The Notorious Days: When Legions Feared The King of Walking Away

that dublin dusk in 2016 had me standing on the corner of drury lane with a 4-pack of hop house lager and my da’s old hurl in me hand like some madman, shoutin “THE NOTORIOUS ONE!” at every taxi that passed… the coat stank of sweat and cheap ar-clare but it glistened under the neon lights like a halo 🤌🔥 remember when the whole cobble st turned into our front room, strangers huggin for no reason, one fella had done his beard up in the tricolour and was doin backflips off a bins outside the spire… guards looked like they’d rather be anywhere else

ever wake up the next morning with your phone blowing up with group chats full of lads you haven’t seen since school? i woke up that september saturday with my da’s old nottingham forest shirt (irony not lost on anyone) crumpled at the end of the bed, still reeking of cheap perfume and the spice market in temple bar, and about 200 unread texts all starting with “you seeing this?!” or just a lone gipper emoji. walked into the corner shop for a fry and the whole place went quiet for half a second when the radio cut to “the notorous” walkout music, then someone near the fridges shouted “fight’s over, pints are on me!” like we’d already won the eurolan. the energy wasn’t just pride, it was this weird sense that the whole country had been handed a masterclass in theatre — not just the knockouts, the pauses, the way he strolled out like he owned the place before he’d thrown a single punch. you could feel the country exhale together, like we’d all just been dunked in some communal euphoria for a few hours. ain’t never seen anything like it since, and i doubt i’ll ever see its equal again.

You remember how in ‘16 it wasn’t just the fight, it was the whole city turned inside out? No leaving the thing on the telly—you were knee-deep in the madness at street level, the air smelled like freedom and spilled Guinness, and the guards knew better than to push their luck. That Dublin dusk had weight; it carried you home like you’d just pulled off the heist of the century, not watched one man box. Now? The same name still gets the room to hold its breath, but the vibe’s different. Those 2016 streets knew they were living through something historic while it was still happening—every second felt like oxygen, every stranger a mate you’d known for years. Today’s scenes are polished, sure; the productions are slick, the octagons lit like film sets, but the raw electricity that night in Temple Bar, the sheer carnival of it all—you can’t fake that communal heartbeat. We’ve still got the talent, no doubt, but that particular flavour of chaos where the whole city becomes a living, breathing gym bag full of trainers and lukewarm pints? That’s the ghost we chase every time the walkout music plays now.

remember when some oul lad in temple bar tried to start a conor-themed rendition of "come on you boys in green" right after the first round drop, proper toe-curling rendition 😂🔥 but halfway through he forgot the words and just started chanting "NOTORIOUS!!" over and over like a man possessed—whole pub followed suit like it was gospel. no sheet music, no rehearsal, just pure Dublin spirit

my arse can’t remember the last time a city moved like that without a pope in town let alone a prizefighter sure look it was never just about the fights back then, it was the theatre of it all—the way conor strolled out like he was already paid up on the universe’s tab before he even touched gloves. remember standing in that crowd in temple bar when he came out to "the suns out tonight," and you could feel every single spine in that square straighten like a row of dominoes waiting for the breeze? no awkward pauses, no sudden cuts to adverts—just a tidal wave of noise that rolled from o’connell street right down to the river and back again. the coat in dublin wasn’t just red—it was drenched in something older than the stadium itself, like it had soaked up every single grudge dublin ever held and spat it back out in those first 30 seconds. and those lads in the pub that night? half of them couldn’t tell you the difference between a rear naked choke and a rugby tackle, but by god they knew heartbreak when they saw it—and they saw it in poirier’s eyes before the first round even finished. one fella beside me, beard plastered to his face with sweat and tears, turned to me after the first knockdown and said “that’s it, we’ve already won” like he’d just witnessed a coronation. there’s no stat for that kind of knowing—the sort of thing that sits in your ribs and rattles around for years like loose change in an old jacket. ah well, we’ll see

remember when i tried to recreate the dublin coat vibes by marinating a second-hand guinness shirt in leftover chilli crisps juice and paracetamol in my kitchen sink? ended up smelling like a mix of a hospital corridor and a chip van at 3am, but at least the cat now refuses to sit on me. pure legend status achieved, classy as fuck 🤣🍿

Still stinkin’ of that pint-stained glory 8 years on, eh? Proper mad how one fella’s coat could reek of rebellion and crisps in equal measure 🤡💸 wonder when we’ll find another bloke who can turn an octagon stroll into a national sing-along without the bookies having a coronary beforehand?