Post-Hatton knockout, the British in me says it’s time to be movin’ on

By John Katsilometes

Saturday, May 2, 2009 | 10:03 p.m.

I am a Ricky Hatton fan, and our boy about nearly got ’is head spun off tonight. He didn’t have a good time of it, not at all. We Brits haven’t taken such a whippin’ since the Battle of the Somme, if ya want to know tha truth of it. Young Ricky was knocked entirely askance, not at all in a healthy way. Five minutes he stood in there, and God bless ’im for it, but he got bloody cold-cocked, ’e did. ’Twas a left hook Lucifer ’imself couldn’tve delivered more precisely.

Oooooh, Ricky Hatton. Ooooooh, Ricky Hatton. Sad, idn’t it? He won’t be walkin’ along, not singin’ much of a song, not on this night. Knocked straight on ’is arse, poor chap. Not at all in a wonderland of any sort, if ya be followin’ me.

It was much ado about nothin’.

I raise a glass to that chap from the Philippines, Manny Pac-Man. He made a good job of it, jolly good. He’d make a good mate, a lot of salt in that boy. But I’m a bit perturbed by how he simply ran roughshod over our Ricky, to be frankly honest. I’m here on holiday in Las Vegas -- fabulous place, all these casinos in the desert -- and I got meself good and pissed. That is the British thing to do, idn’t it? Drank the Bass Black & Tan for breakfast, y’know. Drank it for lunch and supper and even durin’ tea time. Had a good drink-up, turned meself into quite the tosspot, if ya must know. Chatted up some randy, randy ladies in flimsy lingerie, slingin’ the drinks.

Painted up me face, too. If ya expect that it’s easy to craft the Union Jack on one’s face while starin’ at it in the mirror, drawin’ with a fistful o’ coloured Sharpies, well you’d be talkin’ outta the side o’ your neck. But I managed a good time of it, lookin’ pretty spot-on with the effort. Even donned me the Union Jack as a quite fashionable cape, lookin’ like what you Yanks call Cap’n America, but for me British affects.

We sang our heads off in the casino, me and me mates. Did you see us on the telly? It woulda been impossible not to have. Ev’ry time we saw group of video-graphers, we happened upon them like moths to a bloody flame! We were talking amidst ourselves over an ale or two that ought to have our own reality programme, or whatever ya call ’em over here.

That was before our boy was knocked about. I shant be doin’ this followin’ of Ricky any longer.

I’ll be wipin’ down me face, givin’ ’er a good washin’ so I look like meself again.

Puttin’ the Union Jack back up the flagpole, as well, where she rightfully belongs.

Tossin’ my black Ricky Hatton undies directly into the wastepaper basket.

Maybe have the “Hitman Hatton” tattoo on me tushie taken off, as well.

No more o’ that public singin’, neither. Unless it is karaoke night at the pub, o’ course.

I’ll be regeneratin’ some relationships in me life now. Me wife, the woman I was livin’ with there for a period of years, she might be missin’ me. I seem to remember havin’ me some young pups, as well, the sum of two or three at least.

I’ll call me mum, to see if’n she’s still with us. She’s getting’ along in years, that one.

I’ll have to check on me current events, see if Tony Blair is still in the cap’n’s seat. See if the Queen Mum has yet met ’er demise. See what’s the latest with me Spice Girls.

Cut me Black & Tan consumption to five days a week, or thereabouts. Seems the sane thing to do (urp).

Bein’ part of Ricky’s backers might have made me miss some of me life, but I can’t rightfully say it was an entire waste of me time. There was some good moments, when Ricky wasn’t supine, and we even came away with a catchy little tune. “Ooooooh! Ricky Hatton!”

Apologies. I had to sing me just one more tune. Now where did I leave me washcloth …