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There were moments during in Nottingham when I couldn't help thinking the lack of interest from British broadcasters had been a blessing in disguise.

At times the contest resembled two drunks fighting over a hotdog on a fairground waltzer, the American challenger by turns pirouetting with hands held high, clutching round the waist and staggering weak-kneed to the canvas. Anything to keep Froch's mitts off his imaginary snack.

There are those who will lay the blame for this ug-fest squarely at the feet of Dirrell, who, they will argue, spent the early hours of Sunday morning running like a girl instead of fronting up like a man.

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Joe Calzaghe, , would often opine that he'd missed the bandwagon, that if he'd been around to test his skills against a prime , and , then no-one would have had the gall to question his greatness.

Having been forced to sit through his performances to date on Strictly, it is doubtful he feels the same way about missing the vintage mid-Noughties era of Gough, Dawson and Ramprakash, that legendary triumvirate of the lacquered floorboard.

But in refusing to cave in to in the twilight of his career, Welshman Calzaghe unwittingly (or wittingly?) transferred his frustrations to the Nottingham fighter, who remains criminally undervalued in his own country, despite his status as the WBC super-middleweight champion.

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