He may never have won a title but Dave Ogilvie - fighter, trainer, top administrator and indefatigable enthusiast - has been a boxing champion for more than half a century.

Now, confident that the professional game is in safer hands than ever, he is stepping out of the ring after 18 years with the British Boxing Board of Control.

He's 72 and feels like he's gone a few hard rounds of late. "Arthritis, heart trouble, diabetes. I'm like a second hand car, it's more a question of what I've not got."

Whatever they say about boxers, however, there's nothing addled about his brains.

The old slugger still fights his corner, defends the noble art and worries cogently about boxing's future - all that makes his head spin is the dizzying number of world titles.

"When I was boxing there were eight world titles, now there are 68 - maybe more, it's a week since I looked.

"You might have to have 200 fights before you were a world champion, now there are men claiming titles after half a dozen."

He also wonders where a new generation of boxers will come from.

"There's too much prosperity, that's the problem for boxing. The best fighters were always the hungry fighters and to be a top fighter you have to be really dedicated, almost live like a monk.

"There aren't many prepared to do that any more.

"You know how it is with young uns, drinking and discos and women, and none of them are any good for fighters."

He'd followed his father down the pit ("he did 51 years, they were the real hard men") enlisted when offered a choice between colliery and conscription, became a slaughterman - what would today's bloodthirsty promoters have made of that? - and eventually a meat inspector with Middlesbrough council.

We're joined for a beer by Larry Thompson, 32 years a boxing referee - 14 in the professional ring - and former Ushaw Moor pub landlord.

"Dave's always been honest and genuine, an asset to boxing beyond a shadow of a doubt," he says.

Always able to look after himself at school ("Oh aye, I was a pretty tough little kid") he was 16 before his first fight as an amateur.

"There was a boxing show on Brandon football field and they just asked me if I fancied it. I was against a 19-year-old called Jimmy Gilroy, Coal Board champion, and he only won on a split decision."

After six more straight knock-outs - lambs to the slaughterman - he turned professional, fought at St James's Hall in Newcastle three times in as many weeks, was trained in Langley Park band room by an old pro called George White.

White, who'd fought as Young Black - shades of Cilla - made up in passion what he lacked in technical knowledge.

"I'd ask him how I was doing and he'd say 'You're doing fine, young 'un, now get stuck in'.

"George was a lovely little feller, but that was his coaching manual. He'd have had me fighting Sugar Ray Robinson if he could"

Because it was his home village, a couple of miles south-west of Durham, the newcomer was billed as Dave Brandon.

"A lot of them couldn't spell Ogilvie anyway," he says.

He'd fight four rounds for a fiver and was never knocked down in 40 fights. It was his eyes, and his hands, which finally floored him.

"Six broken bones in me left un'," he recalls. "You can still see the swelling, lookstha."

Once he was billed to fight eight rounds at the Kings Hall in Belfast, was seasick on the ferry from Stranraer, weighed in (he says) like a wet rag, lost in the final round to a cut eye and was given four white fivers for his troubles.

"Four white fivers," he repeats, as if the rankling injustice of it all pains him as much as the arthritis.

In another still remembered fight, 50 years ago in November at Durham, ice rink, he fought an eight round draw with Malcolm Pidgeon of South Bank, Middlesbrough, in what was said to be "the bloodiest and most punishing fight ever seen in the city."

Both men remained standing at the end.

"Mind," says Dave, "we both looked like we'd been in a road accident."

Boxing was different, more brutal. There were six ounce gloves ("not much better than knuckle dusters, really"), basic coaching and minimum medical supervision.

"When I was boxing you only had to be warm to be passed fit. I don't recollect seeing a doctor, but I suppose there must have been.

"Now you have to have three doctors, two paramedics, an ambulance and a brain scan every year.

"The reason I stood for the Board of Control was that with my background I knew a lot of the pitfalls. I just wanted to pass on my knowledge, to help guard youngsters against them."

After retiring at 27 he'd become a trainer, helped form Durham City amateur boxing club, guided Peterlee boxer Chuck Henderson ("the best I ever had") to a British welterweight title fight.

Unpaid, he became a BBBC chief inspector, responsible for safety at fight nights and, among much else, for vetting aspiring young professionals. In and out of the ring, many household names became his friends.

He campaigns for amateurs and professionals to be allowed to use the same gyms - "think how much rub off" - disapproves of headguards in the professional ring and of women anywhere near it.

"We were asked to sanction a title match where one of them had never boxed and the other had three losses.

"It's bring it down to the level of a circus.

"So far as headguards are concerned, I just think we've done everything we can short of having boxing shows in hospitals.

"The British Boxing Board of Control is respected throughout the world for what it's done to make the game safer and we can't do any more."

Counted out at last, he hopes for a game of pool in Meadowfield British Legion club and still to be at ringside.

"Treated properly," says battling Dave Brandon, "boxing is still the finest sport in the world.

Published: 01/04/2003