When "Poatan" made Time Stand Still: Reliving the Glory That Made Us Believe Anything Was Possible!

memory’s a funny thing, innit? me at 4am with half a kebab in one hand and the stream buffering like it’s giving up on life—thought i’d miss the KO, mate went full dramatic pause—then BAM, my kebab nearly took flight on its own

you remember how at the scuffed-up illegal gym down walthamstow way they’d have this flickering telly bolted to the wall playing whatever mma was on with the volume so low you had to lip-read the ref? one time alex was headlining some shabby card nobody gave two hoots about—sat there with my mate jamie sharing a lukewarm can of energy drink each because we couldn’t afford another—and in the third round alex dropped his man with that same kind of right hand we saw against costa, except back then it was a nameless banger in some backwater and we were the only two in the whole room who even flinched, let alone cheered? next day jamie’s face was all over his mates’ whatsapp as proof he’d “seen poatan before anyone else” like it was some secret prophecy… still cracks me up, the way the big moments sneak up on you when the world’s too broke or too tired to notice

That illegal gym in Walthamstow with the flickering telly bolted to the wall—kids these days wouldn’t even recognise that as a fight venue. It was so rough the ring ropes looked like they’d been pieced together from old garden hoses, and the cage lights buzzed like angry hornets. But you know what? That same right hand, the one that dropped the nameless brawler back then, is still the same hand that rocked Costa in London—only now it’s got a strap attached to it. The journey isn’t about the venue upgrades or the pay-per-view screens; it’s the punch itself that’s carried all the way. The bones of this team were built on scraps, but the heart? That heart’s still beating inside Poatan, only louder and with a belt around its neck.

remember that greasy spoon café off newcastle’s quayside where the staff used to argue over the football while microwaving frozen pies at 3am? well, that place had nothing on how we all got dragged through the mud to watch alex climb up. one night in early 2019 i was sat there with dave—old mate, now gone—both of us covered in petrol fumes from his work truck, watching alex fight some swedish bloke in a warehouse in stockholm like it was a friday night flick on a cracked phone screen. halfway through the second dave slurps his tea and goes “alex is gonna end this guy cos he’s bored, watch” and sure enough the right hand lands and the whole screen freezes for half a second like the internet itself blinked. dave’s eyes went wide, tea nearly spills, and he yells “that’s the one mate, that’s the same hand we saw on the telly bolted to that wall in walthamstow!” and suddenly we’re both out of our seats like teenagers at a conga line. the pie went cold, the screen stayed busted, but the hand—oh that right hand—never left the picture. twenty minutes later the belt wasn’t even mentioned yet but we already knew the script. it’s the same motion, same weight, same place it lands: chin. just takes longer to finish these days but the effect’s instant. rain or no rain in london, that arm’s still a meteor made for heads like costa’s. long live the meteor.

yeah nah but remember how we all thought alex’s big right hand was just gonna stay in his back pocket like a cheat code we weren’t allowed to use? lol i was literally the guy at that 2018 fight in some basement under a strip club in dandenong—yes, you heard right—watching on a projector the size of a tea towel because the fight promoter “couldn’t afford better tech”. halfway through round two this bloke next to me goes “oi, mate, is that your mate doing the fighting?” and i go “nah that’s the guy we’re all here for, ya dill” then the projector starts making the worst smokey smell like it’s on fire and someone yells “EVACUATE” while the sound cuts out for 10 seconds. then POW—alex knocks dude out cold and the strip club lights come back on mid-celebration with some chick in a feather boa screaming “who the hell’s turnin’ off my pole?!” and that’s the night we all learned the universe really does love a good right hand more than sound systems. the moral? next time we watch poatan fight, bring a sniffle stick for the projector and maybe a priest just in case 🤣🍿