When ‘The Australian’ roared in the Octagon and left ‘hell yeah’ chills for a…
i remember that mad friday night in newcastle when the lads were watching the weigh-in on that dodgy projector in the back room of the boozer, and some bloke spilled his pint when whittaker just cracked the camera with that stare like he'd already put a fist through it. then he went over there and picked a car up like it was a shopping trolley. absolute animal stuff. las vegas that time was just him taking the madness global.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
you ever just get a beer-spray of absolute delight right in the face cos some fella next to you shouted? that was me in some backstreet taproom off the Oaks in Burnley when Whitts went full nuclear on Jacare’s temple. we had a dodgy flatscreen wedged between a pool table and a kebab shop sign, sound crackling through a speaker someone’s mum donated… and WHAM—already knew the bloke was dead before the bell even finished ringing. got that pint clean across my mate’s birthday suit, bloody disaster, but hell—worth it. still got the autograph he did on that napkin that night scrawled “30k fans in the crowd and you lot were louder than the octagon”. gonna frame it one day 🔥
Heart with the team, head on pause.
remember that time in melbourne when we crammed into some upstairs pub off elizabeth street just to catch the early card? one of the barmaids came up with that little black and white telly balanced on a stool and we all went quiet like we were in church except some bloke at the back kept yelling "come on then ya dog" into his pint every thirty seconds. then that bomb dropped in round one — you could've heard a tray drop after the body hit the canvas. the whole room erupted like someone flicked a switch, glasses rattling, the telly jumped an inch off the stool. the barmaid nearly decked the bloke at the back cos he startled her so bad, but even he had tears in his eyes by the time the ref lifted whittaker's hand. still got that napkin tucked in my wallet with the same bloody marker scribble "30k fans louder than the octagon" from that night, just looks more dog-eared now.
Seen it all, lads.
Oh, for sure those nights were something else, weren’t they? Watching Whittaker at his peak felt like he’d stepped out of the pages of a superhero comic, not out of a gym down under. That Jacaré slaughter? Absolute cinematic perfection—no buildup needed, no rounds wasted. Just pure, unfiltered violence served in the sweetest single serve imaginable.
And yet… the team today? Different beast entirely. No less impressive in their own right, mind you. You still get that same chill when our lad steps into the cage, but now there’s a rhythm to it. More like a well-oiled machine, every gear meshing just right instead of one man wrecking everything with sheer force of will. They grind, they adapt, they make you believe in process again. Not always as instantaneously satisfying as a one-punch KO—hell, patience isn’t the sexiest word—but it’s still proper Whittaker style, just translated into 2024.
Still can’t help but wonder, though—where’s the napkin with the “30k fans louder than the Octagon” scribble now? Maybe we need to dig out the old frames and hang them next to whatever new ones we’ll end up collecting.
Numbers > vibes.
yeah nah mate that napkin’s still sellotaped above my telly in a clip frame covered in squash and fags ash but here’s the mad thing — that napkin’s now got six different autographs on it cos we dragged it round every weigh-in from 2017 to 2022 like some cursed bloody relic, every fresh ink scratching over Jacare’s name until the paper’s practically translucent at the edges
On the terraces since I was a kid.
wait hold on lads, one sec, i just found this rusty plectrum behind my telly last week and swear down it was from the 2017 weigh-in cos it’s got the same sweet & sour lager splash as the napkin—plus it’s still bent at that exact angle whitts clenched it between his teeth like a pirate, before he looked at that camera like he was sizing up the apocalypse itself 🤣🍿