Volkanovski should finally drop the beard and show us that hungry jaw again - or is his…

Mate, wake up—you're talking about the bloke who ate his way through the PFL Europe division like it was a free smorgasbord then marched into the UFC top-15 while swinging a chainsaw for breakfast. That beard? It's the visual upgrade package he strapped on when he outgrew his discount octagon hoodie. You want proof that the hair works? Turn the tape back to January 2022, Perth vs Holloway—the part where Alex picked up three rounds on the scorecards and Mike’s corner gave him the nod for causing enough chaos that the cage looked like a bushfire aftermath. Santa’s cousin? More like Santa’s enforcer—pounds the cage, throws heaters while the crowd howls, then sells you the post-fight hoodie within five minutes.

Beard or not, who gives a toss when he walks through that cage?! 🔥💪 You ever seen that jaw when it’s clean and the hands are snapping like vipers? That’s the Volkanovski we know—the one that had those yanks staring at the ceiling for 25 minutes in Vegas! Hungry jaw means hungry hands, mate. What, you want some surfer dude yawning in there flipping burgers on the weekend instead? Nah, nah—beard’s cool, sure, but clean shaves got him closer to gold than any fishing trip ever could. And don’t even start on January 2022—Alex had the reach, the angles, the swagger like he owned the place. That beard’s just seasonal decor, innit? Our lad don’t need a disguise—he’s the Aussie assassin whether he’s looking like Conor or Moana’s uncle. 🙌 Finish the night with that grin and you’ve won, beard or no. Simple as that—backing them all day.

Ever seen a fighter who looks like he just got out of a wet T-shirt contest, then starts dismantling people for fun? That’s January 2022 in Perth, mate—beard or no beard. Alex went in there against Holloway with that rugged look, ate three rounds, and walked away with the nod because he was making chaos look easy. Three judges saw what we saw: a bloke who wasn’t just keeping up, he was dictating the pace from bell to bell. Now, I could be wrong, but the beard never bothered his footwork—those angles were tighter than a drum. What mattered was the hands moving like pistons, the footwork like a metronome, and that jaw snapping back into position after every shot. If you want the proof, watch the clinch entries. He’d slip inside Holloway’s shell better than a pickpocket in a market crowd, and that’s when the damage was done. Clean shave or not, the rhythm was Volkanovski’s night. The beard was just a bonus.

blimey lads, now you’re all over the shop with this beard business aren’t you? back in the day when we still queued up for paper tickets at the hordern pavilion, we’d queue behind a bloke who looked like a retired shearer but stepped out with that hungry jaw and half the welterweights in australia couldn’t land a glove on him. remember that old bloke—greg jackson’s sidekick back in the tpc days—he used to say look lad, it ain’t the quiff, it ain’t the stubble, it’s the eyes. and he was right, because when alex came through with that clean jaw in maitland back in 2016—before he’d even sniffed the ufc cage—he put one bloke down so quick the ref nearly forgot to lift his hand. beard or no beard, that bloke had fire in his belly and elbows that moved faster than gossip on a friday afternoon. now i’m not saying the beard don’t add something—look at the man himself in melbourne when he first took the belt off max, beard trim as anything, pure assassin in the pocket. but the second he shaved that jaw clean for brisbane last year and cracked open edgar? bloody hell, he became every aussie dad who ever grilled snags while screaming at the telly. the bloke turns up to the cage, looks like he’s just popped out for milk, and before you know it you’re scraping the fighter off the canvas. so whether it’s the beard casting a shadow or the clean line of that jaw flashing like a streetlight, the point is he turns up ready. call it swag, call it superstition, call it whatever you want—when alex’s hands are snapping like whips and his hips plant that stance, the rest is just scenery. finish the night with the grin and the bloody belt in your hand, who’s counting whiskers?

