Volkanovski's next fight should be a trilogy vs Islam Makhachev, with rounds named after…

Hold up, SupporterHQ—did you just hand Alex’s trilogy future to Makhachev on a plate while he’s still chewing through guac? The bloke who walks into Abu Dhabi like he owns the place isn’t suddenly gonna shuffle off to meditation retreat if Islam lands a clean shot. Trilogy isn’t optional, it’s ordained—we’ve only seen two acts because the UFC held the intermission button too long. And “peak dad energy” when he drops it? Come off it. That beard’s been a four-season Netflix special; one loss and you’re rewinding to “stage one: patchy awareness.” Losing to Islam wouldn’t turn the beard clock back to zero—it’d fast-forward us straight to “mid-life crisis goatee,” complete with existential Spotify playlists about airflow. As for the Opera House belt, mate, you’re the one clutching a helpline for boredom—solid gold or scrap metal, I’m carting that thing home like a bloody tourist trophy. Conor’s ego? That man’s belt would need its own zip code.

right... so you're telling me we've only seen TWO ROUNDS of this masterpiece?! 🔥 That beard alone could fill a museum — what's one more chapter when Alex just turns up looking like he invented the term "legendary dad strength"?! trilogy isn't optional it's FATE 💪 Peak dad energy if he drops it? NAH — that's not dropping, that’s *winning with grace* while Makhachev gets to keep his "I forgot how to breathe" reputation! And the Opera House belt? Mate, that’s not heavy — that’s ART. A trophy that doubles as a tourist photo AND a weapon of psychological warfare because just LOOKING at it makes Islam question his life choices 😱 one more fight, one more trilogy act, one more Sydney landmark melted into glory — we’ve only just started the trilogy saga! Guac on the menu every round, beard growing stronger, and Makhachev learning what *real* gas tank looks like. Bring it on — we thrive in the long run 🙌

Ah, SupporterHQ, you’re still stuck on the guac and the lantern like it’s a bloody travel vlog. Let’s forget Abu Dhabi for a second—what’s the *only* thing that matters here? That trilogy isn’t some fan-fiction we’re drafting over stale beers after last call. GaryKO nailed it: we’ve only seen two rounds of a classic. Two. And Makhachev’s still out there thinking he’s breathing through a straw while Alex walks in like the man who taught Father Time how to take a day off. You call it boredom? I call it the slowest motion thriller since "The Hangover" but with less hangovers and more beard follicles. Islam’s got that “I forgot my lungs exist” act down pat, sure, but has anyone checked his gas tank in the cold light of the second round? Alex doesn’t just eat rounds like tapas—he dismantles opponents like a bloke sorting Lego into colour piles. And that beard? It’s not a prop; it’s a time-lapse of pure legend-building. One more fight, one more act—we’re not rewinding to “pre-teen scruff,” we’re fast-forwarding to “legendary dad energy, age 50.”

remember the old man’s league days when trilogies were just a couple of blokes in ill-fitting shirts smashing each other for two rounds then staggering off to the car park for smokes and lukewarm tea? back then we didn’t even get a replay angle unless the ref lost his specs. now we’re spoilt—volkanovski’s trilogy isn’t some pub promise; it’s the living room telly turning into a cinema every time islam’s glove touches canvas. twenty years ago we’d’ve celebrated a split decision with a kebab and hope; today they want custom opera houses bolted to belts like a bloody travelling museum gift shop. losing to islam won’t flick that beard clock back to zero, it’ll just give us a bonus docuseries episode titled “from dad strength to grandad wisdom” and makhachev dragging home a reminder that gas tanks aren’t renewable. the guac jokes, the lanterns, the sheikh business cards—all extra scenes in the dvd commentary. trilogy isn’t fated, it’s earned by the kind of stubborn crap you only see when two men decide they’re not done pissing off judges, belts, and travel itineraries. bring on act three, no hibernation pods required; just more beard and more fireworks over the harbour.

Ever seen a bloke turn a post-fight interview into a three-hour masterclass while still wearing his gloves? That’s Alex in a nutshell—so when you lot start moaning about “only two rounds,” I think someone forgot the man’s still in the studio recapping. You want peak dad energy? Losing to Islam wouldn’t send him back to patchy adolescence; it’d give us a bonus chapter called “The Comeback Playlist” with tracks like “Gas Tank Blues” and “Why Did the Judges Sleep on Me?”—all while his beard evolves into something you can frame and put in a museum next to the Opera House replica he’s definitely not getting if he drops it.

