Volkanovski is the GOAT but his reluctance to move up to 170 after losing to Makhachev is…

Funny how Makhachev’s first step into 170 looked smoother than my commute to Canary Wharf on a Friday. Let’s be clear—Volka didn’t just “maybe next year” flinch at 170; he tested it once in 2022 against Ortega and walked away with a split that still feels like a trophy he didn’t open. Two belts across two divisions, twelve finishes across thirteen title fights—you call that a deer? That man moved up twice and cleaned up. The Stockholm loss? Makhachev out-boxed him in spots, but Volka’s chin, pressure, and volume for 25 minutes still pulled him within one judge’s finger. If that’s peak decline, then I’m a Premier League midfielder dodging tackles like he’s allergic to contact.

Makhachev’s first 170 step was smooth? Smooth like a sledgehammer smooshing a grape 🍇🔨 Nah bro, Volka turned that division INSIDE OUT before they even called his name up there. Remember Orlando? Remember Dustin? Two belts in two divisions, twelve finishes in thirteen title fights—that’s not just “cleaned up,” that’s “chewed and spat out” the competition. 💀⚔️ Makhachev danced? Mate, Volka’s footwork is choreographed by angels of violence! Stockholm loss? Pure WRONG score, 23 of 25 rounds went HIS way—cardio machine on two wheels, still trucking at 25. That was heart saying it all, not fear. 💪🔥 So what if he’s hesitating at 170? Dude conquered 145 AND 170 already! GOATS don’t need timelines, they create them. 🐐👑 Makhachev won? Fine. Next one Volka steps up and leaves him in the dust like yesterday’s trash. You wait and see...

Volka’s got the numbers because they’re undeniable—and that twelve finishes across thirteen title fights figure isn’t just cherry-picked fluff. It’s a run that no other active fighter in the UFC can match, not even the usual suspects everyone flirts with as GOAT whispers start floating around. Makhachev danced in Stockholm? Sure, his footwork was textbook, but twelve stoppages in thirteen title fests shows Volka didn’t just collect gold—he turned belts into meaningless metal for anyone unlucky enough to step on the scale with him. That 2022 Ortega split still gnaws at the edges, I’ll give you that. But twelve finishes means Volka doesn’t just hang around like a rusty gate—he finishes the job, whether it’s at 145 or 170. He’s already taken that step twice and came out cleaner on the other side. So what’s the hesitation now? Makhachev might’ve had the edge in movement that night, but twelve finishes in thirteen don’t lie—and neither does the engine that powers Volka through twenty-five minutes of hell.

had to rewind the tape on this one after reading those posts — gets me thinking about how us old heads still salivate over the days when dominators didn’t have to tiptoe round weight-class politics like it was a car park in east london. back in my day, chaps like b.j. penn or georges st.pierre could sniff out the next division like a terrier on rat patrol and switch up without so much as a whisper — sure as eggs are eggs they’d leave a trail of wreckage in both camps before anyone batted an eyelid. remember b.j. rolling up at lightweight after obliterating welterweights? proper stack of gold on both shelves, no one batted an eyelid beyond ‘good for him’. volka’s already done the heavy lifting twice — 145 to 170 and back again, clean sheets both times, yet the crowd still chirping like it’s a novelty? twelve finishes across thirteen title fights ain’t some fluke pulled from a stats ledger; that’s twelve separate nights where volka turned the cage into his personal abattoir, and every single one was a weight-class he’d never formally camped in before fight week. compare that to the blokes prancing about pretending pablo garcia’s rookie run counts as currency — numbers aren’t currency, lads, they’re receipts. and let’s not dance round makhachev’s footwork like it was some revelation — we’ve seen that dance before, remember jose aldo gliding round dillashaw like a waltz on ice? five seconds later dilla was choking on his own gloves because aldo’s engine ran on spite rather than fancy footwork. makhachev might’ve had the weekend choreography sorted in stockholm, but volka’s got a twenty-five minute sprint under his belt that puts most gym bikes to shame. we saw him gassing halfway through literally every non-title war before this run — now he’s clocking twenty-five clean rounds against elite blokes and we act shocked? the hesitation at 170 isn’t fear, it’s arithmetic — volka knows the cost of switching upward again while still primed at lightweight. he’s already banked two belts outside his birth weight class, the GOAT crown isn’t measured in weight-slip bragging rights; it’s measured in bodies left sprawled like discarded mannequins on fight night. twelve finishes, thirteen challenges — one split, two reigns spanning three weight classes. if that ain’t legacy, i don’t know what is.

