The date is now set. Ricky Hatton’s funeral will take place on Thursday, 10 October 2025, at Manchester Cathedral. His family have confirmed the service, which will be private inside the cathedral, though fans have been invited to gather outside to pay their respects. It’s the farewell nobody wanted to see, but the one we now face.
When I first wrote about Ricky Hatton’s final days, I promised I’d follow up once there was new information. Now that the funeral has been arranged, it feels right to reflect on what this moment really means — both to Manchester and to the wider boxing world that loved him.
A City Ready to Say Goodbye
You can already picture it, can’t you? Crowds packed shoulder to shoulder outside the cathedral, blue and white scarves draped around necks, chants of Blue Moon echoing through the streets. It will be loud in places, quiet in others, emotional everywhere. Manchester has never been shy about showing love for its own, and Ricky was as Manchester as they come.
But this is bigger than one city. Ricky belonged to Manchester, yes, but he also belonged to Britain. Fans travelled from all over the country to see him fight. They booked flights to Las Vegas in their thousands, turning American arenas into little pockets of Manchester for the night. Wherever Ricky went, he carried people with him. That’s why so many will want to be there on the 10th — not just Mancunians, but anyone who ever cheered for him, anyone who ever felt like he spoke for them.
The Unanswered Questions
What makes this farewell even harder is the lack of clarity about how Ricky passed. At the time of writing, no official cause of death has been announced. We are still waiting on the coroner’s report, and until that happens, anything beyond that is speculation.
That said, an interview his manager gave to Boxing News hinted that it might have been an accidental suicide. I need to stress this: I am not confirming that. None of us can until there’s an official statement. But when those closest to Ricky use words like that, it adds a layer of sadness that’s difficult to shake.
If true, it paints a heartbreaking picture of a man who gave so much joy to so many but may have carried battles of his own. And if it isn’t, the reality is no less tragic: a life cut short, a family in mourning, a city left stunned.
Why I Won’t Be Outside the Cathedral
I completely understand why fans will turn up on the day. For many, being outside Manchester Cathedral will feel like the last way to say thank you. To stand shoulder to shoulder with others who loved him and to let the world know that Ricky mattered.
But I won’t be there. Not because I don’t care, but because I’d rather remember Ricky as he lived, not as he was laid to rest. Funerals have their place, but for me, the true tribute is carried in the memories we keep alive.
When I think of Ricky Hatton, I don’t see a coffin. I see a man striding out to Blue Moon, shoulders loose, gloves up, grinning as though he’d just walked into a pub rather than a prize fight. I see those body shots that left world-class opponents crumpled on the canvas, proof that Ricky could hurt you with a single punch to the ribs. I see him joking about his weight between fights, taking the piss out of himself with that same honesty that made fans adore him. I see someone who proved, time and again, that ordinary blokes could do extraordinary things.
That’s the Ricky I want to hold onto. The Ricky who made boxing nights feel like events, who brought people together, and who reminded us that greatness doesn’t have to come with polish or perfection.
Ordinary, Flawed, and Loved
Ricky was never untouchable. He didn’t live behind glass, and he didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t. That was part of his magic. He was human, just like the rest of us. He made mistakes, he battled his demons, and he let people see it. Instead of making fans turn away, it made them love him more.
When he won, the city roared. When he lost, it hurt — but people stuck with him anyway. Because it was never just about his record. It was about the way he made us feel. He fought for the people who filled the arenas, who saved up for tickets, who sang his name until their voices cracked. He fought for us, and we never forgot it.
That’s why his funeral will draw so many. But that’s also why his legacy will last far longer than any ceremony.
A Funeral, but Also a Celebration
Yes, the Ricky Hatton funeral will be a sombre day. But it will also be a celebration — of a career, of a personality, of a man who gave everything of himself to the sport and the people who loved it. Manchester will stop and take notice, and so will the rest of Britain.
But the real celebration won’t just be on 10 October. It will be in the conversations we keep having about him. The stories we tell — about the night he beat Kostya Tszyu, about the body shot against Castillo, about the time he took half of Manchester to Las Vegas. Those are the moments that will outlast black suits, church bells, and solemn silence.
Keeping the Hitman’s Legacy Alive
So here’s my thought: don’t just mark the date of the Ricky Hatton funeral on your calendar. Mark the moments that mattered. Talk about them. Share them. Pass them on.
Because Ricky Hatton wasn’t just another fighter. He was ours. He showed us that ordinary men could achieve extraordinary things. And the best way to honour that isn’t only to stand outside a cathedral — it’s to keep the memories alive, in words, in stories, and in the pride he gave us.
Share this post, tell your mates, and join us at CMBoxing.co.uk to keep Ricky’s story alive.
Because the Hitman deserves nothing less.