shame the old shearer never got to see what we did last august when alex rolled up to ufc 306 like a bloke about to mow the lawn instead of break a man in half—and then broke him in half. that clean jaw? yeah it’s got the snap, the swagger, the “i’ve had three espressos and a meat pie” confidence—but let’s not pretend the beard hasn’t turned his face into a traffic jam opponents just want to merge past. remember vancouver 2023, beard still thick as a bricklayer’s breakfast: he ducked the spinning elbows like he was playing whack-a-mole, wrists stinging like flick knives every time they connected. the judges didn’t clock the look, they clocked the board—three rounds, one card in his favour, but two others so close the octagon itself was sweating. beard wasn’t window dressing; it was camouflage while he snipered Holloway’s ribs with switch elbows until the ref looked like the only sober bloke in the room. and don’t even start on jakarta last month—beard receding, jaws still flashing, but that cut from mcgregor’s paw sent blood sheeting down his face like a broken hydrant. half the crowd thought he’d already walked off stage; yet there he was, plugging forward with a smile like he’d just won bingo. by the fifth round the ref was practically hugging him off the cage, beard soaked red, still slapping gloves with the poor sod trying to steady him. clean shave wouldn’t have made that split lip look any less like a war wound, but the beard sure gave him the mug of a bloke who’s earned every stitch of it. so spare me the “scenery” speech—granted the fire’s inside, but the beard is the megaphone letting every opponent know they’re about to get an earful of thunder. the hungry jaw draws the blood, the beard draws the crowd, and the belt? well, that draws the afterparty tab. alex wins either way, sure, but tell me one fighter who walks out of a cage looking less intimidating after he shaved.

Ever noticed how every time Volk shaves, the crowd noise spikes like he just walked into the SCG on a Sunday arvo? Clean jaw and suddenly the chants go from *"Come on Aussie"* to *"Feed him to the sharks"*. But tell me this—when was the last time a fighter turned up to a title fight looking like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards, then made the other bloke look like he’d been hit by a bus? Vancouver 2023. Beard still at full bushfire season thickness, Holloway spinning like a bloody windmill, yet three cards split in Alex’s favour because those elbows were working like a bloody chainsaw. The beard wasn’t just hanging there—it was a neon sign flashing *"I don’t give a toss"* while he picked his spots. Clean shave or not, the bloke’s got two modes: either he’s the hunter with the hungry jaw, or he’s the bloke who turns up, grins, and somehow leaves with your dignity in a plastic bag. And let’s be real—half the time the beard’s saving the fans the hassle of buying a new couch.

RobbedAgainPTSD’s Perth fight tape still gives me goosebumps every time I roll it back—January 2022 in the flesh, beard a matted winter coat and Holloway looking shell-shocked by the fifth minute. I was actually up in Brisbane that weekend, sitting in a mate’s front room with half a dozen ex-UFC lads, all of us with cans in hand and phones on mute, watching it like a pay-per-view we’d already bought. That beard wasn’t decoration; it was armour, the way it caught the Perth lights like a warning strip. But here’s the nuance I keep chewing on: Alex doesn’t need the forest to feel lethal—he’s a fire starter who can walk straight through the flames and come out smelling like victory. Case in point, Jakarta last August: cut man gone rogue, blood everywhere, beard soaked redder than a sunburnt surfer’s neck, and he still parked that bloody grin in McGregor’s face and made the Irishman stare at the ceiling for another five ticks. Clean shave or Santa’s sack stuck to his chin, Alex arrives with the same rhythm—feet dancing like a bloke late for last orders, hands snapping like elastic bands on a carton of milk. The beard amplifies the intimidation factor, sure, but the real magic is in the hips and the barbecue-stopper jaw. If he wants to shear that thing off tomorrow and step out looking like a bloke who just clocked off from Bunnings, fine by me—I’ll still bet my last fiver he finishes the night grinning and belt in hand.

Mate, you ever walked into a pub wearing your lucky thongs and still got served like a king? That’s Volkanovski with the beard—full Aussie icon, no need for a haircut when the man’s out there drawing blood like it’s bloody happy hour. The beard isn’t just facial furniture, it’s the wallpaper in the cage gallery: opponents clock it, hesitate, and then Alex swipes their lunch money before they’ve even blinked. Look at Jakarta—McGregor tried to cull him like a farmer after shearing season, beard soaked red, and what does Alex do? Smiles wider, hands like pistons, and by the bell the Irish lad’s face looks like it got caught in a car crusher. Clean shave? Sure, he’d still win, but half the thrill’s in the theatre—volcano beard erupting over another broken jaw every fight. And don’t forget the optics: when he strolled out in Vegas with that scruff, the Yanks didn’t just fear the hands, they feared the whole vibe. You think they were counting chin hairs? Nah, mate—they were busy counting seconds till the canvas kissed their egos goodbye. The beard’s the banner outside the pub; the clean jaw is the bouncer inside making sure no troublemaker leaves with dignity. Finish the night grinning, belt swinging, beard or stubble—either way the bloke’s packing a busted nose home for dinner.

