Dricus Du Plessis is the UFC middleweight champion because he’s pure ruthless killer…

Still remember the first time I watched Dricus dismantle Derek Brunson in Paris — every shot he threw had that one-percenter’s precision, but this Strickland clinic? That looked more like a training room demo than a championship. Thirty-seven to twenty-five on the feet is not a scorecard robbery, it’s a statement written in knuckle. The judges’ cards are public, easy to pull up: 50-45 twice and 50-44 — they gave Dricus five inches? More like the entire marathon. Strickland came in with one trick — walk forward — and ended up walking backward into a new champ’s hands. Five-inch edges every round? That’s not robbery, that’s a shutout called three times over.

Strickland had the audacity to call it "boring"? nah mate he got schooled 💀 Dricus turned him into a bloody target dummy 37-25 y’all read that right? dude wasn’t just out there swinging he was painting by numbers on Sean’s face

The judges weren’t the ones getting blitzed every round—Dricus was dissecting Strickland like it was a dissection lab and Sean the formaldehyde-soaked specimen. Fifty to forty-five, twice over, plus that lone fifty-to-forty-four? That’s not just an edge, that’s a unanimous surgical report: three specialists cut Strickland open on the feet and signed the paperwork in ink that doesn’t smudge. When you drop the numbers next to the eyewitness testimony—body-shot clips of Strickland on wobbly legs after the third right hand in the pocket—you realize the fifteen-inch differential wasn’t a robbery, it was a mercy ruling. The judges didn’t “rob” Dricus; they merely recorded the tally while he painted his masterpiece on the canvas Sean couldn’t reach.

the old timers like us who still remember when this bloke burst onto the scene, fighting in god-knows-what backroom bangers with a chip on his shoulder bigger than this town’s unemployment line, they used to say the same thing about him every time he stepped up — "there’s a monster in those eyes." back then it was just raw power and sideways movement that made grown men look like they’d never thrown a punch before. but now? dricus ain’t just a brawler, he’s an artist with a sledgehammer — every shot he lands carries that same killer instinct, but it’s cleaner, smarter, meaner. the judges didn’t rob him blind in that cage; they just confirmed what we’ve seen for years — when dricus walks in there, he doesn’t just fight, he executes. thirty-seven to twenty-five isn’t luck, it’s legacy. strickland came in thinking he could out-condition a south african winter, ended up getting outclassed by a clinic in violence. seen it before, mate. the real artists always make the pupils look like amateurs.

Aye, that thing about Dricus turning Strickland into a bloody exhibition target dummy? Spot on. I was at his last London camp before Paris—seen him drill those counter-punches with the same precision as the eventual Strickland massacre. But here’s where I’ll push back just enough: the thirty-seven-twenty-five isn’t the whole story. It’s like judging a Rembrandt by its auction price and ignoring the brush strokes. Dricus lands those volume strikes because he makes every inch of the cage his workshop, but when Strickland clamped down and stuffed him on the fence in round three, that’s the exact footage the card-slappers latched onto for their “edge.” They didn’t just see fifteen inches of difference; they saw a champion working for it while the challenger clung like a man trying not to drown. So yeah, the out-strike stat is brutal, but the judges’ cards? They weren’t robbing the king; they were measuring the toll of ruling an empire Strickland had no map for.

Heard Uncle_Since86 in here banging on about Strickland “clamping down” like it was some sort of Jedi mind trick, mate—nah, that man got held together with Super Glue and spite. I was watching the cage side that night with my cousin who’s never even thrown a jab in anger, and halfway through round two he leans over and goes, “why’s he just standing there like a mannequin?” because Strickland wasn’t clamping anything, he was already flat on his back before Dricus flicked the switch. That 37-25 isn’t some foggy memory, it’s tattooed on the scorecard like Strickland’s own bloody obituary. Five inches every round my arse, the judge who gave Strickland one round out of five should’ve been kept in a back room with the ring girls’ bingo cards. You want robbery? Take a long look at those faces after round three—Strickland looked like he’d just read the terms and conditions of his own contract. 😂

Ah mate c'mon now 😂 dricus turned Strickland into a kicking bag and y'all calling it a "clinic"? 37-25 isn’t just brutal it’s savage, end of story. Uncle_Since86 talking bout round three like it was some Herculean effort 💀 Strickland got caught in the funnel before round one even ended—dude never landed a clean power punch the whole fight, how you gonna cry about "clamping" when you’re eating liver shots? And Reds4Life247 nah even your drunk cousin woulda seen Strickland wasn’t "standing there like a mannequin"—he was flatlining, drip feed straight to ER. Those judges? They saw a slaughter and tried to soften the blow with their measly five-inch edges. Pure disrespect to the king we know Dricus is!

Ah, the Strickland car crash—that’s the beauty of it, innit? We all saw the same fight, yet here we are tearing up different frames from it like it’s a highlight reel of our own bloody misinterpretations. The raw footage doesn’t lie: Dricus made Sean look like a Saturday-night drunk who’d wandered into a knife fight with a comb. Thirty-seven landed over twenty-five on the Strickland corpse? That’s not "volume"; that’s a man counting his cuts like it’s audited tax records—each one precise, each one leaving a mark that won’t scrub off. But here’s the thing that sticks in my ribs every time I watch round three on loop: Strickland didn’t just get outworked, he got out-walked. He planted himself inside the pocket like a man waiting for a bus that never comes, then watched Dricus choreograph a lesson in counter-striking with the patience of a surgeon scribbling his name on fresh skin. Those six seconds where Strickland finally shoved him against the fence? A drowning man’s flail, not a strategy. And yet—ah, here’s the rub—the judges’ scorecards didn’t throw the fight; they just copped the embarrassment of reporting how lopsided the butchery really was while trying to dress it up as a "grudge match." I could be wrong, but there’s a nuance that keeps tripping us up: the difference between “dominance” and “destruction.” Dricus destroyed Strickland by turns—feet dancing around the pocket like a boxer, then suddenly leaning in to drill those same lead hooks when Sean least expected a return fire. The final tally screams legacy, but those scorecards whisper “cha-ching” to the memory of the audience who blinked and missed the clinic for the bloodsport. Context matters: the fight wasn’t close, but the judging was, and that’s the scar tissue we’re still picking at today.