The bloke sitting next to me on the flight to Las Vegas is wrapped in a signed Ricky Hatton flag and has his outfit topped off with a ‘Team Hitman' T-shirt and baseball cap.

Mindful of the prospect of spending more than 10 hours in the close proximity of such an individual, I clumsily attempt to initiate conversation. "Going to fight?" I politely enquire.

The bloke flashes me a look which said, that was a pretty stupid question. I mean, his attire hardly suggests he's in town for the sell-out ProRodeo finals, which are due to take place at Thomas & Mack Center next Thursday.

"Yes," he confirmed. "I am."

Undaunted, I press on. "And who's going to win?" I grinned. The bloke flashes me another look which says, that was an even more stupid question than the one before.

He knows who's going to win. So does at least three-quarters of the rest of the plane. It's easy to identify the other quarter, because they are the only ones not wearing light blue Lonsdale tops or drinking lager.

It's funny what 10 and a bit hours in the persuasive company of such fervent fans can do to your judgement.

I could have sworn I had clambered aboard in the appallingly early hours of a wet Manchester Sunday morning with the fairly educated idea that Floyd Mayweather was going to prove too fast and too skilful.

By the time I have disembarked and spotted my first big fight billboard gleaming down from the fizzing neon Las Vegas Strip, I am fully paid-up believer in Hatton's chances of pulling off an upset.

There is something about the confidence of both the Hatton camp and his fans which suggests a little more than mere blind faith. They talk convincingly of how Mayweather will never have experienced the controlled aggression their man will bring.

Most of those fans don't even have tickets. Over 15,000 are expected to travel from the UK for a fight for which only 3,000 tickets were made available on Hatton's side of the Atlantic.

The bloke sitting next to me has a ticket. He plans to spend the week parading the Strip in full Elvis regalia. His wife says his impression is a bit ropey, but it got him bumped up to ringside for Hatton's last fight in July, so they reckon it's a small price to pay for the chance of the same thing happening again.

Still, six days away from the super-bout and big fight fever has yet to strike the entertainment-hardened locals. The taxi driver who whisks me from the airport to my hotel has never even heard of Ricky Hatton.

"You're not here for the rodeo?" he asked, perplexed. "You don't have rodeo in England?"

It could be a long week.

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