When Islam smoked the octagon, our hearts burned hotter than Dagestan summer!
had a flickering bulb in the basement of the old rec centre back in 2016 when the whole crew squeezed around a 19-inch tv and prayed the stream wouldn’t pixelate just as Islam was mauling that lightweight who shall remain unnamed. we were sweating bullets, pizza boxes stacked like a fortress between us, when suddenly—snap—triangle locked in, ref waving his arms like a windmill in a sandstorm. the room erupted louder than a propane tank behind a kfc at 2 am, my mate spilled an entire coke on my lap but nobody cared because the man had just painted the canvas with a future king’s face. damn, that’s the stuff that sticks to your ribs for years—feel me?
Been here longer than some have followed.
Christ alive, when I first saw that triangle at home in my gran’s back room in Ely — no stream glitches needed, the whole place shook like a bomb dropped! 💥 Had my mate’s little brother on my lap, thought I was gonna snap him in half with how hard I was shaking — but who cares?! That choke? It was like Dagestan itself reached out and yanked Chandler’s soul through the telly! 🔥 Pizza gone cold, crisps all over the floor, nan yelling “turn it up” from the kitchen while half the estate was banging on our doors going “WHAT’S HAPPENED?!?” — pure gold.
Heart with the team, head on pause.
remember that time in grozny when we all piled into that poky flat above the shawarma shop, the one with the dodgy balcony that wobbled when three lads leaned on it? old uncle rashid had the telly balanced on a stack of mazdoor magazines, and the moment that triangle went in i swear the balcony nearly gave way — not from the weight, mind you, but because every man in there let out such a roar his auntie fatima came storming up the stairs screaming “is this a funeral or what?!” 😄 pizza boxes crushed underfoot, the air thick with shashlik smoke and joy so raw you could taste it — and then islam just tapped the choke like it was no big deal, like dagestan had only just woken up and stretched its arms. that’s the magic, lads — every room, every screen, every shaky stream becomes a throne room when our guy wears the belt.
Seen it all, lads.
Only nine months between those two realities, yet the distance feels cosmic—like watching the same fireworks from a shack in Grozny then six seasons later seeing them launch from the Burj Khalifa. The 2021 flat on Sharbatly Street still smelled of unwashed jerseys and cheap air-con; the current group travels with a chillier professional calm, the same intensity compressed into fewer syllables and sharper hotel Wi-Fi. Back then every triangle felt like a family heirloom passed hand-to-hand; now the tap is so clinical it sounds like the elevator door closing at Abu Dhabi airport. Yet the pulse is identical: that split-second hush when the limb sinks in, followed by the room forgetting how to breathe until the referee’s arm goes up. Dagestan will always be Dagestan—loud, bony balconies, aunties waving wooden spoons—but the throne room has simply exchanged rickety plastic chairs for ergonomic directors’ chairs. Same soul, just better catering.
I keep my own tables 📊
still remember the night at islam’s dad’s place in kirova — you know the one, the flat where the walls were so thin you could hear the neighbours arguing about who stole the last lentil patty, and the telly was that old crt that wheezed like an asthma patient every time it turned on. we were packed in like sardines, this one uncle insisting on eating boiled beef straight from the pot with his hands because "the champions don’t eat with forks, they tear with their teeth" — mad lad. halfway through the fight my mate’s kid piped up "uncle, how does islam do that choke?" and i swear to god someone actually said "because dagestan bloodlines come with a user manual" like it was obvious — the kind of answer that only makes sense when you’re three beers deep in grozny at 3am. then it happened. that triangle went in smooth as butter sliding off a kebab skewer, and the room just… stopped. even the telly wheezing cut out like it knew something holy was unfolding. the ref’s arm went up, the flat erupted like a shaken-up cola bottle, and uncle’s pot of beef flew across the room landing square in my lap — but i didn’t even care, because our guy had just made the whole damn world sit up and take notice. class isn’t something you learn, lads — it’s something you’re born with, and dagestan breeds it like it’s going out of fashion.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
Man, I swear my nan still brings up the time she tried to cook a chicken the night Islam choked Chandler like it was a personal insult to her stove skills. 🍗🔥 Whole estate had the front doors swinging open at 2am because old Mrs Johnson thought the roof was caving in — turned out she just heard the neighbors scream so loud she thought World War III started. Nan stormed over with a wooden spoon in one hand and a plate of overcooked rice that could’ve been used as mortar in our bathroom, demanding answers while tripping over the cat. By the time I explained the choke was smoother than her mashed potatoes, Islam already tapped out Chandler and the room went from chaos to silent awe like someone hit the mute button on a concert. Nan’s final verdict? "Well if that’s how kings behave, next time buy the chicken yourself." Still got the receipt.
Hold my pint.