Donald Trump knows how to party His 80th was a forbidden thrill

A bloodied UFC fighter is lying flat on his back, arms akimbo. He has just been knocked unconscious by Josh Hokit, who celebrates by draping a playing card of himself around the neck of Donald Trump on the President’s 80th birthday. Then, during a post-fight interview with Joe Rogan, Hokit grabs the microphone and bellows: “Michelle Obama is a MAN!” The crowd enters a state of pure, unbridled euphoria.

If the essence of MAGA could be distilled into a single evening, then last night’s UFC Freedom 250 at the White House would be it. Part military parade, part sporting spectacle and part internet fever dream, the MMA fights on the South Lawn marked both America’s 250th birthday and Donald Trump’s 80th. Here, as tens of thousands of Trump supporters descended on DC, was the clearest sign yet of red America stamping its authority in the country’s bluest enclave. Six years ago, on January 6, they had come uninvited to one of the cathedrals of American democracy. Now, they were here by invitation of the state itself.

For those who weren’t offered a ringside seat alongside Trump and the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) chief executive, Dana White, there was always the Ellipse: a 52-acre park just south of the White House, to watch the action on giant screens. Passing vendors hawking Trump t-shirts emblazoned with slogans such as “Suck It Up, Buttercup” and “It’s No Mistake, Snowflake”, I shuffled through concentric circles of security to enter the promised land. Moments after walking in, a nearby fan put his friend in a chokehold. The friend’s protestations about losing consciousness went unnoticed until a DEA agent was forced to intervene. “Save it for later,” he warned them.

As I walked around the park, it felt like I had stumbled into a MAGA beauty pageant: out were the traditional red MAGA caps (although there were still a few), in were t-shirts reading “red, white and badass” and “so long, autopen Joe”. Others were decked out in Freedom 250 merch, the Trump-aligned group tasked with organizing patriotic celebrations for the country’s 250th birthday. Nearly everyone I spoke to had flown in for the event, from states as far as Oklahoma, Ohio, and Arizona, to catch a glimpse of their favorite fighters — and favorite president.

The fights did not begin until after 8pm, leaving fans to entertain themselves for a few hours. Some queued to test their strength on a punch machine, placing bets on who would land the biggest score. Others climbed into a makeshift ring for photographs or played commentator from behind a mock broadcast desk. But most were content to mill about near the jumbo screens, watching soldiers from different divisions wrestle each other inside the octagon until the real fights began.

It was a surreal scene, not least because the park was topped-and-tailed by two of the nation’s most recognizable landmarks. At one end stood the Washington Monument. At the other loomed the star-spangled “Claw” — a 92-foot-tall, 154-foot-wide, 600-ton spider-like structure through which the White House was just visible in the distance. Built at a reported cost of $60 million and involving seven federal agencies and more than 700 subcontractors, the Claw would serve as the home of the first live professional sporting event ever staged at the White House.

Was it a partisan political event too? No, insisted White in the weeks leading up to the event, declaring that UFC Freedom 250 would be a celebration of all things American. And what better way to mark the occasion than with fighters vomiting by the Ellipse, motorbikers backflipping in front of the White House, and a bald eagle soaring over the heads of thousands of red-blooded, fight-loving patriots?

Such scenes may not have been what John Adams and Benjamin Franklin envisioned when they signed the Declaration of Independence 250 years ago. Nor is it likely that William Howard Taft imagined his newly built Oval Office would one day serve as the staging area for a UFC walkout onto the White House South Lawn. To liberals, the event was a gaudy symptom of a late-stage idiocracy. To conservatives, it was a triumphant showing of America’s (and by extension, MAGA’s) cultural might.

Occasionally, Trump chants rippled through the crowd, with one group singing happy birthday to the President. One man, wearing a red MAGA hat and a t-shirt reading “Freedom in the front, party in the back” told me that only Trump would be able to put on an event like this. “We owe him, man,” he said. “Literally no other president would put on a show like this.” Unprompted, he proceeded to chug his beer, most of which went down his shirt, before screaming: “Trump 2028 and beyond! WOO!”

If there were any Democrats in our midst, they were certainly not forthcoming about it. This was no place for a bien-pensant liberal. After all, the event happened at the President’s direction, outside his official residence, and on his birthday. Having been met with a chorus of boos at last week’s Knicks game in New York, he was now back on friendlier ground, with the loudest cheers of the night erupting as he emerged from the White House.

As he walked out of the Oval Office alongside White, the President initially appeared rather wan. His movements were slow and his facial expression barely changed. But it soon became clear that this was an affectation: this was the emperor’s show, and it was unbecoming to display any emotion to the masses. Stepping out onto the South Portico, he stood for a moment to soak in the crowd’s adulation before saluting towards the skyward as military planes flew above.

For all that this event was a show of Trumpian grandeur, there was also something unmistakably American about it. Loud, self-assured, and impossible to ignore, it read as a global hegemon flexing its cultural muscle, while corporate America staged its own parallel spectacle around the “Claw”: red, white and blue lights cutting into the night sky, giant Ram trucks suspended overhead, and a Meta booth promoting its new AI glasses. Never guilty of letting a good business opportunity go to waste, the Trump Organization also commemorated the event with “Freedom 250”-themed silver and gold coins featuring Trump’s face. Some of the coins cost as much as  $12,000. For better or worse, it was difficult to imagine any other country staging something quite like it.

This was my first UFC event. Until now, my relationship with “extreme” sports had rarely gone further than a Christmas skate at Central Park. But I was enthralled by the world I had just entered into. Over the course of the evening, I learned that there were eight different ways to choke an opponent into submission, and 12 different ways to break their arm. “It’s all about avoiding lay and pray,” Nick Willey, a former MMA fighter who now competes as a bareknuckle boxer, advised me. “If you get grappled down to the ground, you’re in big trouble.”

The fights themselves were thrilling, with the biggest upset of the night coming shortly after midnight. American Justin Gaethje stunned Ilia Topuria in a brutal 20-minute contest that left the champion’s face looking like a half-deflated football. Gaethje entered the bout as a heavy underdog, only to overwhelm Topuria with a relentless barrage of punches and leg kicks, claiming the lightweight belt in the process. “Never fuck with a real American!” screamed a nearby fan, pumping his fist into the air in triumph.

In keeping with the other fighters, Gaethje then climbed out of the octagon to shake the hand of the President, who commended the fighter on an excellent bout. The scene had an air of a modern-day Coliseum, with the crowd’s roar subsiding into a kind of ritual hush after the violence properly dispensed. Now, Trump could proceed to his next engagement as a satisfied octogenarian, boarding a flight to Geneva to finalize America’s deal with Iran.

In some ways, UFC Freedom 250 represented the worst aspects of American culture: the snobbery of the liberals who sniped from afar, the crassness of the MAGA movement, the shameless commercialism of US business, and the infiltration of politics into all corners of everyday life. Every rational instinct told me the event was silly, ludicrous, and absurd.

But here’s my confession: I enjoyed every minute of it. Perhaps the fighting awakened something more primitive in me. Or perhaps I was simply swept up in the enthusiasm of the night. More likely though, it was the surrender of all pretense to seriousness. Looking out across the crowd — a 20-foot beer snake, fake UFC belts, a giant inflatable fighting glove, and animated debates over Hokit’s technical prowess — I realized everyone was simply having fun. There wasn’t much more to it than that.

What this looked like to the rest of the world lies in the eye of the beholder. Was it a triumph of American spectacle, or a self-inflicted blow to the country’s cultural prestige? As one fan summed it up as we left in the early hours: “Bro, sometimes the best moments in life come when you’re getting punched in the face.”

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