Ricky Hatton fights Kostya Tszyu tonight. (Handy name for Scrabble is that.) Or rather, I should say tomorrow morning as it doesn’t start until 2am.
I won’t be watching, not because I’ve anything against Ricky (other than him being a Blue) or boxing for that matter. It’s just that I can only manage one two o’clock a day these days. And I rather think the one on Sunday afternoon will be the one required of me.
It’s all the fault of television, more precisely that thing known as ‘the American market.’ Why the citizens of the home of the brave should want to watch a scrap between a Brit and a Rooski, I’m not quite sure, but they have presumably stumped up their £9.99, or the US equivalent. ($18.12 according to Reuters.)
The reason I raise this at all is because Ricky is a local-ish lad. He grew up in Hattersley, once a place of fields and farms and more recently an overspill estate from Manchester and notoriously the scene of the Moors Murders.
He has since moved himself and his family to the more sedate environs of Gee Cross, a few miles down the road on Joel Lane. And can be seen pounding the streets late at night and getting stopped by the police for being a ‘hoodie.’ I’ve seen him myself, trotting out at 9pm as I stagger out of the pub in the darkness of winter. I assume it must be conditioning for a 2am punch-up.
Hatton seems a together sort of bloke though, very sensible and in tune with himself. And his dad still calls him Richard, at least in the interview I heard on Five Live the other day.
I wish him well and hope for the right result when I wake up in the morning.