Fight week kicked off in earnest on Tuesday, with the predictably chaotic ‘Grand Arrivals' of Floyd Mayweather and Ricky Hatton into the MGM Grand Casino in Las Vegas.

There are a lot of pointless things in boxing, but ‘Grand Arrivals' exceed even sanctioning bodies and Audley Harrison as most probably the most pointless of them all.

One by one, each fighter tramped the few metres from the front doors into the hotel foyer, whereupon they waved to the assembled crowd then were promptly hustled away.

Not so much a ‘Grand Arrival' as a quick departure.

Later, they each performed obligatory media interviews in the bowels of the resort arena where they will fight for the WBC welterweight title on Saturday night.

They might never admit it, but Hatton and Mayweather are remarkably similar characters. Hatton is charming and engaging. Mayweather is charming and engaging, except when he is busy explaining to Hatton what he would do to him in the prison showers given half a chance.

Mayweather's uncle Roger prowled around the ring giving his calm and considered opinion to anybody who had the nerve to ask. [Expletive] [expletive] [expletive] seemed to be the general gist of it.

I had heard it all before, and noticing the show's promoter Oscar De La Hoya peeking out from the scrum of PR types beneath whom he is semi-permanently submerged, I made my move.

Even after more than a decade in this game I still find there is a minor thrill to be gained by being able to tap a man worth hundreds of millions of dollars on the shoulder and procure a quick chinwag.

One gleaming switched-on smile later, De La Hoya was in full flow, revealing his desire to come to Wembley to fight Ricky once he has got the small matter of the world's finest pound-for-pound fighter out of the way.

Still, it's not all glamour and world exclusives. About six hours later, I found myself stranded on the wrong side of the Las Vegas tracks, having ventured into the gloom to a boxing gym to interview a former Mayweather opponent.

As darkness quickly fell and with no taxi in sight, I toyed with the idea of embarking on a long walk home through a distinctly unappealing neighbourhood, or venturing into the nearest establishment to ask them to call a cab. Unfortunately the nearest establishment at the time - in fact the only establishment, with the boxing gym's shutters having long rolled down - was the Foxy Girls Strip Club, presently bathing me in a fizzy red glow.

As I loitered uneasily on the cracked pavement, plucking up the courage and getting dollar bills at the ready, a taxi rolled up out of nowhere to whisk me back to safety in the nick of time.

You can bet that my mate Oscar never has the same problem.

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