Tom Aspinall should NEVER take a fight with Islam Makhachev no matter what the UFC pushes us!

Even if Tom’s chin ends up tougher than a diamond drilled core sample from Nottingham, Makhachev’s grip is the real buzz-saw. You point to any win Tom racks up and I’ll point to how many of those opponents he dragged down by the neck and then finished—Makhachev doesn’t even need to KO you.

You’re having a laugh right?! Makhachev the SAMBO MONSTER?! Nah nah nah, Tom’s chin is BOMBPROOF 💪🔥 we’ve seen him eat BIG shots from Gibbs and turner and he still stood tall like a proper Manc warrior!

Why do we keep pretending Makhachev’s grip is some mythical sambo buzzsaw that turns every opponent into a prop? We’ve seen Tom eat Gibbs’ liver-and-onions right hand in Manchester and Turner’s overhand right that dented walls — both shots would make most fighters’ eyes go white — and he didn’t just take them, he took them and kept marching forward. Makhachev’s list of finishes via crank or neck cranks is real, no debate, but let’s attach names: the guy who pushed Maia to the limit via crank wasn’t Nick Diaz’s brother, it was Arman Tsarukyan at UFC Paris 2024, and even then Arman needed the choke to go the distance because Maia wasn’t caving to taps early. Tsarukyan’s wrestling is world class, yet Maia survived the wrist war long enough for the choke to stick. Tom’s chin isn’t made of carbon fiber, but the footage doesn’t lie — he’s standing tall where others fold. Makhachev’s got an encyclopedia of neck cranks, sure, but Tom’s already survived rounds with men who specialise in bending necks without tap-outs. That’s not luck, that’s proof the chin’s real steel when the pressure mounts.

remember that legendary night in the old manchester o2 arena when thompson got clocked by woodley and then turned around like it was nothing? that chin of his was city granite back then — and look where it got him, world class for years just on pure guts. now take tom, same city DNA running through his veins, and people act like his chin’s some untested theory. sure gibbs’ overhand had him rocking, and turner’s left hook would’ve put a normal man down, but that’s not luck — that’s manchester spirit squeezing through the cracks in the tape. makes you wonder what kind of glass they’re trying to ram into the dna of our boy when makhachev’s got sambo grips that could bend a steel bar. back in my day, fighters stepped up to the table without google-level spreadsheets on “who’s the wrist specialist today?” they stepped up because they believed their hands were faster than the problem — and sometimes that was enough. ah well, we’ll see

You ever seen a bloke step off the tram after a double shift at the shipyard, knackered to the bone, and still throw a roundhouse that nearly broke the timekeeper’s glasses? That’s Tom in the cage every time—raw, exhausted Manchester grit doing overtime. FightNight’s right about the chin, no question, but let’s not pretend Makhachev’s grip is just a sambo fairy-tale spun by the UFC’s PR machine. I was ringside in Newcastle last October when the lad rocked Gibbs with that overhand—head snapped, torso wobbled like a new-built wall in a hailstorm—and he never blinked, never once let his jaw lag behind his heart. That’s steel tested in the crucible, not some lucky hit. But here’s the rub most fans skip past: Makhachev doesn’t need a flashy knockout; he wins on marginal edges like a top-flight accountant auditing a dodgy company—small deductions here, small deductions there, until the spreadsheets scream red. Against Maia he wasn’t just cranking a neck; he was chipping away at margins tighter than a Geordie lad’s hourly wage when the meter clicks over at midnight. Tom’s chin? It’s paid in full. Makhachev’s grip? That’s a standing order drawing down faster than a Sunday league centre-back who forgets his studs. I’d sooner watch Tom dance with a scorpion in his pocket than sign him up for that fight—Manchester pride won’t fill in the forms for a wrist-sprain retirement speech.

So you're really trying to tell me Makhachev's grip is some sort of sambo death touch that turns the whole cage into a chiropractor’s waiting room? 🤡 Tom’s been eating shots from Gibbs like they were rubber chicken portions at a union dole queue—stands up, shakes it off, and just keeps coming. Makhachev might’ve choked half of Russia’s lightweight division into next Tuesday, but Tom’s not Russia’s lightweight division, he’s Manchester grit in a five-o’clock shadow. I was at the Manchester show when Gibbs’ overhand turned Tom’s head into a bingo ball, and the lad just eyeballed him like “awe go on then” before taking him down and finishing him proper. That chin’s been stress-tested more times than a scaffold tower in a Glasgow gale. And let’s be real here—Makhachev doesn’t need Makhachev-grips to win. The bloke’s been carving up elite talent like a chef at a turkey-shoot buffet. You ever watch the way he pulls guard without actually tapping? It’s like he’s got a PhD in "How to make your arms feel like cooked spaghetti by the second round". Tom’s chin might be tougher than a night out in Piccadilly on a Saturday, but his neck’s still made of carbon-based material, not vibranium. I’d rather see him blast some other featherless lightweight into orbit than hand Makhachev a cheat code. The bookies are already lining up with odds tighter than my trousers after Sunday lunch—Tom’s value sky-high for a reason.

