Notorious pride: how McGregor’s 2015-2021 era still gives us chills (and why we need it again!

Daft as it sounds, I still reckon I’ve got the same goosebumps on me arms when I close my eyes and think of that night. Was sat in the pub up The Old Market with a mate who’d bet me a tenner Conor wouldn’t make it past round one—absolute DONKEY—and then boom, the whole bar just loses it at 0:13.

ever caught yourself mid-conversation with a random at the kebab shop after last orders and having to explain to some puzzled soul why you just got goosebumps reminiscing about that 3 Arena night… like you’re still stood there in your shamrock shirt sleeves with the winter rain tapping the window and the whole block shaking because the neighbours next door had the telly on mute but you could still hear the scream from inside the pub? me neither, till last week—got chatting to this lad behind the counter who went “why are you acting like someone just won the lotto” and i just grinned like an idiot and said “cause someone did.” never mind the belt talk after, that left hand wasn’t just a punch—it was a lightning rod for every man and woman in that building who’d ever been underestimated, and when conor planted that thumb on his own chest like the whole world owed him something? jesus, you could taste the future in the air, bitter as cheap lager and twice as intoxicating.

Hadn’t the guts to watch it back for years after that night, not once. Every time the clip loads I feel it in my ribs—the same squeeze you get when your da taps your shoulder and says “watch this.” We’ll never get that flush of novocaine again, the one where nothing can go wrong because the lad’s only been in there 13 seconds and already the king’s face is knocked sideways like a drunk bloke missing the last bus. That McGregor wasn’t just faster; he moved like he was allergic to wearing shoes. No setups, no dance, no pocket-protector deep game-plan—just instinct lit on quicksilver and the biggest crowd Sheffield’s ex-pat fraction ever crammed into a kebab queue that ended in a spontaneous rendition of “Livin’ on a Prayer” through chipped teeth. Now, watching the card prelims while chewing stale chips on a Tuesday night—well, we’re still talented, but there’s a slouch in the step. The new lads trade leather like they’re swapping birthday cards, pressuring just enough to look busy. They put on the humdrum show of a lad learning piano by YT tutorials—perfect notes, zero soul. You can taste the fear under the booze fumes now: nobody dares step in the barrel with the kind of self-belief McGregor had in 2015, because belief looks cocky until it’s punch. Our mid-tier boys cut angles, sure, but they circle the cage like economists at a sale instead of lions choosing which gazelle to chase first. Even the belt talk today sounds rehearsed, like a kid practising his speech in front of the bathroom mirror instead of spitting it down a mic in front of a living room whose walls were shuddering. Conor didn’t just announce the future that night—he handed us each a torch and dared us to wave it. These days, the torch feels borrowed, passed around like a lukewarm pint after last orders, and half the hands lighting it aren’t sure they even want to stay awake for round two.

ah yeah cheers lads me memory is sketchy coz i blacked out around round one after 3 pints and a round of shots called "aldo-killer" but i *do* remember flashing the red mist when some dude in the queue goes "who's that clown in the green hoodie?" like mate that's Conor McGregor you muppet he was doing the finger guns at *me* earlier now piss off or ill give you the Aldo speech!