“There’s only onnnnne Ricky Hatton, only onnnnnne Ricky Hatton, walking along, singing a song, walking in a Hatton wonderland….”

The singing was reaching a crescendo in the break between rounds. We were about to enter hour fifteen of a marathon drinking session and the Sports Bar inside Butlins had opened especially at 3:30am to show the fight. I, along with a few friends and five hundred strangers, were now stood shoulder-to-shoulder looking upwards at one of the enormous screens. The fight was four rounds in, and the chanting showed no signs of abating.

According to 192.com there are actually over one hundred Richard Hattons, but now was not the time to correct the other 499 people. I would hate to have been responsible for reducing their enthusiasm.

“I make that 3-2 to Hatton then.” Slurred my mate Nutman in my general direction.

“There’s only been four rounds so far.” I pointed out, quite correctly.

“Yes, and think Hatton’s won three, and Mayweather the other two.”

“But there’s only been four rounds, not five.”

“So how is he winning 3-2 then, eh?”

“He’s not, you just think he is.”

“I’m watching the same fight you are you know, and I’m telling you he’s at least 3-2 up. THERE’S ONLY ONNNNNNE RICKY HATTON, ONNNNNNNE RICKY HATTON….”

Six rounds later, as Hatton was being helped up from the canvas, Nutman concluded that his defeat was a shame, as he’d had Hatton winning by 7 rounds to 5 at that point.

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