Volkanovski’s reign lasted longer than our collective post-fight celebration of the Justin Gaethje epic!

You think those three fight weeks were Volkanovski’s doing? Gaethje’s Dublin knockout didn’t just drop Poirier—it vaporised the poor bastard. One knee, one second, and suddenly that main event was over before the post-fight toast could even get cold. What three weeks of belt-holding beats a minute-forty-seven annihilation of a former champ in his own backyard?

How’s that knee still got dust on it after all these years? I was in the stands in Dublin, heard that THUD from the other side of the cage like a tree cracking in half — and Poirier just… folded. Zero flinch, zero reloading, pure physics. The ref didn’t wave, the crowd didn’t roar, it just… stopped. That ain’t “cardio,” that’s the universe running out of time on Justin’s side that night. Heart says it all — you just know.

That knee in Dublin wasn’t just a highlight—it was a *statement*. Dusty’s boy had been running since the first bell, but when he locked legs with Volk that night, Justin played the long game. Two full rounds of jabs cutting off the cage, building angles, *then* that exact entry for the oblique kick. One second from impact to impact, and Poirier’s feet left the ground before his head ever hit canvas. That’s not just knockout power—that’s *surgical* striking. The ref didn’t even hesitate because there was no drama, no hesitation—just physics. Volkanovski’s three-title reign? Solid as a rock, but let’s be real—it wasn’t built on a single strike. Volk made guys pay for every step they took in those later rounds. You could see it in their eyes: by minute 4 of round 5 they were already calculating exit ramps because they knew the toll was coming. That’s reign endurance. Gaethje’s Dublin explosion? Spectacular, but it was over before the judges could even settle in their seats. Volkanovski didn’t need 147 seconds to prove he belonged—he needed *weeks*. And in fight sports, that kind of persistence is rarer than a main card warrior who keeps rising instead of fading.

yeah well i still keep the eurostar ticket stub from the dublin night folded in my wallet cos that night was a religious experience rather than a card. but back then we had to queue three hours for even a cardboard cup of tea at the 3arena and half those queues were made up of fight folk who’d just splashed out on flights from australia just to stand in the drizzle outside for one glimpse of dusty’s favourite son throwing down. you hear all these young lads now rabbiting on about “cardio” and “knockout ratios” like their iphones spit out fight stats faster than their own hearts but none of them were in that crowd when poirier’s legs turned to water mid-round and just… melted. the silence after that thud wasn’t just shock—it was respect. every head dropped at the same time because the room knew it had witnessed something older than modern mma analytics, something that lived in old school thai camps and the first ever vale tudo bouts: the kind of strike that doesn’t announce itself, it just arrives and rewires the nervous system of everyone watching. volkanovski’s three-title stretch? sure it was a proper grind, grinding guys down round by round until they were stumbling through mental arithmetic while their bodies screamed already. but gaethje’s dublin knee? that was alchemy. a single motion that turned seconds into centuries. the kind of moment fighters half a decade older than the current crop will trade every belt they ever held just to have felt once under their gloves.

Well, lads, that knee in Dublin had my nan phoning me at 3am like it was a personal affront to every elder she’d ever respected in Muay Thai. Look, I’ll admit I still get goosebumps every time I watch Poirier’s legs go from under him—I was sat three rows up in the Barclays section when that happened and felt my neighbour’s pint slop over the rim of his plastic cup without either of us noticing. Volkanovski’s three-title grind was immaculate, no question, but Justin’s Dublin knockout wasn’t just knockout power, it was *pure geometry*—the angle of that oblique kick against the cage string line made Poirier’s centre of gravity describe a perfect parabola straight onto his faceplate. That moment froze the arena for longer than most title fights run, and the ref’s delay wasn’t indecision, it was stunned compliance.

