If there was a dry eye among this congregation of champions, then I for one was too welled up to notice: Here's what I saw inside Ricky Hatton's cathedral funeral service, writes JEFF POWELL

As the hands of the old clock in the square folded over midday the strains of Blue Moon rang through the ancient Cathedral.

The soundtrack to Ricky Hatton's ring walks and the anthem of his favourite football team.

Then the silence. A few fleeting seconds as this northern citadel cleared its throat and braced itself for the commemoration of its most-loved son.

A homage conducted with funereal propriety by those privileged to occupy one of more than a thousands pews in Manchester’s pre-eminent house of worship. At the top of their voices by the throng congregated outside. Such was the everyman appeal of the Hitman.

If there was a dry eye within these cloistered walls then I for one admit to being too welled up to see.

The eulogists composed themselves to deliver their tributes. The most rending delivered by Ricky's children Fearne, Millie and Campbell.

Spoken bravely through tears to a hero of the prize-ring and a human being with a heart as huge as the stadium in which he urged on his beloved Manchester City, who stood alongside the world boxing fraternity at the core of this out-pouring of mass affection. A spectacle tinged with sorrow, so prematurely has he been taken from a family wrestling with its emotions, from his legion of friends, from us all who loved him.

A congregation of champions paid rapt attention. Led by Frank Bruno, the Hitman's predecessor as the most beloved British boxer and Tyson Fury in one of his jazzy suits complimented by a dutiful black tie.

With Wayne Rooney and Freddie Flintoff offering the sympathies of football and cricket, with the Liam half of Oasis on hand with a recording of their hit Live Forever.

Sorrowfully, not for our Ricky.

All stood as the coffin - painted sky sky blue, of course - was borne shoulder high from beneath these gothic arches Into the pale light of a chill, grey day. The symbolism was vivid. That of a gladiator being carried out on his shield. The way he would have wanted.

At the foot of the steps a brass band led full-volume choruses of There's Only One Ricky Hatton. Which sent forth a confluence of the tributaries of sporting life which distinguish Manchester – the blue of City and the red of United.

A river of humanity flowing the three miles of post-industrial streets to the Etihad. Local rivalries swept aside by the fusion of cheering and applause. All while most of the rest of this capital of the northern powerhouse came to an extraordinary standstill.

Ricky’s timing was as perfect as all the knock-out punches in his career of 48 fights and two world titles in different weight classes.

Manchester has been subjected of late to barbaric horrors of terrorism. The scars of that deadly bomb explosion at a pop concert were reopened last week as Jews were stabbed to death by an Islamic racist on the holiest day in the Hebrew calendar.

How badly was this city in need of an occasion as beautifully moving as Hatton’s last goodbye, in the week of what would have been his 47th birthday. Blue and white football flags fluttered aplenty.

Richard John Hatton MBE did more in one lunchtime, from inside a blue box, to heal the wounds and narrow the divisions in our society than all the pompous, patronising, empty words of our wretched, self-seeking politicians.

Such is the power of the real people when devoted to a fighting man more courageous than all those huddled and hidden together behind their grim masks.

When allied to a warrior chieftain who rallied 30,000 of the faithful to his cause when they crossed the Atlantic to support his fights in Las Vegas against two of the greatest boxers of his and many another generation.

Hatton came home from those expeditions so fearful that his brutal knock-outs by Floyd Mayweather Jr and Manny Pacquiao would destroy his public’s belief in him that he often sank into depression, solitude and sporadic dark flirtations with suicide.

If only he had known. How could anyone forfeit kinship with a man who was a bristling British bulldog in the ring but as loveable as a playful labrador puppy in his daily life?

It seemed that absolutely everyone you talked to among his thousands of mourners identified with Ricky as a friend. By no means all as literally as those close to him, those who swilled ale in the same bar, those thrilled to shake his hand at ringside or on other black-tie occasions. But because of the empathy they felt with a working class icon who was not only as honest as this Friday was long but genuinely humble.

Truly a people’s campion.

The funeral procession along post-industrial streets lined with cheering crowds paused not only at some of Manchester’s historic landmarks but also outside several of the pubs where he used to clink glasses with the regulars, kept all-comers amused with his grainy, infectious humour often at his own expense and – yes – drank his fill.

The afternoon had begun as a bittersweet love affair. Inevitably so since Ricky lived barely half of what is deemed to be a full life in these days of medical miracles.

The parade reached the stadium where another crowd assembled. Not this time to roar on City alongside him but to bid him farewell. The mood morphing from that of grief at a terrible loss towards one of celebration. The wake will rave on throughout a weekend begun in church solemnity.

The Hitman’s final summons to the altar came in a towered monument to the Anglican persuasion. Ricky Hatton was raised Catholic.  Whatever his personal calling, this national treasure was a gift from God. A gift to his punishing sport, his proud family, his platoons of followers, his cavalcade of pals, the football team which was his other passion, his home town, his admiring country.

A gift which keeps on giving. Even after death.