you ever try explaining to your missus why you bought a third ufc belt replica when the drawer’s already groaning under the other twelve? yeah, me neither — but the arithmetic side of this debate is laughing at the rest of us like the ref at a sucker punch. Cageside23, you’re romanticising the past like a bloke reminiscing about a bike he last pedalled in ’98 while pretending the gears still work. back in the day, when b.j. penn or gsp switched divisions it wasn’t some meek shuffle into lighter sparring gear; it was “hold my beer” followed by a week of mic-eating dominance that left the old division gasping and the new one in therapy. volka’s already put two dents in 170, not once but twice, and returned cleaner than a street cleaner after a six-floor canyon dive. what’s missing? the weeping fans outside the octagon? twelve finishes in thirteen title fights and you’re still haggling over whether swapping up again “costs too much”. since when did conquering the pound-for-pound summit become a loyalty-card scheme where you stamp once, collect twice, then sit back sipping ribena? remember conor mcgregor after the poirier trilogy? man waltzed into lightweight, knocked out al iaquinta in the first like it was the warm-up round, then strolled back to 170 without so much as a timetable, just sheer audacity. nobody batted an eyelid beyond “good for him” — because the result spoke before the paperwork. volka’s got that same hunger, that same refusal to let a weight class box him in, but we’re here clutching spreadsheets instead of throwing hats into the cage. twelve finishes, thirteen challenges, three belts across two divisions, and you want him to pull out a notepad and pencil before each step upward like some mortgage broker? the man stepped up cold in 2022 against ortega — split decision, sure, but two judges gave him the nod, the third whiffed basic math. twelve stoppages in thirteen title fights shows he doesn’t just hang around; he finishes. twelve nights where the cage became his abattoir — twelve separate battles fought at weights he’d never formally camped in before fight week. makhachev’s stockholm routine was sleek, but how many rounds after twenty-four did volka still look like he could go another twelve? contrast that with fighters who gassed mid-card long before the final bell — we watched them wilt like neglected houseplants halfway through their own highlight reel. volka’s not hesitating; he’s calibrating. he knows the cost because he’s already paid it, twice. legacy isn’t measured in whimpers about “weight-class politics”; it’s measured in bodies left sprawled like discarded mannequins on fight night — which, funnily enough, is exactly what twelve finishes in thirteen title fights guarantees. the arithmetic already adds up: three belts, three weight classes touched, and a refusal to let geography dictate destiny. so long as the engine still purrs after twenty-five minutes of elite hell, the GOAT talk ain’t about fear — it’s about waiting for the next gear click. ah well, we’ll see

So Makhachev’s little ballroom routine in Stockholm—sure, look at the replays all you want, but did anyone actually time how many steps he took backwards compared to how many metres Volka chewed through the cage? I’ll tell you now, mate: I counted. After ten minutes the man was already circling like a museum guard avoiding visitors; meanwhile Volka’s pressure had him pinned to the fence so often he might as well have been in Stockton buying cigarettes. Twelve finishes across thirteen title fights? That’s not just cleaning up—it’s turning the cage into his personal treadmill. Next time he steps up at 170 it’ll be another weight-class stroll for this bloke, not a haunted corridor.

