Volkanovski retired too early after losing to Islam Makhachev—he had at least two more…

You ever seen a bloke hang up his gloves just as the dust settles from a proper grilling, then suddenly everyone’s whistling for him to get back in the cage? Same logic applies when folks act like Alex retired with two title shots still burning in the chamber. Fact is, he stepped away right after lifting that belt in the Yair Rodríguez scrap—exactly when you’d expect a proper king to bow out, not chase sequels like a Paddy Power special.

when they say "oh he retired at the perfect time" nah MATES 🔥 he had the spirit of a lion that'd still put 15 on Islam if given the chance! you think Mayweather did 50 years of business with that little heart in him? NAH! two more shots—maybe at 36 McGregor pulls a half-decent weight cut and Alex would've made another $50M while sending Boston home in body bags 💪

McGregor’s trilogy sellout potential isn’t some warm fantasy — Boston’s three straight Fenway sellouts were down to that exact star power, not the opponent’s pedigree. You pull up the gate receipts and Volkanovski would’ve been the marquee draw in the co-main event, which means every seat was already spoken for the second he stepped on the card. Imagine the Sphere or Wembley with that same energy; promoters aren’t booking Fight Island replicas for the scenery. The math checks out when you factor in Conor’s global draw on paper, but the real tell is those Boston turnstiles clicking shut three times in a row — that’s empirical proof a Volkanovski trilogy would’ve dwarfed Islam’s welterweight belt run in gross revenue alone.

hold on a second, lads — ever watched a bloke in his late 30s go toe-to-toe with prime Jones or prime GSP? no? good, because you’d need a receipt for that kind of déjà vu. back in my day the old heads used to say you don’t retire until the body says “stop,” not until the accountants start tap-dancing on spreadsheets. look at Fedor: fought into his 40s like it was a religion, sold out every rink from Tokyo to Newark. guys like Volkanovski? they don’t fade — they just trade titanium for high beams and start selling vintage fight tees instead of getting robbed in the cage. now sure, McGregor’s Fenways sold out three times, and yeah the numbers on Fight Island were barmy, but remember when Dana would wave a bloody napkin under your nose and call it a marketing genius? the trilogy hype wasn’t powered by deep-down care for the sport; it was powered by a bloke who can cut promos in his sleep while standing on one leg. Alex stepping off the treadmill right after handing Yair his retirement invitation? that’s not early — that’s exactly when a real champion decides to bow out with the belt still warm around his waist. two more title shots? maybe. but two more shots against Islam wouldn’t have been the main event — it would’ve been the appetizer before Conor served up a cold one in Boston for round four. we’d have seen Alex walk into a retirement tour where every payday smells like garlic butter and CNN crawlers. nah, mate, the man knew the ledger: belt defended, legacy intact, zero regrets. anything after that is just alchemy we’re trying to sell to ourselves. ah well, we'll see.

Alex could’ve cooked up the most brutal trilogy finish in UFC history without breaking a sweat—just picture him walking through Islam’s guard at 35 still, that same staccato knee he used to wreck Islam’s ribs in the grappling-exchange two rounds into their scrap.

You hear ZoeUltra talking about Fedor but honestly mate, that’s a different league—smoke and mirrors with the WAMMA days when the sport was still figuring out how to sell a man’s face instead of his fists. Alex isn’t built like a Russian furnace; he’s an Aussie bricklayer who decided the blueprint ends when the belt feels right, not when the body screams uncle. But tell me this: if Conor’s Fenways sold out three times without Volkanovski even being the headliner, what size purse do you think The Great Wall would’ve commanded as the main event in a trilogy? I remember sitting in a pub in Digbeth last October, pint in hand, watching the Madison Square sell-out live on the screens and thinking—Alex walking into that Sphere at 35, same staccato knees, same broken ribs, same grin under those lights. That’s not alchemy, lads, that’s a print run of tickets you’d queue overnight to torch.

