As reports filter back from Tenerife that Ricky Hatton has gone on another four-day bender, it is surely time that the likeable former world champion confronted some home truths. To put it bluntly: either Hatton should start to exercise the self-discipline that has been so conspicuously lacking during his ten-year career or he should hang up the boxing gloves for good.

Hatton likes to make a joke of his notorious capacity to explode in weight between fights (he reported to his training camp before his clash with Floyd Mayweather more than 40lb over the 147lb weight limit). He has taken to calling himself Ricky Fatton and wearing self-parodying T-shirts when leaving the ring. A lot of people have convinced themselves that this is hilariously funny. But, to those who care about the long-term prospects of the boxer, the joke has started to wear thin.

When Hatton vowed to move down to light-welterweight after his boxing lesson at the hands of Mayweather in December, many expected him to demonstrate some overdue self-control as he set out on the serious business of reviving his career. Instead he went to the Canary Islands and, according to reports, downed 57 pints, 17 vodka Red Bulls, three whisky chasers and a bottle of champagne. That these figures are unconfirmed is irrelevant - he is already beginning to look pitifully out of shape less than one month after his recent bout.

This is not a question of morality but of self-preservation. As anyone in the fight game can tell you, excessive gyrations in weight place intolerable demands on the human body. Even Kerry Kayes, Hatton’s nutritionist, has alluded to the potentially catastrophic dangers to which his client is continually subjecting himself.

“It couldn’t be more horrific what he eats,” he said. “Anything that’s bad, greasy, take-away or pies, he washes down with 12 to 15 pints of Guinness and Baileys chasers. He couldn’t do it any worse. To get into fighting shape the body needs to repair itself from the trauma, so we need a lot of nutrients but we can’t afford calories. His mum and dad can’t talk him out of it and his girlfriend Jennifer can’t, so what chance have I?”

Those of us who gave warning of the dangers to Hatton during the glory years were habitually shouted down by the army of Hitman apologists who argued that his success proved that he was somehow exempt from the physiological rules that apply to every other human being. The argument never had a shred of credibility but, after Hatton’s crushing defeat at the hands of Mayweather, it is beginning to look as delusional as it is dangerous.

This is what Simon Langley-Evans, a professor of nutrition, had to say: “This kind of yo-yo dieting produces the worst outcome in cardiovascular risk in middle age. It’s almost better to be someone heavier and not trying to lose weight, rather than losing weight and putting it back on again.” The most worrying thing from the perspective of Hatton’s supporters is that there is nobody surrounding the Mancunian who can get him to listen to sense. Only the imminence of a prizefight is sufficient to focus the Hatton mind, which begs the perturbing question of how Hatton will remain on the straight and narrow when he hangs up the gloves for good.

One hardly needs to search the mind to come up with other ex-boxers whose penchant for excess led them into a perilous downward spiral of overindulgence when freed from the stringent disciplines of the ring.

And it is not as if there is much reason for Hatton to continue with his career. His run of 43 straight victories was sufficient to convince even his greatest critics that he merits a place among the dozen greatest British boxers. But his defeat by Mayweather proved that he has neither the skill nor the versatility to claim the top position. A rematch with the most accomplished boxer of the past 20 years is as unlikely as it is pointless. The only bout that whets the appetite is a match-up with the underrated Junior Witter, at least in part because of the genuine animosity that exists between the men.

There is no denying that Hatton is among the best-loved sportsmen of recent times. He is as guileless as Frank Bruno, as endearing as Paul Gascoigne and as magnetic as George Best. But it is time to acknowledge that the little fella is, in some ways at least, as flawed as these other sporting heroes. The danger signs are there to be seen, even if they are partially concealed by Hatton’s jocularity and beguiling self-deprecation.

The wisest course of action would be for Hatton to retire immediately. But if he insists on fighting on, he must get on top of the excesses that are literally disfiguring him.

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