OVER the last half-century, the world heavyweight title has beaten an increasingly erratic and sadly inconsequential course.

It has traipsed its gaudy cloak through bust casino towns and dead-end leisure centres, pitching up most recently in the Saudi desert, and been contested in one spurious form or another on all five major continents.

It has survived so-called “bite nights” and interruptions by errant paragliders, and been claimed both by those who deserve to be called all-time greats, and others who, in the words of Larry Holmes, were not fit to carry their jockstraps.