Special Guest Blogger: Ricky Hatton

Alright then, come on, settle down, grab a brew. I’ve been asked to pen one of these thingamajigs, a little look back at the life and times of yours truly. A right honour, that is. But I had a read of the brief, and I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little bit flummoxed.
 I'm Ricky.  I’ve got a mug that only a mother could love and I wasn't exactly what you'd call "delicate." I’m built more like a beer barrel than a bottle of perfume. All them pies and pints have given me a physique that’s less ‘hourglass’ and more ‘long-standing national monument’.
So, life, then. What a belting old ride it was.
When I think back, it’s all a bit of a blur of sweat, stitches, and the most incredible noise you’ve ever heard. They tell me to consider my legacy. You what? My legacy? I’m just Ricky from Hyde. I’m the bloke who used to beg his mam for 50p for a bag of chips and ended up fighting in front of millions. It’s a bit mad, when you think about it.
They call me famous, which is a weird word, isn’t it? To me, being famous was getting your name read out in the pub for winning a raffle. Suddenly, I was on the telly, fighting legends, and having a right good go of it. The achievement everyone remembers, of course, is that night against Kostya Tszyu. Don’t get me wrong, winning that was the peak. The absolute pinnacle. But for me? One of the biggest achievements was making the weight the day before without eating the head off the poor lad who brought me a chicken salad.
My legacy, if I have one, isn’t in the fancy belts or the shiny trophies (though they did look canny on the mantelpiece). It was in the MEN Arena. It was in that roar. It wasn't fifty thousand people watching a famous boxer; it was fifty thousand Mancs, willing me on. They saw a bit of themselves in me. A bloke who wasn't afraid to have a go, to get stuck in, and who knew that the best thing after a good scrap was a pint and a curry with your mates. That’s the real legacy, isn’t it? Being a proper, grafting, pie-eating, pint-drinking legend of the working class.
I wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. My fights outside the ring were often tougher than the ones inside it. The weight yoyo's were a nightmare. I’ve hit more buffets than I’ve hit opponents, I’ll tell you that for nowt. One minute you’re a finely-tuned athlete, the next you look like a bin bag full of water. That’s the game, though. The highs are heavenly, and the lows… well, you learn. You pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and find the nearest chippy.
But the biggest question, the one the email really hammered home, is the end. The finale. The curtain call.
How did I die?Suicide.
Whether it was getting punched in the head for a living but i suffered from severe mental health struggles but you know what, depsite that I wouldn’t change a single second. Well, maybe I’d have had one less pint before the Mayweather fight, but we’ll let that lie.