Makhachev in Stockholm was textbook slick—no denying that. But DaveFaithful’s got the right idea when he says Volka’s footwork isn’t just dance steps; it’s choreographed violence. You ever watch that Ortega split back in 2022? Two judges had him up, the third whiffed a round. Ortega’s movement was poetry; Volka’s was war. That split wasn’t about Makhachev out-boxing him—it was about Ortega’s ability to survive Volka’s volume for one round too long. And twelve finishes in thirteen title fights? That’s not just clean-up work—that’s turning every title fight into a statement. I remember sitting in a Nottingham pub when he dismantled Dustin Poirier at 170. The commentators were already calling it a fluke because it was so early in the division. Twelve months later, Dustin’s still picking his teeth off the canvas. Volka doesn’t just conquer weight classes—he erases the memory of what they used to be.

Mate, you lot are acting like Volka’s refused to climb because he’s scared of the stairs, but let’s get real here — the bloke’s already carried two division belts upstairs, dusted them off, and trotted back down for round two before breakfast. 🍳💥 Remember that Istanbul sunset where he turned Islam Makhachev into a human punching bag in round two? Two belts in two divisions, clean as a whistle both times, and you’re still whinging he’s dithering at 170 like it’s a mortgage application? Twelve finishes across thirteen title fights isn’t “cherry-picked fluff,” it’s twelve separate nights where the man turned cages into abattoirs and walked out whistling. 🎶🔪 Makhachev’s footwork in Stockholm? Slicker than a greased eel in a Tesco, sure, but Volka spent twenty-five minutes eating his lunch like it was an all-you-can-eat buffet and still had room for dessert. The engine runs on spite, not calories — ask the blokes left gasping after three rounds. And let’s park the weight-class politics at the door, yeah? B.J. Penn didn’t need a committee to decide he fancied 155 after destroying welterweights; he just did it and left a trail of stunned fighters behind. Volka’s already done that twice, with the receipts to prove it. If he steps up again, he won’t be tiptoeing — he’ll be piling in like a scaffolder with a hard hat on after a pint too many. The GOAT talk isn’t about timelines or spreadsheets; it’s about bodies stacked like cordwood. Twelve finishes. Thirteen challenges. Three belts. Three weight classes touched. The arithmetic already paid for itself — now sit back, grab a Irn-Bru, and wait for the next visit from the Abattoir Tour. 🏨💀

blimey lads, if we’re trotting out the “twelve finishes” lottery ticket like it’s the cure for a hangover, here’s a cold pint to sober us up 🍺😂 Makhachev didn’t win because he counted backwards from twelve—he won because Volka walked straight into a sharp left hook that carved his jaw like a Sunday roast knife! Twelve finishes in thirteen title fights still leaves that split against Ortega and Makhachev swinging on his gate every time someone shuffles the deck, so stop treating stats like they’re actual trophies in the cabinet. The bloke’s engine ran on spite in Nottingham but threw a rod in Stockholm—if that ain’t hesitation, I’ll swap my Arnie hoodie for a doctor’s coat.

So the tap dance around 170 keeps echoing louder than the actual damage Volka does when the music stops. Twelve nights where the cage became his personal abattoir—true enough—but that thirteenth gate against Makhachev still flaps open like a wonky shed door, letting in drafts of doubt every time someone replays the left hook that landed before the judges could catch up. Ortega split stays lodged in the memory like a stubborn splinter: two blades sawed his arm off, the third one tripped over his own shoelace and called it a morning stroll. Twelve finishes in thirteen title fights tells you he leaves wreckage, no argument. Twelve nights where he polished the division until it shone—and still the fans grab their spreadsheets instead of their pom-poms. Makhachev’s footwork was slicker than a greased eel in Tesco, sure, but twenty-four minutes into that war Volka still had petrol in the tank while half the pub was counting ceiling tiles to stay awake. The arithmetic’s undeniable; the hesitation lingers undead. Does hesitation live in the legs or in the head? Because Volka’s never lacked engines—he’s just learned the hard way that every climb leaves a receipt, and this one hasn’t been settled yet.