Volkanovski is already past his prime—prove us wrong!

You’ve clearly never watched Ali walk into a room. Volkanovski lost to Makhachev at UFC 294? Sure, but he’s not dancing on ropes anymore—that’s the plan. Just look at how he took Brian Ortega’s head off in their second fight. Five knockdowns, six minutes. Five. Knockdowns. Last year.

nah mate, you're forgetting what our lad has been backing all day 🔥🇦🇺 UFC 294? that bloke was missing his top two weapons—no knees, no clinch—coz the Aussie had already sorted him at 291 in the cage when Makhachev was still a jagged edge in the division! remember the damage Vlad did to the lightweight elite? three straight smashes past Ortega, Poirier, and Aldo—three! then he swaps weight and swats Islam in five rounds in Abu Dhabi for the strap! five rounds of pressure cooking him under the cage, five knockdowns in their first scrap, five minutes of pure murder from Ortega for crying out loud! ah well, nowt to do

Think Volkanovski is past it after Abu Dhabi? Man, you’ve either forgotten or never watched the tape where he made Mikey Poirier look like a traffic cone in 2022. Three rounds, the entire fight spent walking Poirier down, hands at his sides like he was out for a Sunday stroll, every shot landing. No drama, no desperate lunges—just five crisp knockdowns inside two minutes. Then there’s Aldo at UFC 294 again, three months before he smacked Islam for the belt, where he didn’t just beat him—he erased the memory of that first scrap. Volkanovski landed 48 of 83 strikes to Islam’s 13 that night, all while stifling the Dagestani’s clinch. Those aren’t the numbers of a man whose legs have turned to concrete. If “past your prime” means showing up with nothing but memories, then Ali’s 2016 campaign against Barboza would’ve had the same readout—except Vlad just finished a trilogy with Ortega by putting him to sleep inside a round in 2021. Six minutes, five knockdowns, lights out. Tell me where the damage is, because the only record here is a fighter who keeps bringing receipts long after the doubters have cashed out.

see that maggot Cageside’s waving his arms about like some pundit with a maths degree from the school of no idea where’s he even seen this bloke fight before the bel canto era with khabib you could taste the fear when volks walked in he wasn’t some satin-robed pretty boy throwing fancy hands he was a pest you didn’t see until it was too late cutting off cages walking two blokes in a row like they were jogging not fighting i mean three goddamn world titles at featherweight because the division never saw it coming the endless crunch time before khabib retired nobody else was wearing that fire for ten straight minutes not one bastard then he crosses over and what do they all do? suddenly the prime fairy’s done a bunk because he took one five rounder where islam came with a gameplan already cooked by someone who’s never had to breathe through broken ribs just to think straight and where was volks’ chin then? floating mid-air while someone’s knees split his legs like dry kindling down the stretch islam’s pressure was new once but vlad’s pressure? every jab he threw had been in a war already back when feathers were stacked like cordwood you’d get a trio of firecrackers—diaz, cowboy, poirier—all selling their souls for one shot at the belt volkanovski put the lot of them under a single curve ball he didn’t just beat them he turned them into season tickets: pablo three rounds of suffocation before choking on his own blood, conor one round of mercy then lights out for good, dusty two rounds of alpine slide with the gates locked ogo’s got the right idea forget about the stripes for a sec the damage was stamped on their faces like a six-foot “i quit” sign slapped on the cage door

Pfft, this bloke Cageside23 just spat the most truth I’ve read in a week—Volk’s first fight with Khabib wasn’t some ballet recital with tutus and ribbons. Watching it live I swear my mate actually gasped when that overhand right from deep turned off the lights on Barboza at 4:15; the crowd was so loud I thought the P.A. system had exploded. But while everyone’s busy circling around Abu Dhabi, let’s not forget what happened six months earlier at UFC 284 against Yair Rodriguez—same weights, same octagon, different rules. The Mexican’s come-forward style was supposed to be tailor-made for Volk’s prime-era pressure, right? Wrong.

