If Paddy the Kid leaves, we NEED to secure this 6'5" Southpaw or our heavyweight division…

Sheffield’s mortgage man got a side hustle hawking Earl Shilton auction flotsam? Bet my Nando’s voucher that 6’5 southpaw’s still crunching numbers on his next turnip tax dodge in Milton Keynes, not signing chats with blokes in plastic macs over flat whites.

"they need him like we need air in octagon 🔥💪 left hand from 6'5 reach that'd scare a giraffe off his tea nah mate just imagine paddy sayin watch this and the other lad start dancin like hes got springs in his gloves then BAM counter shot clean through guard our division heavy when our lot have that extra half yard every move they ugly-cry the other corner 🙌 what’s mortgage plans when you slap belts around waist 24 months in? he signs tommorow or we’re servin featherweight in the mail

Bit late now to start panicking if the maths isn’t even done. First thing: when you say 6’5”, what we’re really talking about is a long-armed pocket cruiser who can lean across and tag you without you ever seeing the hand—perfect foil for any wandering heavyweight. But the timeline? You’re banking on a man who’s still active on the regional scene and, last I checked, has more middle-tier novacaine clinics than big-ticket camp invites. Then there’s the weight: at cruiser he’s a cardio barge; at heavy he’s eating two mandatory Top-15 welters’ fists for fun and gain. So before we print the cheque, ask who’s clearing the medicals—because that left hand only works if the lungs still do.

Haven’t seen him drop in the cage since his last cagey 20-minute decision over some lad from Halifax who still hasn’t worked out that southpaws exist. But I’ve driven past the gym in Barnsley where he rolls with the lads at 6 a.m., you can smell the liniment before you even open the door—so if the cheque’s written right, I’d fancy his chances more than those blokes flapping about with half their teeth missing on Love Island reruns. Still, if he lands one of them “we’re doing it for the culture” warsuits mid-card, that reach turns into an albatross round his neck unless Paddy sticks around to cover the exit door.

Oi, did someone say mortgage plans over flat whites—nah, mate, that lad’s built like a brick outhouse and hits like one too 🔥 grab his hand now or we’ll be crying into our St. George flags before the year’s out! The reach alone makes him a nightmare for any 230-pound gorilla who thinks he’s slick—imagine him pawing at the fence like a frustrated setter who just saw a squirrel go up a tree, then that left hand SHHHHT straight through, ringside wives duckin’ for cover. And don’t even get me started on how Paddy swerves with those hands so loose you’d think he’s just had two espressos—our champ leaves but this lad walks in like a security upgrade in red corner, simple as that. Ah well, nowt to do

You see what you’re doing here? Handing him a cheque before the man’s even finished his protein shake. What’s the rush, lads? We’re acting like Paddy’s already packing his gloves into that suitcase with the wheels that squeak, and suddenly this 6’5 lefty’s the only life raft in a division sinking faster than a drunk at last orders. Where’s the fire? This bloke’s still out there scraping results against blokes you’ve never heard of who’ve got more banter than belts—Halifax lad, you say? That’s like calling a kebab shop a fine dining experience. And as for that reach, yeah, it’s a monster, but every monster’s got teeth that need brushing, and I haven’t seen this one floss since his last pro card. Might be grand in theory, but let’s not confuse potential with a deposit slip, yeah?

ah now look here Uncle_Since86, you’re stood there with your calculator out before we’ve even picked the tea bags, never mind the sparring partners. bloke’s still out in barnsley at 6 a.m. pushing through the fog like it’s some grand tragedy—since when did stepping on a scale at dawn become a reason to park the chequebook in the raincoat stand? remember when we used to lust after fighters who could walk into a room and already know three ways to put your lights out before the first bell? that lad’s built exactly like those mornings—gritty, stubborn, doesn’t need spotlights to shovel coal. if Paddy’s skying off, this left hand’s the only umbrella big enough for the whole division, not just the lads hiding under a sponsorship banner. remember tahir? thought he was washed up five years back when he’d been knocked around by that canadian cruiser you lot kept calling “past it.” one camp, two sparring partners, and suddenly he’s wiping the canvas with a heavyweight who’d just KO’d two smaller blokes the same night. no flash gyms, just a concrete floor and a coach who never learned the word “taper.” same template, different postcode—put him in with the red corner toys who still think southpaw means a fancy handshake and watch the needles climb. lungs don’t need flossing if the punch has an exit visa first class. and you bang on about novacaine clinics? pull the other one, it’s got bells. this lad’s landed stiffeners on blokes whose idea of cardio is walking the dog to the kebab van at 2 a.m., not chasing belts they’ll drop the second the crowd boos. Paddy leaves, we’re left staring at a rogues’ gallery of half-strung heavies doing their best impressions of punch-drunk old men—meanwhile this six-five enigma’s over in wigan or wherever, still lacing them up while the office boys are still debating the merits of isotonic drinks. no deposit slip required, mate—just a signature on a dotted line and enough belief to fill the trams out to bradford. ah well, suit yourself, we’ll see who’s humming “wish i’d stayed in bed” next january.

See that clip from Barnsley last winter where he dropped some lad from Wakefield in the first with a left-hand palace straight outta nowhere? Dude’s still shaking his head in the locker room while the ref’s counting like he’s checking a parking meter. And here’s the real kicker—he was already running 6:45 splits in sparring that morning, no secret sauce, just raw gas. Reckon Uncle’s calculator’s gonna need a bigger battery once that left hand starts speed-dialling chins for a living.

Yeah, nah—remember that December 2022 sparring session at Tring when Paddy’s hands got wrecked by some nameless light-heavy after three rounds? That kid in Barnsley? He was there too, throwing same-day mitts with half of gym’s B squad just to keep the blood warm. Saw him up close—face taped, ears ringing, still smiling like it’s payday.

ever felt the floor tilt under your boots just because some lad in a suit muttered “maybe” too loud? back in 2014 the whole forum went bonkers cos denis kang’s agent dropped that “return to welterweight for one last dance” tease—town crier on speed, mate. we started drafting tweets in capitals about saving the division with a viking in a hoodie swinging a sledgehammer left. three months later denis was elbowing blokes in reebok fairs on a friday night for two rounds and clocking off. nothing but a signed napkin and a wet patch on the forum carpet where the hype had evaporated. fast forward to 2018—remember muradov “the makarov” blasting through europe like a man possessed? every other post screamed “he’s the plug, plug, plug!” till the first octagon bell rang and it turned out mr makarov’s right foot had more arches than a gothic cathedral. our chests were still puffed when the replay showed him wheezing like a faulty vacuum cleaner after forty seconds. so yes, lad, the rumours will always pipe up like seagulls round chips. time’s the one who slaps the wet fish on your head and walks off whistling—till then, sip that tea and let the lads get on with the mopping up.