Daniel Dubois is still crying over that low blow call? Baaaabe, give it a rest. Man’s sulking so hard, he could water a garden with the tears. Proper “mum said it’s my turn on the Xbox” energy.
It’s 2025 and Daniel is still moaning like it just happened yesterday. Newsflash: no amount of sulking is going to rewind time or rewrite the ref’s decision. You can cry about it in the gym, cry about it in interviews, cry about it on the way to Wembley — but it’s not going to change the fact that the punch was low, the call was right, and you QUIT in the ninth. Period.
Usyk’s over here training, laughing it off, and brushing your complaints off like dandruff. Meanwhile, Dubois is stuck on repeat like a broken record. Crying in public might get sympathy, but it won’t win you the belts. It won’t erase the footage. It won’t undo the way you folded under pressure.
Moaning doesn’t build stamina. Whining doesn’t tighten your guard. Complaining won’t block punches. You know what does? Doing the work. Moving on.
Moaning ain’t strategy. Crying ain’t preparation. And excuses won’t save you at Wembley.
Okay but… is Oleksandr Usyk breaking these heavyweights mentally?
First, Anthony Joshua. The golden boy. Poster child for British boxing. Walked into that first fight like he was on a Men’s Health cover shoot — walked out looking like he just saw a ghost. Completely outboxed, out-thought, and outclassed. Then the rematch? Same energy. AJ wasn’t just physically beaten — his brain short-circuited. Remember the bizarre post-fight speech? Holding the belts, rambling about Ukraine, throwing Usyk’s flag around like he was auditioning for Strictly Come Dancing. That wasn’t the performance of a man who lost a fight. That was a man who had his soul extracted.
The moment the decision was read — and shocker, it wasn’t in his favor — AJ went from heavyweight boxer to motivational speaker in crisis. He stormed out of the ring, threw the belts out like they were clearance items at Poundland, came back into the ring, grabbed the mic and started spouting something about Ukraine, his tough upbringing, and… boxing tactics? The crowd didn’t know whether to clap, cry, or call a wellness check.
And the speech? Oh lord. We had classic lines like “I ain’t no 12-round fighter,” and “I don’t even know what’s going on,” which — spoiler alert — we didn’t either. Meanwhile, Usyk just stood there, calm as ever, probably wondering if AJ had been hit one too many times or just finally met the ghost of his own hype.
Joshua wasn’t just beaten physically — he was mentally evacuated. It was the most raw, uncomfortable, meme-worthy breakdown we’ve seen in a boxing ring since David Haye blamed his pinky toe.
Next up: Tyson Fury. Our beloved Gypsy King. All talk, all bravado, all mind games — until he ran into Usyk and suddenly didn’t know what time zone he was in. Got dropped, outmaneuvered, and when the final bell rang, he looked like he’d just seen the end of his own career. Oh wait — he had. Now Fury’s allegedly “retired” (again), sitting at home with his shirt off, posting videos about energy drinks and mental health. You don’t bounce back from a fight like that unless your name’s Lazarus, and even then, you’re probably side-eyeing Usyk from the afterlife.
Tyson “I’m the Gypsy King” Fury strutted into that ring like he was the second coming of Ali and walked out looking like he’d just been ghosted by reality and the judges. The only thing heavier than the punches Usyk landed was the emotional baggage Fury left the ring with.
Let’s set the scene: Fury loses cleanly — as in, everyone saw it, their nan saw it, the dog saw it — and instead of owning it like a grown-up, he hits us with the full denial package. First move? Storm out of the ring. No handshake, no grace, no “fair play.” Just full diva exit, stage left, in boxing boots and delusion.
What about the last fight? He grabs a mic and starts ranting like he’s auditioning for a conspiracy docuseries. According to Tyson, the judges gave Usyk a “Christmas gift.” Baby, if that was a gift, it was well-earned — with blood, sweat, and Fury’s confused footwork.
And THEN — oh yes, there’s more — he goes on about how he won the fight. Like, fully serious. Fully. He said it with his chest. “I thought I won by three rounds.” Darling, what fight were you watching? Because the one the rest of us saw had you dancing backwards in survival mode while Usyk painted the canvas with your pride.
It wasn’t a robbery. It was a readjustment. Fury didn’t just lose the belts — he lost the illusion that he was untouchable.
This wasn’t a tantrum. This was a full mental fold, broadcast in HD. And the silence afterward? Deafening. No fire. No rematch rage. Just a man sitting at home posting weird reels about energy drinks while pretending everything’s fine. Spoiler: it’s not. His ego took a body shot and hasn’t stood up since.
