Staring down from an adjacent building, Ricky Hatton in his neon pomp, championship belt draped across a shoulder as if he were calling the audience to his next show. Alas, the image carried a heavy tariff, a reminder of the dynamic life that was but is no more, erased at the tragically premature age of 46.

In the street below a who’s who of boxing faces gathered outside The Mitre pub adjacent to Manchester Cathedral, proud old pugs, broadcast executives, promoters, cornermen, trainers, buff boxing types and dignitaries all here to connect with each other and to a figure who wove himself inalienably into the fabric of this surging northern metropolis.

As the clock ticked towards noon a soft drizzle began to fall on mourners crammed against temporary railings, the solemnity broken only

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