Channel hopper: Homely Hatton showing his gentle side

Published on Friday 23 May 2008 22:15

At Home With The Hatton Sky One, Monday

IT'S early March, and a chubby chap with the pallor of a chip butty has vowed to turn over a new lettuce leaf and lead a better life. He wants to lose a couple of stone, take up regular gym sessions, and go running for miles every evening.

"Emptied the fridge of all the shit yesterday," he says. "Put the new stuff in."

This is Ricky Hatton, beginning his training for this evening's fight at the City of Manchester Stadium against Juan Lazcano. For the time being at least, he's had enough of his local greasy spoon and Indian and Chinese takeaways, and is on the painful path back to being a lean, mean fighting machine.

If there is one thing worse than eating junk food all the time it is surely switching periodically between that way of life and a healthier one. "Weight up and down," as Hatton says a couple of months after starting on the road to recovery. "It can't be good for your body, your organs."

No it can't, but it is a rollercoaster regime that has worked well over the years for him. Over the hour for which At Home With The Hattons lasts, the transformation is remarkable.

By the end, he is a chubby chap no longer. The weight is shed, the sixpack is back, and so is the speed and sharpness in the ring that has served him so well over his long career.

That was the serious side of the show, which also heavily promoted tonight's bout, screened by Sky. The other side – but you've guessed it, haven't you? – showed Ricky in his family context.

Richard, as his formidable mum calls him, lives in Manchester. In a house called Heartbreak Hotel, as a token of his devotion to Elvis Presley. With his girlfriend, Jennifer, and butler, Cyril.

When the narrator said that bit about the butler you had to do a double take and ask yourself if Hatton had gone soft, but 'Cyril' is just a model, there for a laugh. Because of course Ricky has no pretensions – partly because his mum would soon slap them out of him if he acquired any, and partly because he's always been able to laugh at himself.

Which is just as well, given that Mrs H is always poking fun at him. "He's like a celebrity now," she mocks at one point. "His little flat nose is always on the telly."

"She's a psychopath, me mam," Hatton explains.

She's not really. Just a bit robust and outgoing.

Mr H, on the other hand, Ray, Ricky's dad, is a quiet man who prefers to sit in the background. A former footballer, he is proud of his two sons – Matthew, Ricky's younger brother, is on the undercard tonight – and actually quite likes his wife as well, despite the fact that she mocks his lack of stature every five minutes or so.

Ricky and Matthew both live with their partners, and you get the feeling that Ray is a little envious of this arrangement. "Got to get married, son," he tells Ricky at one point. "Cos you can't be happy all your life."

Still, the Hattons seem to be staying happy remarkably well. Angst? If you asked them what it was, they'd probably say a small town in Germany.

The boxers are happy, the ex-footballer is happy, the footballer-to-be, Ricky's young son, is happy too. Even the octogenarian grannies are happy, especially the larger one when she wins 90 at the bingo.

And you know what? It's all for real.

At Home With The Hattons is a warts-and-all production, making no attempt to glamorise its subject. How could it? Hatton's appeal is based on his down-to-earth character, and any attempt to present him in a different light would be doomed to failure.

Never mind being no oil painting, he's not even much of a watercolour, but his warmth and humour are unfailingly endearing. When he delivers a speech at a charity dinner, his grasp of his material is perfect, and the audience lap it up. Most viewers surely did the same with this show, which leaves you with the impression that Hatton must be one of the most likeable sportsmen of all time.

Apropos of which, it would be a good idea if football clubs kept a copy of this documentary, to show to their players as proof that becoming well known in the sporting field need not turn you into a narcissistic charlatan. Mind you, so many footballers are such vapid followers of fashion that after watching it they would rush out and acquire a butler called Cyril – a real one, in some cases.