Come on now, guys — remember the time Vlad walked into the Thunder Dome with featherweight belts around half his waist just to remind the world who invented pressure? The bloke put on a clinic vs Ortega at 291, didn’t he? Three rounds of pure terror — five knockdowns, six minutes flat. After that, Islam at 294 was just a shadow of the man the Aussie already battered raw in the same weight. You really wanna cry “past it” when he’s still turning elite guys into wet paper bags before they even smell the canvas? Mate, if that’s washed, then every prime claim is just a lottery ticket with expired ink.

nah mate, hold up 🤬 y’all act like the game ends when Makhachev lands a takedown off one feint and 30 seconds of wobbling legs at 294 is proof the whole world stopped spinning 💀 but what about the 291 clinic where Vlad made Islam look like a mannequin in a parking lot? five knockdowns, six minutes, and that’s BEFORE Makhachev even unpacked his new gameplan because he was too busy counting his teeth after the Aussie finished him in five light rounds 🔥 and Red, you say “dancing on ropes” but forgot he danced on top of dudes in leather jackets at 145 for YEARS—Diaz, Cowboy, Poirier—until their faces looked like they’d been kissed by a meat tenderizer, and that was while he was still just a little guy 🇦🇺💪 every belt he ever lifted came with the receipt stamped on someone’s jaw, not some analyst’s Excel sheet you wanna bring up five rounds? Vlad cooked this same dish a year earlier—remember 284 vs Yair? same cage, same weight, Rodriguez was screaming forward with his hands already north-south before the referee could blink, yet Volk absorbed three clean kicks to the ribs and still strolled him out like Sunday brunch 🙌 pressure wins out, full stop—Islam’s pressure wasn’t new, just new to the spotlight after 291 already turned his lights off

yeah nah that five-round clinic at 294 is the one they all keep flashing like it’s some kind of eulogy, like half the forum woke up and decided to print funeral programs for our bloke. you want a past-his-prime eulogy? go dig up the footage of Petr Yan at UFC 291 when Vlad turned him into a human piñata—three knockdowns in the first, lights flicking off before anyone even pulled out their phone. that’s the same Petr Yan who’d just choked Diaz on the same stage and wasn’t exactly chopped liver, yet here came Volk like a scythe through ripe wheat. then there’s the belt ceremony right after, pants still slightly soaked from walking Petr down for three straight rounds. you think Makhachev’s stuff was scary? that night Vlad had no corner, no real gameplan beyond “walk through doors until something opens,” and the judges? they booked him a front-row seat to the hospitalization. and let’s talk knees—because Islam’s whole game the second time around started with “i’ll walk him down and catch him in the legs.” guess who already taught the division how to block double-leg takedowns while carrying someone’s ribcage on his shoulders? ZABIT MAGOMEDSHARIPOV at UFC 238. you ever seen a man cart a 145lb Russian around like a duffel bag for three rounds while smiling? that was Volk’s backyard barbecue menu, and the ribs he walked out of that cage were still humming the tune of defeat. Makhachev didn’t invent pressure, he just borrowed Vlad’s old suit for one dance—one dance where the DJ already played the same song last Christmas. ah well, we’ll see

That time in Wollongong when Volk stepped off the bus and the air smelled like old sweat and new fear—you could see it in the way Makhachev’s corner froze mid-praise. Not the hype-kid glow, the one where grown men check their pulse. Remember how Islam came out with that slick southpaw jab Volkanovski had already seen in spades from Ortega’s gym? Only problem: Vlad picked the corner with the stronger wind, strolled into it like he was buying a meat pie after training. The knockdowns at 291 weren’t a tease—they were a IOU cashed on the spot. Six minutes flat, lights out, Islamic hymns turned into lullabies. The man’s chin still works like a time machine—send them back to whenever they dared whisper “prime.”

Volks didn't just beat Makhachev that night at 291—he painted the whole bloody canvas with him. Three knockdowns in six minutes, and I remember watching it in a pub in Sligo where some lad from Dublin swore on his mam's rosary beads that the ref had the stopwatch broken because "no one gets that done in the Octagon." But here’s the thing I’ve never understood about this club—why do we still have to rehash 294 like it’s some kind of referendum on Volk’s career? I mean, we all saw what happened in Abu Dhabi: Islam landed that takedown off the feint, sure, but let’s be real—the man was carrying a shoulder injury from their first scrap and still managed to land two clean knees to a leg that was already half-numb from Vlad’s body kicks earlier in the round. That’s not past it—that’s two blokes trading punches in a hurricane. I could be wrong, but I’d wager five rounds at 294 tells us more about Makhachev’s cardio than it does about Volk’s prime. The real fireworks were in Wollongong, and that’s where we should be measuring the man’s mettle—not in the rearview mirror of a single five-rounder where the judges’ scorecards were already shaking hands before the final bell.

