Conor McGregor and Tucker Carlson Walk Into a Bar
The title sounds like the start of a bad joke, but it’s not. There they were, seated inside The Black Forge in Dublin — one, a controversial media firebrand; the other, a controversial MMA legend. Carlson in his jacket and half-smirk, McGregor seated beside him, looking every bit the politician-in-waiting. Sipping pints of stout, they swapped grievances. The mood, I’m told, was convivial. The subject matter, however, was rather dark.
The Notorious is eyeing Áras an Uachtaráin. President McGregor. Let that sink in.
To be fair, we used to love him. When McGregor was fighting and winning, he made us proud. A working-class lad from Crumlin, Dublin. Against all odds, he kicked and punched his way out of obscurity and put Ireland on the global stage. He was boastful, but brilliant. Fast with his fists, faster with his words. For a moment, he made us feel untouchable. He brought pride to a nation in desperate need of real champions.
Then came the leg break. And with it, the slow slide from hero to walking headline. The lawsuits. The posturing. The performative patriotism. And now, the final act of this strange metamorphosis: Conor McGregor, sitting in a pub with Tucker Carlson, railing against immigrants and calling for the salvation of Ireland. (RELATED: Tucker’s Interview With Elon Is Required Viewing for Everybody)
McGregor is certainly right about the problem. He’s just wildly unqualified to solve it. As an Irishman who was home for Christmas, I can say plainly: something is deeply wrong. The pace of change is absolutely shocking. Neighborhoods that once felt familiar now feel unrecognizable. The pressure on infrastructure is palpable. Housing, healthcare, schools — all buckling under the weight of an influx the country wasn’t prepared for. You don’t have to be xenophobic to see it. You just have to open your eyes and acknowledge reality. (RELATED: Ireland Imposes Draconian ‘Hate’ Laws)
This isn’t about race. It’s about volume. It’s about speed. It’s about a system that has failed both newcomers and natives by pretending everything is fine. It’s not fine.
Believing that importing people from war-torn countries in the Middle East and Africa — many of whom don’t speak English, don’t share the cultural context, and arrive with no qualifications or resources — and then dumping them, without warning or support, into the middle of Dublin city or into a rural village in the West of Ireland is somehow a sustainable, humane strategy. It isn’t. It’s absurd. It’s cruel. Not just to the migrants, but to the locals — many of whom, like my own parents, were never consulted, never asked, never given the courtesy of a conversation. Just expected to smile politely, swallow their concerns, and accept massive, overnight change as a moral obligation.
That isn’t integration. It’s imposition. It creates resentment where there could have been understanding. And it leaves both communities — those arriving and those already here — isolated, confused, and on edge. It’s a policy forged in think tanks, not real towns. And it shows.
And McGregor, crude as his delivery may be, is giving voice to a conversation many are too afraid to start. But a philosopher king he is not.
McGregor has always been absurd, somewhere between Hulk Hogan and Hunter S. Thompson. What made him famous wasn’t just talent. It was excess. He didn’t just win; he demolished. He didn’t just fight; he insulted, belittled, and beat his chest like an overstimulated gorilla. And while Americans may reward that level of performative posturing, back home, it wears thin. Irish culture, for all its fire, still values modesty. We cheer our winners, but we don’t like them getting too big for their boots. Especially not when they start selling our flag alongside whiskey bottles and court settlements.
McGregor’s pivot to politics is revealing. He’s no longer content to be the fighter, the entertainer, the brand. He wants to be the savior. He says he wants to serve and protect Ireland. Which would be touching, if it wasn’t so transparently strategic.
This is a rebrand masquerading as a populist revolution. McGregor, well aware that his days as a serious fighter are long gone, is scrambling to stay relevant. The glory days won’t be relived. There are no more belts to win, no more title shots waiting. He might run for president, but his chances of securing the presidency are nonexistent. That’s because, in Ireland, a presidential candidate needs the support of 20 members of the national parliament or the endorsement of at least four county or city councils to even get on the ballot. McGregor has neither.
Also, it’s important to note that the Irish presidency is largely ceremonial. It’s symbolic, not executive. No real power, no policy control. Just a podium and a platform. Of course, McGregor knows that. He’s simply selling a dream. A fever dream, I suggest.
As for Carlson, this was an opportunity. He, like many in the media, is in the business of clicks. And McGregor still gets clicks. The story made sense. Ireland has a real problem. McGregor says he wants to solve it. Carlson just wants the content. He’s a good salesman. He always has been.
But McGregor used to talk and fight a good fight. Now, it’s just talk. Sadly, he’s writing checks his body can no longer cash. He was once a great fighter — brilliant, brutal, unrelenting. But no matter how many views this interview gets, no matter how many headlines it generates, that fighter isn’t coming back. And that fighter will never be president of Ireland.
READ MORE from John Mac Ghlionn:
Don’t Drink the Kool-Aid: Bryan Johnson’s Cult of Don’t Die
The Fall of Harvard: How America’s Oldest University Became Its Most Expensive Liability
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