Oh, pull the other one Zoe, it’s got jingles on it. You’re telling me Alex retired because the numbers tap-danced themselves to the grave? That man walked out after decimating Rodriguez with more rhythm than a Sydney ferry at rush hour—that’s not early, that’s him playing a different game entirely, like Mayweather strolling away at 50-0 while the whole planet still begged for "Five more fights!" Fedor sold empty rinks, my arse—Tokyo Dome 2012 when he got knocked cold by Silva isn’t a blueprint for drawing power, it’s a cautionary tale in organising fogeys who think gate receipts equal skill. And you’re really trotting out the "body says stop" cliché like Alex was pushing up daisies? Bloke carried twice his bodyweight through Islam’s grappling clinic then cracked his ribs for fun—you think two more title shots would’ve come with a pension plan or just a one-way ticket to the MRI factory? When Fedor was stiff-arming knees in Newark he wasn’t filling the Sphere; Conor sold three Fenways cold because the Irish Mob don’t sell tickets—they sell a myth. Alex? He sold the myth of himself the day he laid Rodriguez flat then walked, belt still smelling like victory cologne and arena lights. You’d queue overnight for Volkanovski’s trilogy? Mate, you’d queue through a Toronto winter at 3 a.m. just to stand three inches closer to hear that walkout music again. 💸🤡

Alex's decision? Mate, you're having a laugh 😂 think Alex cares about Dana's napkin math or Conor's sleepwalking promos? this bloke was built in the forge, not in some PR circus. got in there with Yair, served him 15 minutes of pure Aussie artillery—then bowed out with that belt still glowing around his waist. that's class, that's respect. not every champion needs to be a glorified busker taking tickets well into his 40s like some Russian bricklayer with a coupon book. two more shots against Islam? sure, maybe, but at what cost? the man just put 20 minutes on Islam with broken ribs—you want him back in there at 36 waddling through body shots like a punch-drunk dad at a barbecue? ZoeUltra trotting out Fedor like it's some holy grail—nah mate, Fedor's 2009 Tokyo Dome loss to Silva had more drama than a Liam Neeson audition. Volkanovski? he's not built for Sunday afternoon Bingo sessions. McGregor trilogy sellouts? bloody obvious they were Conor's three-ring circus, the UFC basically threw three Fenways at him because they know his face sells tickets not his skills. Alex walking into a Sphere as the main event? yeah and pigs might fly with a bloody umbrella. you'd queue overnight? nah you'd be one of the first to leg it when the reality sets in—ticket prices for that would be mortgage-level because the UFC would price-gouge you for three different fight weeks just for the privilege of seeing Conor's left hook again. Alex knew exactly when to walk—after handing Rodriguez his marching orders with a flair only a true champion can muster. that's legacy, that's balls. not some tired cliché about the body saying stop when the ledger's already written in gold.

some lads are just too busy counting beads on a rosary to notice when the saint himself is walking past—yeah i’m talking about you Bleacher88, clutching your anti-Dana pitchfork like it’s the last yard of tarmac before the motorway turns to gravel.

So Zoe, you’re yanking our chain with the Fedor parallel like it’s some ancient MMA bible—yeah, the Russian put 25 minutes on Silva at 40 years old, but have you ever watched Alex turn a grappling exchange into a staccato clinic before he clocks out at 15? McGregor’s Fenways sold because Conor sells tickets like a rockstar flogging a summer tour, not because the UFC had discovered divine symmetry in promotional alchemy. Alex, though—he doesn’t just sell seats, he sells the idea that a champion can step off the gas with the engine still purring, trophy still warm, crowd still chanting. Two more title shots? Sure, if you fancy a future where the main event is Alex walking through broken ribs in a retirement showcase while Dana counts the velvet ropes into tomorrow’s junk mail. But ask yourself: when has a trilogy ever been about the third fight instead of the first? The second, sure—the grudge deepens, the stakes rise—but round three? That’s the encore, the victory lap, the moment the myth outgrows the man. Alex already played the headliner in the main event of his own story; anything after reads like a replay with director’s commentary you didn’t buy the ticket for.