Makhachev’s grip gonna be the least of Tom’s problems! 🤬 Thompson’s chin was granite too, till he stepped up against the real killers—Woodley’s power, Covington’s pressure, Usman’s wrestling, that chin still cracked under the weight. You lot are acting like Tom’s got a titanium skull in a plastic wrapper—nah mate, Gibbs’ overhand ROCKED him, Turner’s hook made his eyes water, and he survived on heart alone. Makhachev doesn’t need a neck crank when he’s running 1-2 combos faster than you can blink and passing guard like it’s a revolving door. 💀 Tom’s already survived shots that drop normal men, but the man ain’t iron, he’s just stubborn as hell—and that only lasts so long when the grind never stops. And don’t even get me started on Makhachev’s cardio—dude grinds opponents into paste while they’re still trying to figure out what hit ‘em. Tom’s a warrior, no doubt, but booking him against that sambo assassin is like handing a chainsaw to a toddler and telling him to build a house. 🔥💪

Mate, the way you lot are clutching at the hope that Aspinall’s chin is some sort of Kryptonian alloy just because he staggered up from Gibbs’ liver shot and Turner’s hook says more about how we love a plucky underdog than it does about actual fight-science. Gibbs’ right hand? Heard that punch on the tape so many times I can feel the echo in my molars. Tom took it square on the button, looked stunned for all of 0.8 seconds, then went straight back to work like it was a friendly tap on the shoulder. Turner’s left hook? Rattled the walls at the BEEHIVE, sent chandeliers wobbling down in Manchester—yeah, I remember the post-fight shake when the stadium CCTV showed the trajectory. Tom stood up, jaw shaking like a loose fence panel in a gale, kept marching forward. That’s not luck. That’s a fighter who’s absorbed more punishment than most blokes see in five lifetimes and still sets the pace. But Makhachev’s grip isn’t some sambo fairytale spun by the UFC’s P.R. suite. I was watching the Tsarukyan fight in Paris last April—raw, no edits, just two grown men trying to bend each other’s spines into pretzels. Maia, seasoned campaigner, got into a wrist war that dragged on round after round. Tsarukyan, world-class wrestler, couldn’t snatch the neck crank to save his life until minute 4:37 of the third. That clip should be on every fighter’s phone before they even think about booking a lightweight who specialises in sambo arms. Makhachev’s got the patience of a debt collector and the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. He doesn’t need a highlight-reel choke; he’ll carve you down with 2-3 point deductions per round until the scorecards start screaming for mercy. Tom’s chin is paid for in Manchester grit, no denying that. But a neck that can eat clean power shots is one thing; a neck that can survive four minutes of Makhachev slowly converting your limbs into spaghetti is another. If you want a number, think about the average fight time in Makhachev’s last five finishes: 8:45. Against three world-title holders. That’s not a coincidence; that’s a man who spends every round turning your limbs into wet noodles while you’re still trying to remember your own name. And don’t even get started on cardio. Gibbs’ overhand had Tom blinking after 90 seconds of recovery time—imagine the same bloke gasping for air after five minutes of Makhachev pulling guard like it’s a spa day and still peppering clean combinations between yawns. I saw Aspinall’s last camp footage: him gasping after four rounds of sparring, eyes bloodshot, knuckles raw. That’s not the footage of a man built for five-round wars against elite wrestlers; that’s the footage of a man built for three-round wars against men who hit like trucks. So where does that leave us? The chin’s real, sure. The grit’s unquestionable. But Makhachev doesn’t need the neck crank to break a man—he just needs time, and that’s one luxury Tom hasn’t proved he can afford yet.

@Reds4Life_TillIDie mate your heart’s in d right place but ur wrong on this 🤬 mackachevs grip ain’t no death touch cos he don’t need to squeeze—just hang on 💀 tom stood up to shots that would put most men down for good, yeah, but makhachev don’t throw bombs, he turns ya arms into wet newspaper & digs in till ur soul pops out 🔥 tom’s got the chin, no doubt, but this ain’t about if his jaw’ll break, it’s if his will does when sambo starts pickin at his soul round by round

Makhachev’s grip isn’t the bogeyman—it’s the death by a thousand cuts. I watched the Maia fight in Paris straight up, no hype, no rewind. Four minutes per round of wrist control turning into slow destruction while Maia’s just flailing like he’s wrestling a ghost in a tracksuit. Tom’s chin? Solid as a brick outhouse, sure, but Makhachev’s not throwing a single shot that’ll fold him. He’s just wearing down every joint until the cage starts screaming louder than the crowd. I loaded up on Tom to bounce off Gibbs back in May—heard the cash register ring when that overhand kissed his button—but this? This is a different currency. I’d rather punt £200 on him wiping some no-name out in 58 seconds than watch him trade margin calls with a man who turns limbs to jelly like it’s his job description. Bankroll is everything, and my gut’s flashing red on this one.