My Week: Conor McGregor*
Published 03/04/2016 | 02:30
Monday: I wake up. Although, of course, I have not actually been asleep. No, no, my friend. Not in the way that other, mere mortal people sleep. Instead I have trained myself to metaphysicise; I have transmorgorified, I have metamorphisitised, I have fundamentally reimagined a way of resting my body, so that I am consciously wrestling with the inner movements of my muscles, even as my body believes it is sleeping. And while I do dat, my amigo, I am also full of the most beautiful feelings and emotions. My woman, my girl, the future first Lady of Ireland and myself, did go and promenade the town last night, with a pint of Guinness and my very good friend and training partner, Artem "The Russian Hammer" Lobov.
And, because I am always thinking, yes thinking I am, of my many fans and supporters and the people who love me because I am no mere mortal but a butterfly working against the wheel, and because I am such a very proud and successful Irishman I posted my experiences and feelings on the Instagram I did, saying: "Just a young free man in his prime. Shout out to the troops. Baby we did it". Although of course, I mean "I" did it. Me. On my own. Totally.
Tuesday: My friend Batman, aka Ben Affleck, calls me again to thank me for inspiring his fighting during the making of the Batman V Superman. I have told him that he needs to keep the faith, and if he can constantly visualise, if he imagines and believes that he is beating the shit out of Superman, then that is what will happen. Of course as Affleck is only Batman and not The Notorious he cannot whoop ass or look good, not like I can whoop ass and look good. He is not like me, a proud, fighting McGregor, whose Scottish and Irish ancestors were on battlefields, swinging pickaxes and defending our nations and our women. He is only a mere Hollywood superhero, a dilettante; he is not a fighting Irish McGregor, but if he believes, and if he listens to what I tells him to do, he will be a better fighter, a better man, a better superhero.
Wednesday: Today my friends, today, I can finally reveal to you the secret that I have been holding inside my beating breast. Since my humbling recent battle, which I deliberately engineered, so that I could experience the mental benefits of losing, because I am always thinking and learning and working and fighting and composing and eulogising and meditating… I do not dwell on such minor matters as being beaten to a pulp in front of an audience of millions. I am a Darwinian project, evolving in beautiful butterfly action. And as a King, a fighting God, since that last battle I have re-imagined my winning. Don't listen to what that mere insect Dos Anjos says, I will fight anyone, anywhere, anytime, Jose Aldo and Frankie Edgar too - even though they are unworthy - all together at the same time, while I am blindfolded with one hand strapped behind my back, a pint of Guinness in the other. But on July 9 I will return and show how I, Conor McGregor, like the Christ guy, will be resurrected as the champion of the world as I drag the head of my enemy through the streets of Vegas.
Thursday: Today I have to interrupt my very rigid and exact and scientific and intellectual training regime, so that I can give advice to my country and its leaders. They need me during these difficult times. And so I am driven to the Irish Government Buildings so that I can tell Mr Enda Kenny how he can knock heads together and get the minions and the undeserving to do what he needs them to do so that he can become king again. Like me. I tell him we have both been through the battles. And we have both been wounded but are now so much stronger and ready for the next fight. He also put his title at risk and now he must regain it - though of course he is a much poorer man than I am.
I tell him how he can whoop ass. I show him how he can evolve and become a king. I tell him how he can be like me, a destroyer, but I do not think he wants it enough. He is not showing singleness of purpose. He is a wuss. I am wasting my time with this loser.
Friday: Today is one of my favourite days of the year. It is the day when I can reveal my inner comedian, my magical, metaphysical way with humour and jokes and jests of all kinds. My respected coach, John Kavanagh agreed that today, would be the day when we would have some fun. He tweeted our many millions of adoring fans: "Another pull out, let's see [if he] accepts now after all the talk #UFC200". But, unsurprisingly, my fans are super intelligent, like me. Just not so much. They were not fooled. And I am happy to say that they were right not to be fooled. We will fight again, my friend. I will destroy you. I will be victorious. The only fighter who will ever stand a chance of beating the master - the thinker, talker and tactician that is Conor McGregor... is Conor McGregor. And then I will go home, I will count my money, eat my sirloin steaks, polish my belts. Because this is not a talent, this is an obsession. Remember that my friend, as I batter your f**king head in.
*As imagined by Carol Hunt