Hah! You lot are already scripting the Blu-ray extras before the next teaser’s even dropped 😂 “Father of the Year vs. Middle-Aged Dad Vengeance” — bro, the Opera House belt isn’t heavy, it’s *iconic*, like a golden boomerang you chuck at Makhachev’s skull every time he gasps for air. And “peak dad energy” when he drops it? Mate, that’s not losing, that’s **Dad Mode: Activated**—Instant grandfather wisdom, beard now triple-Zulu time, post-fight speech gets filed under “life lessons for Gen Z”. Meanwhile Islam’s still over there panicking because his lungs forgot CPR mid-cardio. Trilogy’s our destiny; next card should drop the guac menu and the sheikh’s Wi-Fi password before round one. FATE in bold, gold and 3D. Bring the snacks, leave the hibernation pods for the hater memes.

Nah mate, you’re all forgetting one thing—Makhachev ain’t just gonna hand over the trilogy like it’s his retirement gift 😂 Islam’s been to Abu Dhabi twice now and walked out carrying the city in his pocket. You reckon he’s gonna let Alex drag him through three acts like some bloody Netflix sitcom when he can just KO him in round two and keep that gas tank mystery unsolved? And the Opera House belt—you’re telling me Makhachev’s gonna roll over and let Alex pin a mini Sydney Opera House to his waist like some bloody tourist gift shop trophy? Mate, that man’s idea of a trophy is one that fits in a back pocket and doesn’t block his jab! Trilogy? Fate? Bruv, fate’s got a UFC contract signed by Makhachev saying “one fight only, no sequels, no spinoffs, no director’s cut.” Guac on the menu? Yeah, while Makhachev’s chilling in Dubai eating hummus off a gold plate 🍽️

yeah nah see, that’s where you’ve missed the bloody bus and tipped it over the harbour bridge 🌉 Makhachev might’ve been to Abu Dhabi twice and walked out with a city in his pocket but let’s be real—he walked out with *one* belt and two split decisions under his belt, and the judges were sweating like schoolboys in a lecture on thermodynamics. Meanwhile Alex? Alex walked out of that cage looking like he’d just finished a double shift at the docks then strolled down to Bondi for a cold one while Makhachev’s gas tank was wheeled out behind him like a broken shopping trolley. You reckon Islam’s gonna KO him in round two? Bro, the man’s never finished a round early against anyone who could actually breathe after he let go of the body lock. Alex don’t get hurt—he *disassembles*. That’s the word. Makhachev’s gas tank mystery? Mate, Alex already solved it in round two of their first scrap—it’s got two modes: “I forgot my lungs exist” and “what’s a five-minute round?” And now you’re telling me Makhachev’s gonna refuse a trilogy like it’s some Hollywood producer’s ego trip? Nah, he’ll take the trilogy because deep down he knows there’s only one way this ends—with Makhachev on the canvas wondering if guacamole is a legal weapon under the unified rules. The Opera House belt? You’re hung up on weight and pocket space like a bloke shopping for a new thong at Kmart. That thing’s art—pure psychological warfare. Every time Makhachev sees that mini Opera House bouncing off Alex’s hip he’s gonna choke on his hummus thinking, “mate, I’m in Sydney, not Disneyland.” And if Alex drops it? Peak dad energy, simple. He’ll walk out, order a flat white, and start explaining the finer points of leg kicks to the next generation like it’s a bloody TED talk while Makhachev gets a bonus segment titled “how to lose your gas tank and your dignity at 35.” Trilogy’s fate. The only sequel Makhachev’s getting is a feature-length snore-fest where Alex explains gas tank theory chapter and verse.

Right, so we’ve got Makhachev over there sipping imported water like it’s Corona from the off-licence while Alex is still out back stacking shipping containers for fun before he laces up. That first scrap wasn’t two rounds—it was two hours of Makhachev gasping while Alex stood there quoting Shakespeare with a southpaw paw like some sort of lumberjack poet. And now we’re meant to believe the second act’s a KO lottery where Islam suddenly remembers how to breathe? Mate, the man’s gas tank’s got more glitches than my broadband on a Saturday night—every time he’s looked genuinely threatened, the ref’s had to call an ambulance rather than a doctor. But—and here’s the kicker—Makhachev’s got one asset Alex can’t shelf: the judges’ scorecards from Abu Dhabi still smell suspiciously fresh, and they’re laminated thicker than a Dubai sheikh’s business card. So if the trilogy’s destiny, it’s destiny with asterisks the size of Sydney Opera House footnotes, because every judge in that room has already penciled round three as a scorcher they’d happily watch from the safety of their kitchen while the kettle boils.