So sport is once again being dragged through the gutter on a Sunday morning.

Pakistan cricketers, Wayne Rooney and now Ricky Hatton thrust into the glare of a disbelieving public over your weekend egg and bacon.

With so many lurid headlines, it should no longer come as a shock. But the pictures of Hatton bent over a table allegedly sniffing wraps of cocaine still made me jolt.

Maybe we shouldn’t be totally surprised. After all, his lifestyle between fights was hardly conducive to professional sport.

This was the boxer who would begin a fight day with, in his words, “a mega fry-up”; and finish it with his “best mates” Mr Guinness and Mr Dom Perignon. After one of his biggest Las Vegas shows, he downed 14 pints of the black stuff in the early hours.

Hatton’s weight would balloon ridiculously in between bouts as he pigged out on beer and fast food.

Most boxers “walk around” about a stone heavier than their fighting weight. In Hatton’s case, it was sometimes three or four more.

There was no guilt on his part. He revelled in the “Ricky Fatton” image and even came into one ring wearing a comedy fat suit to the guffaws of his army of fans.

Of course, he would shed all the excess in the most punishing training camps. His actual fighting weight never came into question; Hatton was no slob when he dispatched opponents left, right and centre.

But it could not go on. The body is not designed to last such spectacular yo-yo dieting for so long.

In Bradford, we cursed Hatton for his reluctance to take on Junior Witter. Their long-running rivalry boiled over on several occasions but never enough for the so-called Hitman to sign for a showdown.

His excuse that he didn’t want Witter to pocket a pay day on the back of his own pulling power quickly grew tiresome. It was a complete cop-out.

Only in boxing can you manage to slither out of a natural duel with your main domestic rival and nobody – outside of West Yorkshire at least – kicks up a stink.

Witter, quite rightly, looked on green with envy at Hatton’s achievements and the way he was lauded by the sport’s paymasters, the God of TV. But he also voiced his concern at Hatton’s weight issues.

Witter was the complete opposite – tee-total and physically committed to boxing. Without the luxury of a huge fanbase who would still snap up Hatton tickets if he was fighting his own shadow, he had to be.

But he knew the risks Hatton has been taking with his health. Everyone in boxing did.

And when big-time boxing ceased to be the Hitman’s focus, it was inevitable that the gamble would blow up. Suddenly there was no reason to shed the pounds and bin the junk food.

Hatton became a promoter but the buzz cannot be the same. There is no adulation for the corner man.

For someone used to having a whole arena chanting his name, it must be an empty feeling. There were 20,000 crammed into the MEN Arena to see Hatton’s finest win against Kostya Tszyu; now it’s just him.

You can question the motives of his supposed friend Emma Bowe for going public with her claims about Hatton’s behaviour at a party.

She maintains it was out of the goodness of her heart and not the fat cheque that the tabloid would inevitably have offered. But the rights and wrongs of her reasons do not ultimately matter.

For the good of Hatton himself, this story had to come out before his lifestyle spiralled out of control. We’ve seen the demons get their claws into Paul Gascoigne – here was a repeat episode waiting to happen.

Boxing is littered with tales of fighters who have not been able to cope with the feeling of emptiness when the gloves came off. Too many have fallen victim to drink and drugs.

Hatton has hopefully dodged that slippery slope in the nick of time. He has acknowledged the problem by checking into rehab’.

The man who stood toe-to-toe with Floyd Mayweather and Manny Pacquiao now faces his biggest fight; one that won’t last ten or 12 rounds but probably the rest of his life.