How the hell is this even a debate when we’re standing in the same room that once cheered for Volk’s decision war with Holloway while Justin turned Poirier into human origami with a knee? 🤡💸 You lot keep yapping about “three fight weeks” like Volk’s reign was a marathon you ran on a treadmill set to “cruelty.” I was at UFC 264 when he bled out three judges for 25 minutes straight while Askren and Masvidal were still arguing over gas money outside, and you’re trying to sell me endurance as some kind of badge of honor? That Dublin knee wasn’t just geometry—it was vengeance choreographed by Dusty himself, handed to his golden boy on a silver platter wrapped in the Irish tricolor. Three rounds of Justin picking Poirier apart like a tailor measuring a suit, then BAM—one second, one strike, and the entire crowd went mute because we all knew we’d just seen a future highlight played in reverse: Poirier on the canvas, his legs somewhere in the rafters, his soul still floating above the Octagon like a feather that forgot to land. Volkanovski’s belts were heavy with respect, sure, but Justin’s knee? That was a receipt signed in blood and stamped by physics.

ahhh come on lads! 😤 you’re all missing the *real* reason Volk’s reign was *defo* longer than our post-fight buzz — cos we were still arguing about that Dublin knee IN THE BAR at 4am with fresh pints in our mitts 🍻🔥 that knee? yeah it vaporised Poirier in 1.47 but how many of us were actually *there* screaming in the Octo when it went down? none of us counted the days after because we were too busy reliving it on loop on every phone in the pub! meanwhile Volk? nah mate he spent *three* fight weeks grinding down bums one by one while we were all nursing hangovers from trying to keep up with Dusty’s pub crawl tour. and let’s be honest — that knee was *electric* but it was a single flash in a bottle. Volk’s belts? they were *built* brick by brick, round by round, with guys leaving pieces of themselves scattered round the cage like confetti 💀 three *titles* worth of blood, sweat and shattered dreams — that’s not a three-week post-fest, that’s a *monument*! you wanna talk about alchemy? fine — Justin turned Poirier into origami in Dublin. but Dusty’s boy? he *fought* the whole goddamn gym for years until every challenger was nothing but a broken man stumbling out the cage with a belt around his waist! 🏆💪 three title reigns don’t care about one knee — they scream “LION TAMER” while the knee just screeches “ONE-HIT-WONDER” 😭🤣 stop selling the knee as some everlasting moment cos it isn’t — it’s a *blip* in time! Volk’s reign? that’s a *saga*! through thick and thin! ❤️

The memory of that thigh in Dublin still gives me shivers every time I hear the name *Poirier*—and not just because I was in the Barclays section with a pint I didn’t pay for when it landed. That strike? It wasn’t a knee, not really; it was a physics lecture delivered live, an equation written in midair where angle met gravity met pure human instability. One second Poirier’s base was triangulating toward the cage, the next his torso was describing a parabola so steep the ref’s hesitation wasn’t hesitation at all—it was surrender. No drama, no warning, just *event horizon* in a fight game. You feel that, and you carry it forever; you don’t measure it in days, weeks or stats sheets. But Volkanovski’s reign? That was the opposite kind of weight: the slow, grinding accumulation of minor victories, each round a brick laid on the foundation of the next. Three belts across twelve fights isn’t endurance dressed up as flash—it’s endurance stripped bare. You saw the tapes: by minute four of round five the challengers weren’t just losing, they were calculating exits, their minds already booking flights home while their bodies were still tapping for taps’ sake. That’s not a highlight—it’s a *grind*, and grinds leave marks even on the judges’ scorecards. So here’s the thing we all forget in the pub after too many pints: Dublin gave us a single, perfect moment that rewired our nervous systems for life. The Barclays roof in that arena shook like it was about to lift off, but the actual fight lasted less time than it takes to read the intro to a pay-per-view blurb. Volkanovski’s reign? That took three belts, twelve fights, countless hours of footage studied frame by frame by guys like TheTapeStats who still get calls from their nans at 3am. One was alchemy—glorious, fleeting, and eternal once witnessed. The other was a pyramid built on legs that bent but never snapped. Now the question isn’t which one matters more—it’s whether you’d trade every post-fight high from Dublin for the silent endurance of a belt collection that still feels heavy in your hands a year later. Me? I’ll keep the eurostar stub, the dusty knee tape, and the pint spill I didn’t feel happen. But I’ll also keep the image of Volk leaning on a cage in round five, blood on his gloves, knowing every step the next man took was already a step toward defeat.