'It was very special to be recognised outside of the ring', a reflective Ricky Hatton tells the Daily Mail in one of his last ever interviews just seven days before he was found dead

It was only a week ago that Ricky Hatton was on the other end of the line. He was in good spirits, talking about the honour of receiving the Freedom of the City of Manchester and about his plans for 'one last night' in the ring this December.

'It’s a massive honour for me,' he said. 'When I first went into the gym as a 10-year-old my dream was to become a world champion… then to be recognised outside of the ring is very special.'

Those words now echo with a terrible poignancy. Just seven days after our conversation, the Hitman is gone. Pronounced dead at 46 years old. The news of his passing has stunned Manchester, British boxing and the wider sporting world.

Hatton was always more than a fighter. Yes, he was a two-weight world champion. Yes, he fought the best of his era - Floyd Mayweather and Manny Pacquiao among them. Yes, he filled the Manchester Arena time and again and took tens of thousands of loyal fans to Las Vegas. But his appeal was rooted in something deeper: he was 'one of the lads.'

When we spoke last Sunday, he was reflective about his career and his legacy. The Kostya Tszyu fight, he insisted, remained his greatest night.

'Nobody gave me a chance,' he recalled. 'I think the only people who thought I could win were me and my trainer Billy Graham.'

It was vintage Hatton, proud of what he’d achieved, but quick to laugh at the doubters he’d proved wrong.

He also spoke passionately about the sport he loved. He welcomed the revival of big-time boxing in Saudi Arabia but argued money should filter down to small-hall promoters.

He dismissed crossover bouts like Floyd Mayweather v Mike Tyson as 'a joke.' Even as he prepared for his own exhibition, he wanted the sport’s integrity protected.

But my relationship with Hatton wasn’t just about the big nights or the sunny soundbites. Last year, I spent an afternoon at his home in Manchester. The tone there was different, candid, raw, and often heartbreaking.

'After the Mayweather defeat I couldn’t walk down the street, I was so embarrassed,' he told me. 'I went through a period where I didn’t care whether I lived or died.'

He spoke openly about suicidal thoughts, about turning to a psychiatrist and begging for help. He admitted he had shielded much of it from his family.

'I’m not going to go to my mates and say I am crying every day. I want to kill myself. You just don’t do it. But they knew I was in a bad place.'

Those words were not designed to shock, they were an act of generosity, an attempt to stop others suffering in silence. He knew his platform gave him influence, and he was determined to use it.

'If I help only one person, it’s all been worthwhile,' he told me again last week, as if repeating a mantra that had become central to his life.

What struck me most in Manchester wasn’t the darkness, but the way Hatton framed it in light of his family.

His son Campbell, a former professional fighter, was never far from his mind.

'I nearly wasn’t here to enjoy the things I am loving today', he said, listing simple joys like seeing his daughters grow and watching Campbell turn professional.

That sense of near loss gave urgency to his role as a father.

'I will hammer Campbell every day asking if he’s okay', Hatton told me. He wanted his son to learn from his mistakes - the way he ballooned between fights, the way pressure mounted after Mayweather and Pacquiao. More than belts, it was that paternal determination that defined him in later years.

Which is why his final project - preparing for an exhibition in Dubai - felt so poignant.

When he fought Marco Barrera in 2022, the process of getting in shape lifted him. 'My mental health improved because I had a purpose,' he said.

The December bout against Eisa Al-Harbi was meant to be more of the same. He had no illusions about chasing titles.

'I know my limitations,' he laughed, but he relished the chance to lace the gloves once more.

He invited me to visit him in the gym before that fight. We spoke about it last week, and I was looking forward to it. To watching him graft, to seeing the old grin emerge when he talked about training, to hearing him banter with the lads around him. That visit will never happen now, and that absence feels heavier than words can describe.

Ricky Hatton’s story is one of triumph and torment. From Hyde to world champion, from nights of glory to years of despair, from the brink of self-destruction to a father grateful just to be present. He spoke openly about injustice in the sport, about promoters discarding fighters, about the lack of mental health support. He gave voice to the struggles too many hide.

And yet he never lost his humour or his humility. When asked how he wanted to be remembered, he kept it simple: “An exciting fighter, a champion who fought the best, but also as someone who is just like them, one of the lads.”

That is how he will be remembered. By his family, his fans, his city and his sport. But to those of us lucky enough to sit with him, to hear his candour and his courage, he was also something more: a man who refused to hide his scars, who fought battles seen and unseen, and who gave everything of himself, right until the end.

Manchester has lost its hero. British boxing has lost one of its great sons. And those who knew Ricky Hatton - in the gym, in the ring, in his living room, or just for a few minutes on the street - have lost a fighter who made them feel like a friend.

Rest in peace, Ricky. You were one of the lads, and so much more besides.