It felt like pathetic fallacy: as the morning of Ricky Hatton’s funeral dawned, droplets of rain landed on the pavements and parks in and around Manchester like ceaseless jabs. It was an incrementally overwhelming bombardment that Hatton himself would have been proud of. Less than a month after one of Britain’s finest boxers suddenly passed away, at the age of just 46, it was time to pay a collective tribute.

The tributes began in Hyde, Greater Manchester, where Hatton resided; they ended – although, really, they may never truly end – at Manchester Cathedral. It felt as though a staggering percentage of the city’s population, and those of its suburbs, had turned out to mourn Hatton’s death and celebrate his life.

Indeed, “Look at the impact, how many people are missing work, school, just to see the car go past,” The Independent was told by Danny Atkinson. The local, who trained in boxing under Hatton’s brother Matthew, hailed Ricky as “one of my first heroes” while speaking outside the former world champion’s local pub – the Cheshire Cheese.

It was there that the funeral procession began shortly before 10am, just around the corner from Hatton’s home. Outside, police and security ensured peace for the fighter’s family.

As a boxer, the “Hitman” was “elite, tenacious”, said Atkinson, reminiscing on Hatton’s greatest night: his world-title win over Kostya Tszyu in 2005. “If anyone got hit with one of them rib shots, they’re going down on the floor,” added friend Michael Maher later in the day.

And what of Hatton the person? Again and again, the words “down to earth” were used to describe Hatton, who would speak to anyone and everyone in the local pubs, where he could drink as well as he could box, so they say. He was a uniquely funny man, in spite of mental struggles about which he was so open.

“I got married in June, went to Tenerife and was there with him,” remembered Maher tearfully, a Manchester United fan sporting a Man City shirt in honour of his friend’s beloved football club. “He tried to take my wife off me!” Maher joked. “He told my father-in-law, ‘I’m your new son-in-law.’”

Maher, despite his natural footballing allegiance, was one of thousands turning out in a Man City shirt, while many held flags or carried white and sky blue balloons. The entire route from Hyde to Manchester was lined with fans and loved ones doing just that.

The most moving moments, on a day overspilling with them and overspilling with tears, came at the start of the procession and at its end, at Manchester Cathedral.

When the procession first emerged outside Hatton’s local pub, loved ones hoisted flags on either side of the road, many failing to fight back tears, while they could barely raise their faces to look at the convoy before them. That convoy was led by the yellow three-wheeler from Only Fools and Horses, one of Hatton’s favourite comedies, and a vehicle that he owned. There was also a floral wreath forming a giant glass of Guinness – another of Hatton’s favourite drinks.

Soon, applause and cheers broke out as the hearse stopped. “There’s only one Ricky Hatton,” rang out – a refrain that soundtracked famous nights in Manchester and Las Vegas, in seismic fights with Floyd Mayweather and Manny Pacquiao.

Later, as the main ceremony began in the cathedral, Manchester mayor Andy Burnham, Oasis frontman Liam Gallagher, footballing icon Wayne Rooney, Tyson Fury and innumerable stars from the boxing world gathered. Speeches from Hatton’s mother and son conjured further tears.

“I can’t explain how much I’m gonna miss you, Dad,” said Hatton’s son Campbell, 24, himself a professional boxer until this year. “I’ll try my best to do you proud, I love you so much,” he said, sobbing between words, while reflecting on how his own daughter Lyla “idolised” her grandfather.

A speech written by Hatton’s mother Carol followed, though read aloud by another voice. She recalled how other mothers on the ward where Hatton was born assured her that childbirth was “not so bad“, only for Hatton to weigh almost double what their children did. A condition meant that the newborn Hatton had bruises around his eyes; “Everyone said he was a little bruiser. He looked like a boxer.”

That was the very start; it was inconceivable that the end of the life of one of Britain’s most remarkable athletes would come so soon. Yet what Friday showed above all else was this: Hatton was treasured more as a person than as a boxer. Perhaps that is the most significant thing of all.

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