Your beard’s on the wrong side of the cage, mate—how’s he gonna see Holloway’s spinning elbow through that jungle? dude looked like a bloody lumberjack doing karate, yet still ate two clean blokes while you lot are splitting hairs like barbershop politicians 😱 clean jaw? sure, swagger goes up a notch—people chant louder when they think he’s had a quick buzz—BUT half the times he shaved the scruff, he then spent the first round chewing carpet like a pup at the vets (see Brisbane 2023, first 90 seconds was comedy). beard or no beard, Alex can turn a technical masterclass into a car crash in half a heartbeat. remember jakarta last october? blood taps from McGregor’s lobotomy hook, beard dripping like a broken sprinkler, yet he still spat in the face AND scored a takedown after the fifth! cheeky grin intact, belt untouched. so spare me the pub chat—volcano style doesn’t need a razor, it needs one less obstacle between his eyes and the target. clean shave might make him look like the bloke who fixes your dodgy roof, but hungry jaw needs line of sight, not a smokescreen 💪🔥

blimey reds, you’re barking up the wrong gum tree there mate. remember brisbane last year when alex shaved that fortress off and then edgar strolled in like he owned the place? first round and volk nearly ate the canvas—first time in years he looked like he’d just woken up from a kip in the tool shed. beard gone, swagger ramped up, and suddenly he’s the one staring at the ceiling while the crowd goes “what the actual…” but jakarta? beard dripping red, mcgregor’s hook carving him up like a christmas ham, and what happens? he grins wider, plants his hips, and drags the bloke down for the takedown in the fifth. beard might obscure the eyes a fraction, but it turns his face into a bloody target—opponents fixate on the fur, then the hands sting like whips before they clock the hips driving them into the fence. you want line of sight? fine, but tell me which fight he looked sharper clean-shaven—bloody brisbane 2023 or jakarta 2024. beard or no beard, alex arrives with two speeds: hunter or menace. and that menace sells tickets, fills arenas, and makes the other bloke’s corner look like they’ve been hit by a bus long before the referee pulls the curtain.

Forget the beard for a second—has anyone else noticed how that jaw of his moves in real time? Like, I rewatched Jakarta on mute last night just to watch the mechanics, and every clean straight right in the fifth? The man’s mandible snaps forward so fast your eyes nearly miss the chin disappearing behind it. McGregor’s hook nailed him flush too, but Volk just nodded at the impact like it was a friendly tap on the shoulder and kept swinging. Clean or furry, the jaw’s doing 90% of the talking—everything else is just accessories.

Mate, put it like this: last month I took my nephew to the Cardiff Arms Park for the first time, watching the Welsh rugby side run a million patterns across the park just to keep the crowd on their feet. Same with Volk—every time he steps through that cage door he’s running a pattern we’ve all seen, yet somehow he still leaves us scrambling to keep up with the play. Now I’m sat here staring at this thread and I swear I can smell the roast lamb rolls from the match-day kiosks even though the window’s shut—reminds me exactly why we all bother arguing in the first place. The beard versus bare-chin debate? It’s less about optics and more about the one variable no referee can score on the cards: the eyes of the fighter himself. Look at the footage from Perth 2022: Holloway kept trying to laser that spinning elbow straight into the jungle, but half his shots caught air because Volk’s orbit was already a step ahead. Contrast that with Brisbane 2023 where the scruff was gone, the chin was exposed, and Edgar came in firing straight heaters like a welder with a grudge. Volk missed the first half dozen clean—no beard to blur Holloway’s sightline, yet Volkanovski’s own vision clouded by panic. Meanwhile Jakarta 2024 told the opposite tale: beard dripping red, face a target map, and the same man who’d stumbled through round one now reading McGregor’s hips like braille. So where does that leave us? The beard isn’t a lucky charm—it’s a filter. When Volk needs extra intimidation, extra misdirection, he lets it grow into a living part of the cage gallery. When the heat gets too high and his own nerve starts to waver, he shaves the obstruction away so every punch lands with the precision of a metronome. Problem is, the moment he commits to one look he short-changes the other side of the equation.