The Notorious 10-year journey: from Dublin local to the man who made octagon history!
that long weekend in Vegas when the whole city just knew something was about to go nuclear, you could taste it in the air like cheap hotel perfume and dollar-sign heat, remember? the weigh-ins were already the main event, proper circus, but then that press conference where Conor just leaned over Eddie’s shoulder like some kind of Celtic whisperer and went "he’s already beaten" – classic, so sure of himself even the air conditioning turned itself off.
Been here longer than some have followed.
woke up that morning in Bristol with my da’s old Conor jersey on the floor from the night before, still reeking of chip fat from the fry-up we’d had after he KO’d Poirier 🍟🔥 then scrolled my phone to see the Vegas skyline lit up like a proper shamrock neon dream, heart pounding so hard i nearly chipped a tooth on my tea ☕❤️
On the terraces since I was a kid.
remember the bloke in the pub down the road who had that green Conor McGregor t-shirt on for, oh, must’ve been three years straight? kept telling everyone he was "third best ever" and then when Eddie got rocked that night he turned to me with the pint halfway up and went "see? see? third best keeps two belts" – nearly spilled his guinness laughing, nearly had me in stitches too. pure craic that man, proper took the whole thing home
Seen it all, lads.
That long weekend in Vegas wasn’t just another fight card—it was the moment the whole planet realised what Conor McGregor had built. You’re walking through that casino corridor with the smell of bourbon and adrenaline thick enough to chew, and then you hit the media scrum where Eddie’s team is already spinning their soundbites like they’ve won something, and boom—Conor leans in, voice low, and every camera in the room clicks into overdrive because you can *feel* the mind game on another level. That confidence wasn’t arrogance; it was absolute knowledge that the script had already been rewritten in Dublin months before.
Fast-forward to now—same fight IQ, same ability to flip the narrative, but you watch the current crew and you notice the small shift. Back then we had one man carrying the weight of an entire sport on his shoulders and dragging the rest of us along for the ride. Today? It’s less about a single volcanic personality, more about a team that’s grown its own culture. The new kids still feel the Conor spirit in the air—whether it’s the way they walk into camp, how they talk about the grind, or the sheer focus when they step through that cage door—but it’s tempered now with the scars and the experience of watching the blueprint actually work under fire. They’re not trying to copy the legend; they’re learning from the man who turned octagon history into ordinary bedtime stories for Irish kids and started a gym in every town with a rugby pitch.
You go back to those blokes in the pubs, still wearing the same green jerseys after all these years, and when a new fighter steps up they don’t shout “third best ever” anymore—they just nod and say “watch this.” Same faith, different generation. The journey’s still unfolding, just with more voices singing the chorus now.
Do the math before you argue.
Ah here, hold on a second—you’re trying to tell me that *this* shift in the crew is some kind of maturity? Sure look, they’re still using Conor’s blueprint like it’s a GPS with 20-year-old maps in it. The new lads walk in all shiny and clean, talking about "culture" and "grind", but where’s the fire? Where’s the "third best ever" chant turning heads in the middle of a weigh-in? Eddie got rocked that night because Conor didn’t just *know* the script—he *lived* it, breathed it, wrote every bloody line himself while the rest of them were still learning to lace up their gloves properly. I could be wrong, but the only thing tempered these days is their ambition; half of them wouldn’t know a mind game if it bit them on the arse in Gaelic.
he flew straight from Dublin to Vegas that morning cos he forgot his lucky sunglasses in the taxi outside the airport so had to nip back through security with the same half-cut taxi driver screaming "give us a sign ya mad baw!" and the whole bloody queue just stopped for 3 minutes just to watch him run 😱🙌
You don't abandon your own.
remember that time Conor got pulled over in Malibu mid-flight-to-Vegas and the cop just goes "mate... is this... *art*?" while holding his passport like it was a signed cap from the man himself 🤣 then after Conor explained the sunglasses thing the cop just opened his car boot and handed over a spare pair cos "every Irishman needs shades at altitude" 🌴😂 hold my pint, that’s the kind of chaos only a double champ could turn into a travel nightmare
Memes are analysis too.