IRISH MMA star Conor McGregor’s fall from grace could not have been more dramatic. From global icon and business tycoon, worshipped by millions across the world, to convicted rapist after civil proceedings in Dublin, his is a tale of how fame corrupts and absolute fame corrupts completely.

It also confirms that the hyper-masculinity of combat sports constitutes a potential danger to both the fighters involved and society in general. The result of this danger in McGregor’s case is a traumatised female victim with the courage to stand up to him, a man whom so many have bowed down to, and he now dealing with the aftershock in terms of now being widely regarded as a pariah.

McGregor’s unravelling, it should be understood, began long before the point where his sense of entitlement culminated in rape. It is a story worthy of the character from Greek mythology, Icarus; whereby his wealth and fame propelled him to fly too close to the sun.

A global icon for whom the only constraints were none whatsoever, who wore and still wears his vulgarity, bombast and disregard for humility as a badge of honour, what does McGregor represent if not the moral void in which sits the values of an American dream that stand as a grotesque perversion of the human condition?

Nietzsche’s “will to power” is embodied in McGregor’s rise from a working-class housing estate in Dublin to the summit of fame and the riches of a latter-day Crassus. He rode the wave of a sport, mixed martial arts, that is rooted in brute cruelty and a thirst for glory that must needs can only be satiated at the expense of others.

From a distance, McGregor appeared to be “living the dream.” This has it that the summit of human happiness, meaning and value is a place of unbounded fame, riches and, with it, the licence to proclaim “fuck you” to the world of mere mortals that lies beneath and from which you have escaped. It is a summit that sits so high in the sky of Western society that only a rare few who try could ever succeed in reaching it. Such people are deemed special and unique, indeed superhuman, for having done so in consequence.

The problem with an American dream of unbounded riches that wields such power in Western cultural life is that though it may tantalise those who walk through its golden door with the promise of everlasting happiness, the reality on the other side is a spiritual desert, populated not by those blessed to have “made it,” but instead by those cursed to bear the cross of its ineffable burden of alienation from self.

Indeed, what is Conor McGregor if not a study in the grim consequences of life lived in the gilded cage of celebrity, a prisoner rather than beneficiary of the fame, money and adulation it bestows? It is a pernicious trinity that can only ever leave its victims adrift, distorting and disorientating reality as no narcotic can.

The pride of a fighter is forged in the laboratory of asceticism, an emotional and psychological place where virtues of self-sacrifice and abnegation walk hand in hand with the hunger and determination to overcome — first and most importantly yourself.

The discipline required to eat, sleep and train as a fighter day in day out to the exclusion of all else is of a type that induces justifiable awe. It is the awe of those who can’t and would never dare risk all to prove that they can. Thus it is no accident that fighters have long occupied a special respect within a Western societies and cultures dulled and softened by stultifying conformity to the strictures of modern life.

The Conor McGregor who tapped out against Khabib Nurmagomedov back in 2018 was defeated before he even stepped into the octagon — by an excess of fame and money and motivated by its perpetuation. His howls of delight at the final presser over the fact his new whiskey company/brand was among the event’s corporate sponsors conjured words attributed to the ancient Greek dramatist Euripides: “Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad.”

For a fighter, such shallow motivation writes blank cheques when the going gets tough in the ring or octagon — precisely at the point at which he is invited to descend to that place where the question of how far he is willing to go in order to prevail must be answered. It is a place profoundly described by Norman Mailer in his classic account of Ali’s epic 1974 encounter with George Foreman in Africa as “the boiler room of the damned.”

Against Khabib, McGregor refused to enter this hellish place when invited to, while his opponent did so gladly. This was the fundamental difference between them and which determined the outcome.

Though McGregor may drape himself in the Irish tricolour as he enters the ring to the haunting anthem, The Foggy Dew, written as a stirring tribute to the martyrs of the 1916 Easter Rising in Dublin, its meaning is subverted and disfigured by a man whose ability to fly around the world in private jets, regale himself in bespoke tailored suits and diamond watches by the hundred. More, it violates the principles for which these sacred Irish martyrs fought and died in Ireland’s freedom struggle.

But, then, the Ireland from which McGregor emerged is itself now a country on the make, a property developer and bankers’ paradise and veritable hell for its legion of homeless and poor rather than the proud independent country the men of 1916 dreamed. Bertolt Brecht’s admonition, “Unhappy the land that is in need of heroes,” could have been authored with Conor McGregor and Ireland in mind.

McGregor achieved global fame and the riches to match as a result of years of fierce discipline, self-sacrifice and ascetic application to the toughest and most most brutal profession on the planet. In the process he allowed himself to become just another pawn in the game of greed that devours those it entraps.

It is a tale worthy of Shakespeare.

Now, today, he is a man who carries the squalid stamp of “rapist.”