Middle age is OK by me. National Trust membership, a Waitrose loyalty card, lying on the sofa drinking red wine and yelling at the telly — since I turned 40, this stuff all just feels right. But by a mile, the best consolation of middle age I’ve found is the cagefighter Conor McGregor and living vicariously through his kicks, punches and verbal smackdowns.
How dull my previous enthusiasms for cricket, tennis and football now seem by comparison with the heroic derring-do of this 28-year-old killing machine, a former plumber from Crumlin in Dublin.
It’s not just the sheer honesty of the sport he has mastered or the megawatt charisma he exudes every time he opens his mouth (sample quote: ‘Whoever said it’s tough at the top is talking absolute shite’). More than anything, it’s the meticulous, balletic beauty of the manner in which he metes out jaw-dropping violence whenever he fights. It speaks to a part of me that before middle age I didn’t know existed.
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