On the verge of the pantomime season boxing is again a laughing stock, like a tottering, rouge‑cheeked dame with a glass of sherry in one hand and a string of broken promises in the other.
Disillusion drowns out the laughter. Nowhere is it more obvious than in the fact the division that in not-so-distant memory gave us Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, George Foreman, Ken Norton and Larry Holmes now cannot settle on anyone more convincing than the young Anthony Joshua, the injured Deontay Wilder, the old Wladimir Klitschko or the absent Tyson Fury.
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