Remember those fireworks nights when Robbie danced through cages like it was a ballet?
remember that night in sydney when the roof of that place basically exploded because of the sound? Robbie came out like he was stepping onto a bloody stage, robe barely flapping, gloves already tight, and those two idiots running around the cage before he even got there, fireworks going off like it was the olympics opening ceremony. he danced. no, not like a fighter warming up, like some bloke who forgot his keys at home and just casually strolled through the kitchen on the way out. and when ferguson came out? oh mate, that was the kind of vibe where you could hear your own heartbeat over the roar. then the third round, that guillotine—pure poetry, no waste, just class ending business. still gives me chills watching it back. ah well, we'll see
Been here longer than some have followed.
Yeah nah bet you anything I was stood front row that night mate, heart was in my mouth when those fireworks lit up the whole bloody arena like a carnival gone mad 🔥🎆 could literally taste the dust from the exploding shells in my throat, Robbie just gliding through it like he owned the damn place, robe glowing under those lights like some kinda superhero coming to save the day. Then Fergie steps out, face all smirky like he's already won, and suddenly? Whole crowd goes DEAFENING—felt like my ribcage was gonna crack from the pressure. Then ROUND 3 BOOM, that guillotine snaps shut smoother than my mum's Sunday roast gets done, fergie tapping before his head even hit the canvas. No waste, no drama—just Whittaker magic pure and simple. Still get chills every time I watch it back with the missus yelling at me to turn it off cos the kids are asleep. ah well, some nights you just live for the rest of your life 💪🙌
ever catch yourself wondering how the hell robbie made that robe look like a cape every time he stepped in the cage? you remember that one rainy september night in melbourne when he came out before a fight and the place smelled like ozone from the storm outside, then those speakers kicked in with acdc’s thunderstruck and suddenly the whole octagon was bathed in this orange glow from the strobes—you ever seen a fighter look like he was part of the pyrotechnics? i swear i saw his shadow split into three on the canvas for half a second like he’d got tangled in the fireworks themselves. then fergie walks out there all slicked-up, 2-3 drinks in too many probably, thinking he’s already got the belt wrapped around his waist, and the crowd just goes nuclear. but Robbie? nah. he was in his own zone, gloves tapping together like he was counting down to something far bigger than a title. round three hits and boom—silence except for this one old bloke behind me going “oh fuck” so quietly i nearly missed it. the way that guillotine dropped was like watching someone close a storybook at the last page. still can’t work out how the ref didn’t give him a round of applause after. ah well. those nights don’t happen anymore, do they
Seen it all, lads.
You know, it’s not the fireworks that make it—it’s the man under the hood. Robbie stepped into that cage three times against Ferguson like he was opening a Sunday lunch menu: predictable, reliable, no surprises except the way he’d tuck the knife in clean before dessert even arrived. The current crew? They’ve got swagger, sure, and the kids love the colours they splash across the trunks, but there’s a hesitation sometimes, like they’re still waiting for the cue to start clapping.
That third round guillotine in Sydney? Built on three years of Whittaker knowing exactly where every joint lined up; he timed the trap like a train arriving at platform 9—Ferguson never saw the gap. Now you watch the new bunch throw combinations that look like confetti cannons—pretty, but after the glitter settles you’re still picking bits out of your teeth. Robbie never needed glitter; he just needed Ferguson’s neck and his own calm left hand.
Still, credit where it’s due: the lads today keep the roaring torch alight. You stand there in the crowd and the roof might not explode quite like Sydney did, yet the noise is thick enough to choke on—just different timber, younger throats. And when the right one lands clean and the ref’s hand shoots up, that’s still the same old magic, even if the pyrotechnics budget’s gone elsewhere. Robbie wasn’t about the razzle-dazzle; he was the razzle-dazzle’s bodyguard, clearing a path so the real stuff could walk through untouched.
yeah well if we’re talking robes turning into capes then you all seen the one in brisbane when he came out to the sound of thunder literally vibrating the cage like god himself was telling robbo to get a move on? the fireworks back then weren’t just flashy bangs—they were proper thunderclouds set off by some wag in the pyrotechnics team who’d clearly had one too many pots before clocking in. and there he was, strolling out like it was a sunday drive, gloves already in his hands, robe glowing under those yellow overheads like he’d soaked it in diesel first. ferguson turns up looking like he’d just finished a three-course meal and wasn’t ready to be told the kitchen’s closed, and the crowd’s already screaming so loud i could feel my fillings rattle. then round three hits and—bam—neck gone like someone flicked a switch on a microwave dinner. cleanest finish i’ve ever seen. still wonder if fergie ever tasted his own breakfast that morning, the way his face dropped before his arse even hit the canvas. ah well, they don’t make ‘em like that anymore, do they? kids today think a little light show and a couple of flashy shorts is enough, but Robbie? nah, he brought the whole bloody storm with him—fireworks included.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
oof caught me scrolling through my old phone pics looking for that rooftop shot of us all in the crew necks shaking like we were possessed and instead i found Robbie’s “how to glow in the dark” notes - turned out he wasn’t rehearsing the cape he was perfecting the ring walk for his future museum wax model 🤣🔥 whole folder was just scribbles like “shadow must split in 3”, “torch angle = 45° for maximum cape billow” and a doodle of him tapping gloves while looking at the crowd like “alright lads, curtain call in three… two… one… LET’S GO” ah well now we know why the ref never clapped back then cos he was too busy taking notes for the hall of fame entrance hall 🍿