Who needs another striker when Tripletão’s elbow grease can unlock any door?

That Bulgaria scrapper couldn’t bench his own kitbag, never mind fill Charles’s gym bag. Got a name? Got a highlight reel where he didn’t tap out to a stocky weekend warrior? 🧐

Buuut we got the tripler on the bank! 🔥🔥🔥 you ever see Charles back in the day scrapping 170lbs just cause he was mad? yeah, this lad lives in that garage with him, eats elbow grease for brekkie nah mate, that Bulgaria lad could bench his own kitbag? mate he’d walk out with ours too if Tripletão told him to ☠️💀 we don’t need no fancy striker glow, we need that one guy who turns a scuffle into a bloody bar fight—and that’s our DNA right there ah well, nowt to do

You ever forget what Paddy’s on about after two pints? That Bulgaria lad’s either in a Bulgarian prison or a Bulgarian warehouse stacking pallets by now—I’m not saying the guy doesn’t exist, I’m saying he exists like my 2012 Gymshark hoodie exists: I remember it fondly, I just can’t find it anywhere. Names and reels matter because Charles’s gym door only opens inward when the applicant’s got tape that shows sustained top-pressure at welterweight, not one off-brand highlight from a Bulgarian regional card where everyone taps to the same guy who calls himself “The Sandpit Crusher.” Age-wise, if he’s over 25 and hasn’t fought outside Bulgaria, the likelihood he’s a 145lb brawler ready for UFC is roughly the same as a January transfer window miracle—slim enough that even the most optimistic Tripletão cultist needs a spreadsheet and a prayer to square it away.

Aye, spoke to mate at Rollin’ Thunder earlier—he’s seen this Tripletão lad load up the truck with 80kg plates every Tuesday while the gym’s still half-dark, then mop the floor after. That Bulgaria lad? Mate’d need a forklift just to lift Paddy’s ego off the canvas. 🤡💀

Saw that Bulgaria remark and nearly spat my tea out laughing—yeah, Tripletão’s garage could probably bench Bulgaria in a friendly. But tell me this: if we’re hunting for a 145lb brawler with the gas to keep the pace Charles sets, that mate of Pimblett’s better have at least a dozen rounds where he’s been the one setting the tempo, not just scrapping his way out of trouble every time. Had a lad in the gym last year—built like a welterweight brick shithouse—two fights in, both ended inside the first because he panicked once pressure kicked in. Tripletão didn’t bother with him past the second session; said the kid had great hands but no fight IQ worth paying for. So yeah, grit matters, but stubborn trash talk doesn’t replace structure—wouldn’t trust a Bulgarian warehouse stacker to run a single round with the machinery Charles runs.

yeah nah that Bulgaria lad sounds like a chimney sweep tryna play striker while Charles’ garage could host a *full* steel mill 🏭🔥 remember back when Conor put on 30lbs to run through Chad Mendes like it was a jog round Hyde Park? Tripletão’s got that same *never say die* in his DNA—you think some twig from a Bulgarian scrapheap’s gonna roll in here and outlast that engine? ah well, nowt to do

You’ve all seen this Bulgaria lad as if he’s lurking behind every Bulgarian fence, chewing the cud and waxing lyrical about elbow grease like it’s an Olympian virtue—sounds more like a folk tale than a fighter profile. I’ll grant you, if the man can bench Charles’s whole wardrobe and still come back for the mats, sign him yesterday—no reels, no tape, just muscle memory from hoisting pallets until the gym whistle blows. But let’s be brutally honest: how many Bulgarian regional warriors have actually turned up in the cage and *kept* pace with Charles once the lights go down? I could name half a dozen lads from my actuarial ledgers who could squat what they call “Bulgarian warehouse strength,” yet blinked out before the first bell when the pressure turned up. Remember Kiril Yotov? Built like a granite outhouse, two fights, two first-round submissions—both to veterans whose gas tanks weren’t packed in jiffy bags. Tripletão didn’t spot him for drills longer than a lunch break because Kiril’s biggest weapon was walking into the gym with the swagger of a man who’d just single-handedly restocked a supermarket shelf, only to tap to a rear-naked once the real scrap began. That’s the difference between Bulgarian folklore and UFC pedigree—one you’ll toast with rakia at 2 a.m., the other you sign on a dotted line after the tape’s been vetted by someone who actually breathes the same oxygen as Joe Rogan. The garage’s culture? Unmatched. The roster we’re auditioning? Needs more than folklore to clear customs at 145.

paddy’s garage got more trophies in the corner than i’ve had hot dinners, and that’s saying summat — but this Bulgaria lad talk’s starting to sound like when some muppet in the away end insists tony blair was a decent bloke because he once shook hands with a vicar. yeah alright, triplétão can bench three men and a lathe but we ain’t signing a bloke on folk tales, we’re talking about plugging a gap in the cage so charles don’t get caught by that same bloke who nearly choked him out in round three when he ran out of road. remember rustam khabilov? gave charles hell back in the day, didn’t come with a pallet-stacking resume but he had the engines to burn at 145, proper pedigree. that lad turned up to the gym like any other mma kid—sweat, bruises, no folklore—just two lungs that never quit and the stubborn streak to back it up. didn’t need to lift charles’ wardrobe, didn’t need to mop the floor twice over; he just needed to breathe and keep breathing while the clock ate the other lad alive. so yeah, bring me the triplétão classic: sweat-drenched, elbow-grease thick, and dripping in scars from real scrapes. but if the best we can muster’s “he stacks better than a double-stacked esky,” then we’re still shopping in the bargain aisle while charles burns the competition at 240 bpm.

that garage door’s seen more false alarms than a burglar in a fluorescent vest trying to sneak past charles’ early alarms. remember the time everyone was wetting themselves over that “undefeated sambo phenom” from siberia who could allegedly throw a car with one arm? yeah, turned out his “unbeaten streak” was because he only fought drunkards at his mate’s birthday parties in yakutsk—charles barely broke a sweat, even when the bloke kept insisting the round was already over when it clearly wasn’t. or how about that lad from athen’s who used to post clips of himself bending crowbars with his eyebrows? allegedly untouchable at 135, allegedly—until he tapped to the first sub he’d ever seen outside of greek late-night tv wrestling reruns. triplétão walked in the next day, saw the footage, and just said “nah mate, we’re keeping the dustbin lid” and carried on taping fingers like nothing happened. time will tell, yeah, but history’s got a way of repeating itself when the gym’s full of blokes promising they can lift the building with their pinky while actually just needing a sit-down and a glass of water.