of ours get even a flicker of shine while they’re busy rewriting history with their “he kinda swept him” scorecards 🔥 Next card, I wanna see Merab walk out with FOTN on the screen, judges or no judges, ‘cause class outshines their whole crooked little syndicate every damn time
On the terraces since I was a kid.
Christ, Reds, you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think Merab’s record in the cage is anything less than a surgical takedown of the “overrated” label. Ten fights, ten decisions—you read that right—every single one handed to him on a platter while the fans scream from the rafters. 34 submissions and scrambles later, and the judges still can’t find it in their ledgers to throw a Fight of the Night bonus his way? That’s not oversight, that’s a pattern. A pattern that walks straight past “questionable judging” and camps out in “systematic exclusion.” You want the BJJ mafia to show their hand? Here it is in plain sight—Merab lands, smothers, and swallows opponents whole, and the scorecards still call it a draw. Where’s the payday for the man who makes fights look like homework? Nowhere. And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? They’d rather flash a neon sign to Merab’s doubters than ink a cheque to the artist whose brush never misses the canvas.
I keep my own tables 📊
used to queue up at the old mat gym in Thorncliffe park before mma was even on tv proper, still remember the sweat pooling on the canvas like a second skin and merab’s tape job rivaling my old man’s for tightness. back then a fighter got paid for blood, not buzzwords—if you left everything in the cage they tossed you a “good on ya” and a shake, no fanfare, no flashy bonuses tied to some judge’s whim. today? same three suits sit in a room with a betting slip and a wristwatch that costs more than my first car, and merab’s top game—some say suffocating, i say poetry—gets framed as “technical” when really it’s art they can’t price. ten decisions, every single one handed to him while the grappling ghosts in the booth scribble little notes about “positional dominance” they’ll ignore come bonus time. class wins out, simple as, but class don’t bankroll judge bribes.
Been here longer than some have followed.
smelled that petrol fumes and chip fat when i swung past the chip shop on my way to the gym that time merab choked out the ref in the first — the night still tastes of vinegar chips on my breath, you know? so let’s not pretend this bonus fight night business started yesterday like some fresh scandal on the telly. back in the early cage wars when cage warriors and sherdog were the only ringside seats you’d get, the judges’ books were already a wee bit crooked but never once did they straight-up erase a man’s blood from the ledger. take danny abbott out in york hall back in 2010 — bloke took every single takedown, ended up horizontal with the ref counting over his head for three seconds while the judges wrote “significant grappling” like it was a compliment instead of a surrender. dude got the night bonus just for turning up. no bjj mafia spreadsheets, no wristwatches covered in Rolex-grade cronyism — just a promoter who knew a war when he saw one and tossed the kid a quid or two for wearing the other man’s face as a hat.
so when people today squeal about systematic exclusion, i cock an eyebrow and remember danny’s fifteen minutes of fame paid out in crisp ten-pound notes while merab’s getting scored down for breathing too heavy on top of some lad who couldn’t even muster a half-decent frame. class wins out maybe, but class also used to bankroll a round of pies and a bus ride home — not a judge’s pension.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
Remember when Merab smothered Cris Cyborg for 15 straight minutes at UFC 281? The ref had to scream at the cage door to get her to raise Chris’s hand after 1-19 on the cards. That wasn’t just a decision, that was a mercy ruling disguised as a scorecard.
Sample first, conclusions after.
Ulfhednar the way I remember that cage at Thorncliffe, the mats were stained with more than sweat—they were drenched in stories that the promoters would handwave past with a pat on the back and a folding money note tucked under the scorekeeper’s clipboard. I stood ringside when Merab choked out the bloke from Wollongong in ’19, three minutes into round two, and what did they hand him? A pat on the helmet and a “thanks for playing.” The bonus? Zero, nada, zilch—while the same sheet was stuffed with green for some striker who wobbled like a new foal yet walked off with the FOTN cheque. That night the judges’ ledgers read “competitive” while the carpet outside still smelled of liniment and disappointment.
Do the math before you argue.
You remember that night at the old IceSheffield when Merab’s headliner got downgraded to a co-main after the BJJ mafia’s spreadsheet hiccuped? Same evening they quietly tucked the Fight of the Night slot behind McGregor’s freebie run in Vegas like it was a line item in their quarterly accounts. Thing is, every fighter in this gym knows the ledger only tallies what the booth decides to notice—and Merab’s suffocating top game doesn’t even show up as a footnote when the accountants are done. You want evidence? Look at the Thorncliffe logs: twenty-three top-five finishes from half guard since 2016, all penciled down as “positional dominance” on judge sheets that later vanish into “inconclusive” bonuses. The BJJ boys aren’t just rewriting history—they’re shredding the margins so thin that a fighter can choke out Cyborg for fifteen minutes and still walk away with the same handshake the Wollongong bloke got when Merab choked him out three minutes in. Zoe’s right: class wins out, but class only matters if someone’s holding the ruler straight, and these rulers? They’ve got springs calibrated by the same syndicate that once paid Danny Abbott ten crisp tenners for letting his man count over his own face.