“I’ve never said I will be the greatest fighter ever but one thing I have always been is a very proud man and I always took on the best.” – Ricky Hatton
Ricky Hatton’s words show two things. One: he will always be loved because he was first and foremost a humble man. Two: the fear contained within the modern British “all or nothing” attitude to defeat; that zeal to tear people down from a pedestal; that a boxing hall-of-famer like Hatton, a unified, two-weight world champion, who in his prime only lost to two of the best boxers the world has ever seen, would still look to put himself down.
In many ways it’s Ricky’s losses that define him. At the zenith of his powers, when he made the feared Kostya Tszyu quit on his stool in a sickeningly brilliant display of body punching at the MEN Area in 2005, he was a local hero. A Stockport boy who took on overwhelming odds and methodically turned them in his favour, one liver shot at a time.
By the time he stepped into the ring against Floyd Mayweather at the MGM Grand in 2007, after perhaps one of the best pre-fight build ups in boxing history, he was a national hero. An Oasis-loving, pre-oil-money Man-City-supporting jack-the-lad, who, in juxtaposition to the brash, arrogant and quintessentially American Mayweather, represented everything that made British men great. Self-deprecating, modest, funny. And, ultimately, hard as nails.
Mayweather dismantled Hatton, and after a few wins, he was then brutally knocked out by Manny Pacquiao, putting an end to his boxing career as people will mostly remember it. Yes, they were tough defeats to take, but there was no shame in losing to two of the best to ever do it.
Ricky took defeat badly, and turned to drugs and drink to cope.
“I tried to kill myself several times,” Hatton told the BBC in 2016, “I used to go to the pub, come back, take the knife out and sit there in the dark crying hysterically. But in the end I thought I’ll end up drinking myself to death because I was so miserable. I was coming off the rails with my drinking and that led to drugs. It was like a runaway train.”
Ricky was often playfully chastised with the “Ricky Fatton” nickname for the way he’d balloon in weight between fights, so much so that he even wore a fatsuit to the ring when he fought Juan Lazcano. As someone who has boxed for almost 20 years, and who has struggled with drink, drugs and fluctuating weight for longer than that, I understood the patterns Ricky fell into.
There isn’t any better feeling in the world than winning a fight in front of hundreds (in Hatton’s case thousands) of screaming people, then proceeding to get absolutely battered on as many pints of Guinness as possible. For one evening, which can often turn into weeks, or months, you feel invincible, then satiated, then content. You’ve struggled, you’ve hurt, you’ve sacrificed. You’ve earned the right to let yourself enjoy life, which I, and Ricky, often did.
Unfortunately, Ricky’s battle with drink, drugs and depression ended on 14 September 2025. An inquest ruled his death a suicide. It’s hard news to take, because Hatton was such a massive presence in every British boxing fan’s life. A man genuinely loved by all even in retirement: wise, funny, a loving and supportive father to his son, Cambpell. But more personally I recognised the same demons in Ricky as I saw in myself. I’ve felt the purpose of committing to a fighter’s life, and understood that you often drink and take drugs to replace it because nothing else touches the sides.
I too have felt the lure of suicide draw me in, the repeated sessions of intoxication wear me down and drag me into oblivion. When I was at my lowest ebb, considering the absurdity of life, I had been unemployed for over a year, was under piles of debt, on universal credit, rejected by hundreds of jobs, and the most vivid feeling I remember is one of not really being arsed if I woke up the next day. It says something that even Ricky, who had known life’s highest triumphs, felt something similar. People mocked Hatton for attempting to return to the ring this year at age 46, but I can understand. I know what it’s like to have nothing to offer myself except what I could do in the gym, how hard I could train, how much I could shape my body.
So when I see the posts about Ricky Hatton and men’s mental health, and suicide, and the proliferation of comments like “You never know what someone is going through, be kind <3”, “MEN: talk to your mates!!” and “Please reach out if you’re struggling” I just think, what the fuck does any of that functionally mean?
When I tried to reach out to my local NHS therapy service, they told me I might be able to get CBT in eight months, and guided me towards an AI chatbot. When I tried to reach out to a local drugs and alcohol service, they offered the chance to attend a breakfast club at the practical time of 10am on a Monday morning. When I discussed any of these issues with people at the job centre – well, if you’ve ever been unlucky enough to deal with a job centre at any time in the last five to ten years, then you’ll be familiar with a modern maxim: “the cruelty is the point”. And yet there I was, trying to reach out, trying to get help, via the correct channels.
This modern dream of Men’s Mental Health World – a sensitive, empathetic, supportive community – never stood a chance. The society we seem intent on creating is completely at odds with it. The eternal austerity politics of recent decades wants to dismantle it wholeheartedly. Many people have decided that a caring society is a frivolous, free handout. We relentlessly demonise people at the lowest end of society, the most vulnerable minorities, and it bleeds into how we treat each other every day. It leaks into how little we care for those in need, including suicidal men. It is hard and embarrassing to reach out, for fear of being a burden, a scrounger, a liability.
When you demonise the unemployed, strip away PIP for disabled people, make it close to impossible for homeless people to receive housing, ostracise trans people from public spaces and other asylum seekers, you increase the overall cruelty of existence. You make life more hostile for everyone, including the struggling men who may be part of the above groups, who also have depression, who also don’t know where to turn or who to speak to, who also might not know how to stop drinking and taking drugs, who are also worthy of kindness.
I, like a lot of men I know, am struggling with purpose right now. What is it that modern life offers to me? What can I offer back? I don’t know the answer to that, but I know creating a world with community at its heart would be a good start. That means not being content with the way people at the bottom are being treated, that means giving a shit that public services are being thrown to the dogs. That means getting off our arses and helping.
Ricky Hatton will always be loved because he seemed like an average bloke who managed to chisel himself into boxing history through sheer force of will. Despite his self-effacing nature, he was a titan, mentally and physically, for the things he managed to do. For actual average blokes like myself, I hope his death can inspire a real change in how we treat each other.
[Further reading: Diane Keaton showed women how to be unconventional]
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