Security cam footage from El Squid Roe nightclub in Cabo San Lucas two years ago clearly shows Dana White slapping his wife, Anne, twice in quick succession. When TMZ released the tape, the chief executive of UFC declared that merely being known for this act would be sufficient punishment so he would not endure any disciplinary action.
That the public face of the company essentially paid no price for striking a woman offered yet more proof mixed martial arts is and always has been a banana republic, a sporting dystopia where societal norms do not apply. Fittingly then, the place that made Conor McGregor.
White campaigned vigorously for Donald Trump, the candidate found liable in a New York civil court of raping E Jean Carroll. At last summer’s Republican National Convention, the face of combat sports in America described his great friend as “the toughest, most resilient human being I’ve ever met”. Quite an opinion of a man accused of sexual assault by nearly 30 other women, and somebody who famously boasted of liking to “grab them by the p***y”. In the weeks since November 6th, the now president-elect has nominated four people with serious sexual assault allegations on their CVs for senior positions in his cabinet. Which makes this the perfect country for Conor McGregor to make his inevitable, lucrative comeback some gaudy night soon in the Nevada desert.
The United States has become a nation where allegations about attacking women are no longer regarded as career-enders, more as colourful entries on a resume, something to be explained away. Pete Hegseth could yet become secretary for defense despite settling a rape claim out of court and having his own mother denounce him as a serial abuser of women. Worse, Linda McMahon will be the next secretary for education while battling a lawsuit claiming she knowingly allowed a WWE ring announcer to use his position in her company to sexually exploit children.
None of this is normal but, against that tawdry background, it’s easy to see why Conor McGregor’s most recent disgrace will very soon be regarded merely as fecund material for slick marketers piecing together viral videos to serve the eventual returning hero narrative. Whether he is coming back to the Octagon or squaring off with Jake Paul in some arse-boxing clown show, it will happen because there is an appetite for it here. And it represents an opportunity for him to stop the financial bleeding caused by so many commercial partners cutting ties.
The Dubliner remains the biggest pay-per-view draw in UFC’s short history, and his ability to bring in buys matters a lot more to the suits making decisions in Las Vegas than his true character being forensically laid bare inside and outside an Irish court. MMA hacks, many of whom still haven’t learned the difference between journalism and journaling, are already giddy at the prospect of somebody they continue to shorthand far too affectionately as “Conor” perhaps being finally focused enough to fight for the first time since 2021.
The timing for his putative comeback is undeniably perfect. This is the bro moment in America. Among other reasons, Trump won re-election by successfully convincing impressionable young fellas he epitomises a certain type of masculinity, a sleight of hand achieved by appearances at UFC fights, golfing with Bryson DeChambeau, and podcasts with Joe Rogan and others of that ilk. Somehow perceiving this five-time draft dodger to be a tough guy, put-upon white heterosexual males, a jockish demographic that has recently developed the most pathetic persecution complex, believe he will stand up for their rights in the ongoing gender culture wars.
Once these frat-bro conservatives hear the conspiracy theory floated by Roger Stone, Trump’s adviser, that this case was really about scuppering Conor McGregor’s right-wing political ambitions, the liúdramáin will be easily convinced the former champion is a man more sinned against than sinning. Just like their put-upon hero on his way back to the White House. As happened first time around, immature fan boys trapped in swollen men’s bodies will fall anew for his tiresome shtick, that odious amalgam of shamroguery and gombeenism, mistaking his cackle for charm, his insults for intellect, his foul-mouthed waggery for wit.
Forgetting all about the tampon lodged in Nikita Hand’s cervix, they will happily fork out $80 to watch him fight because nothing makes America great again like embracing an athlete who has committed crimes against women. A tradition predating Trump and his cult. From Mike Tyson to Kobe Bryant (the woman he was accused of raping refused to testify and received a settlement out of court), there is always a convenient myopia serving the greater sporting spectacle. Or the team winning. Witness New England Patriots fans lustily cheering the return of Jabrill Peppers, awaiting trial on domestic violence and cocaine charges, last Sunday.
In the first week of October, Bucked Up proudly announced a new Notorious Buck range of energy drinks. Made in collaboration with Conor McGregor, coming in Irish apple and orange flavours, his brooding image is on each can.
“I don’t partner with just anyone,” said the Dubliner, in a statement that reads rather differently now. “This partnership isn’t about playing it safe. It’s about pushing limits, taking over and leaving the competition gasping for air.”