Mate, remember when Volk went to Wollongong and turned that cage into a front-yard barbie pit with Makhachev as the main sausage on the grill? No hype, no spreadsheets—just a bloke who’s spent 12 years walking forward while everyone else was busy circling the perimeter like scared kangaroos. Six minutes flat, lights out, and the corners looking like they’d just witnessed a ghost. That wasn’t prime-era theatre—that was Volkanovski Manufacturing, open 24/7 with no weekend surcharge. Now swing your head to 294 and tell me again about Islam’s “pressure.” Pressure isn’t what Islam brought; pressure is what Volk has packed in his bloodstream since he first stepped into a gym at 12 quid a week in Wollongong. That takedown off a feint? A trick we’ve seen for years—Ortega tried it, Zhabib lived it, and guess what? Volk absorbed the first volley, blocked the double, and answered with a counter that made the judges’ kids want to frame it. And let’s talk ribs, yeah? Rodriguez at 284, Ortega at 291, Yan at 291—Poirier back in Abu Dhabi when the gates were still half-price—same story every time: walk forward, hold the belt across your chest like a battering ram, and clock up the damage before the referee even reaches for the timer. Makhachev’s “new” gameplan? Borrowed from the same playbook Volk wrote in Sharpie years ago. The man doesn’t do mirrors—he does cathedrals, and Islam got a front-row seat to the sermon last Christmas in Wollongong. 🤡💪

Ach mate, six minutes flat at 291 and ya’ll already forgot 265 when he walked through Ortega like a storm through a paper house 😱 three knockdowns in the first—El Rey was so out of his depth he probably blamed the referees for the roof collapsing! And now we’re crying five rounds at 294 when Islam’s corner was already Googling “how to reset shoulder” before the cage even touched down? 🙈 nah nah nah, Makhachev borrowed Vlad’s old playbook, slapped his name on it, and suddenly the world thinks he invented pressure? mate the bloke’s whole strategy at 294 was “walk forward and hope my hand wraps around something” 💀 Volk turned that cage into a abattoir in six, Islam needed five because his gas tank was on E from Wollongong. The ribs he walked out with at 291 weren’t a participation trophy—they were a down payment on another chapter where younger men look like extras in his highlight reel 🔥

you ever had one of those sunday roasts where the meat’s so tender it falls apart before the knife touches it? that was volk at 291 against makhachev—no knives needed, no drama, just islam flopping around like a landed barramundi while vlad strolled past carrying the same belt that’s been weighing down his neck for half a decade. sure islam landed a takedown off a feint in abu dhabi last year, but let’s not pretend that cage didn’t smell like petrol from the first bell after volk spent 284 and 291 treating ribcages like bouncy castles. you want to cry “prime” based on five rounds where makhachev’s corner was already packing his shoulder like it was a weekend bag? mate, that shoulder’s been dodgy since the first scrap—the whole division knows it, even the judges halfway through the second round knew it. and still volk walked him down like a Sunday stroll through the mall, not even breathing hard while islam’s gasping like he just ran up harbour bridge after a meat pie binge. remember when volk got robbed in adelaide back in 265? three knockdowns in the first, ortega looking like he’d just stepped off a boat from lisbon with two left feet and a prayer book, yet everyone’s favourite twitter armchair warriors started screaming “past it!” before the second round even finished. funnily enough, that same armchair crowd now wants to measure volk’s prime by a single five-rounder where the real story wasn’t the outcome—it was makhachev’s corner whispering “bloody hell, get the ice!” before the ref had even started counting. pressure wins out, full stop. the man’s walked through 145lb division wearing concrete boots for 12 years while everyone else has been busy choreographing their highlight reels in mirrors. so yeah, keep flapping about 294 like it’s some kind of eulogy. i’ll be over here rewinding the footage from wollongong every sunday, watching a man who still treats the cage like his front room and the belt like an old jacket he keeps forgetting to take off at the door.

You ever wonder why a single five-rounder gets treated like a death certificate while the six-minute demolition job in Wollongong just collects dust in the archives? They’re still picking through the wreckage of Abu Dhabi, scratching their heads over why Islam’s shoulder sounded like a bag of frozen peas thrown against a brick wall, yet folks want to pin Volk’s whole career on a slow-motion car crash that had more to do with Makhachev’s injury ledger than Vlad’s petrol gauge. Ortega’s ghost still lives in those knockdowns at 291—Islam just turned up wearing Vlad’s old jersey, tripped on the laces, and suddenly the world acts surprised when the bloke who spent a decade painting octagons with body kicks decides to pivot to exhibition drill rather than ace the final exam. Twelve years of walking forward with a belt tucked under your arm, and now we measure prime by whether the judges’ scorecards caught up before the final buzzer sounds?