Usvk vs. Dubois on July 19 -Another Stadium Fight – I can’t wait!
Back to Daniel Dubois — poor Daniel. Still clinging to one moment in 2023 like it was some conspiracy theory. Still whining about a low blow while conveniently forgetting he gave up in round nine. It’s been two years, and he’s still mentally parked in that fight like it’s a trauma flashback. Sweetie, if you haven’t moved on by now, maybe it’s not the punch that did damage — maybe it’s Usyk.
Now here we are, heading toward the rematch on July 19th at Wembley — big stage, big money, and Usyk holding three belts while Dubois clings to one and a suitcase full of excuses. DAZN PPV ’s got it for $59.99 in the U.S. and £24.99 in the UK, they should include a bonus box of tissues for Dubois and his fans — they’ll need them when the same story repeats itself.
Wembley’s ready. Security will be overwhelmed by 6 p.m. The bogs will look like a war crime by the main event. And the aftermath?
The moment Daniel Dubois takes another beating, the entire UK Wembley stadium crowd — yes, the knockoff Love Island extras and their coked-out boyfriends in Stone Island — will collectively melt down faster than their fake lashes in a stadium toilet. Mascara running, extensions tangled in hoop earrings, screaming at each other over some guy in a spray-on Moschino T-shirt who looks like he sells stolen vapes outside JD Sports.
Becky’s screaming that it was a robbery (despite her not seeing a single round), her Moschino-smeared boyfriend Kieran shadowboxing the stewards while snorting his fifth line off a programme. Oh, it’s coming. You can feel it in the air — that sour stench of panic-laced Lynx Africa and half-empty vodka Red Bulls.
By 10 p.m., half of the UK crowd are barefoot again, wobbling through piss puddles and vomit like it’s a goddamn obstacle course. Stilettos in one hand, dignity in the other — both ruined. You paid £300 to play human Frogger between puddles of Stella puke and someone’s half-digested doner kebab.
It’s not “Fight Night.” It’s KetFest 2025: Ringside Collapse Edition — starring Becky howling “he wuz robbed” and Kieran trying to uppercut a traffic cone in the name of Dubois’ honour, and 40,000 brain cells livestreaming themselves crying outside the tube because their Uber won’t go anywhere near Wembley.
Meanwhile, the Met’s busy dragging a Callum in ripped skinny jeans into the back of a van as he bellows about conspiracies, “levels,” and how Eddie Hearn personally sabotaged the fight using Illuminati energy beams.
And the best bit? None of them even know who Dubois was actually fighting. Ask Becky and she’ll say “some geezer from America innit.” Ask Kieran and he’ll just grunt, “Dunno bruv, but if Eddie Hearn don’t fix up, I swear down…” Like clockwork, they’ll blame Hearn for everything from Dubois’ glass chin to the tube delays.
“Oi, Eddie Hearn’s a snake innit, man set him up!” — spoken confidently by a guy who thinks WBA is an energy drink and once asked if ‘southpaw’ was a rapper.
So yeah — I love Tottenham and Wembley fight nights. Nothing screams “boxing heritage” like a thousand mascara-streaked TikTok girls arguing outside a Greggs while their boyfriends try to fight a lamp post.
As for Daniel? Sweetheart, get over it. The punch wasn’t clean, the call was fine, and none of that changes the fact that you quit in round nine. No shame in losing to Usyk. But blaming the universe two years later? That’s just sad.
Bring on the rematch — bring on the meltdown. And someone bring a mop.
He Doesn’t Just Win Titles — Usyk Crushes Your Spirit and Body
So what’s going on here? How does this quiet, weird little Ukrainian with a dad bod and an awkward grin keep walking into these mega-fights and walking out with not just the belts — but his opponents’ dignity?
He’s not flashy. He’s not loud. He doesn’t do 10-minute ego speeches or throw chairs at pressers. But once the bell rings?
He doesn’t just enter your head. No no. He BREAKS in, knocks over a few mental chairs, feng shuis your emotional trauma, then—as if that wasn’t enough—leaves a passive-aggressive sticky note on your soul that whispers:
You’ll never be the same again.
So yes, maybe Usyk isn’t just winning fights — maybe he’s wrecking people. Quietly. Methodically. Permanently.
The real damage isn’t the knockdowns. It’s what happens after. The haunted looks. The weird interviews. The career detours.