The Gypsy King beats the Bronze Bomber- Tyson Fury knocks out Deontay Wilder in a heavyweight boxing thriller.

The Gypsy King beats the Bronze Bomber- Tyson Fury knocks out Deontay Wilder in a heavyweight boxing thriller.

Heavyweight boxing has often witnessed early mornings such as this one but rarely one that has been so brutal and bloodthirsty as this one. This was boxing at its most clinically decisive and utterly dramatic, one Englishman at the height of his powers while his American opponent was reeling and rocking like a pub drinker who refuses to listen to the landlord and simply finds himself thrown onto the pavement with only his pride hurt.

You were reminded of those halcyon days when Muhammad Ali would indulge in those hugely enjoyable displays of cabaret, tap dance and Hollywood vaudeville, when Ali teased, taunted and challenged his opponent to a game of psychological jiggery pokery. There was the relentless skipping, the light as a feather dancing on fleet feet, the cunning manoeuvring of his opponent to every corner and those graceful demolitions of George Foreman and Joe Frazier.

But last night in the fevered atmosphere of a Las Vegas boxing ring an Englishman by the name of Tyson Fury beat his American opponent Deontay Wilder in a wild blizzard of savage jabbing and a frightening fusillade of body shots that could almost be heard in Texas. Then there was a clumping, thudding barrage of body shots that invariably landed flush on Wilder's head before finally delivering that dramatic knockout blow in the seventh round. Tyson, complete with vivid green gloves, sent Wilder toppling into the ropes on a number of occasions and eventually Wilder, cut face now bleeding, was pulled away from this violent massacre as his corner thankfully threw in the towel.

From a brutally damaging first round when Fury charged into his American opponent like a caged tiger smelling red meat, this blood and thunder heavyweight contest looked as if it would only detain us briefly. Fury was fierce, ferocious, wildly swinging his punches to Wilder's head before then engaging in violent blows that seem to leave Wilder pleading for mercy. On more than one occasion Wilder was sent staggering to the canvas with bludgeoning, murderous jabs and powerful hooks that increased in both intensity and volume as the fight progressed.

In the second round Fury continued the onslaught this time weighing up his punches then raining down a torrent of jabs that connected beautifully and sending out the loudest of statements to Wilder's corner that this was no tea party. Fury meant business and when Wilder began to think that this would never be his night, Fury just launched another massacre. This would be boxing at its most patiently methodical for Fury where every punch seemed to drain the life force out of Wilder's resistance.

By round three Wilder was simply cowering and moving away swiftly away from the scene of the crime, a fighter whose carefully prepared mind games would just dissolve and melt away. Towards the end of the third round, a now besieged Wilder had now taken cover, holding up his gloves desperately and praying for the end of the fight. For the first time in the fight Wilder was knocked down, toppling over like a giant redwood tree that had been there for thousands of years.

In the fourth round, the measured authority of Fury's punching seemed to be dictating the inevitable outcome of this now very one sided heavyweight slugfest. Fury was now hammering home his supremacy, grappling and scuffling at times but always in perfect control. Fury had now got Wilder exactly where he wanted him, squirming in the corner like a child whose mother won't give them any pocket money or the right amount for sweets.

The fifth round almost had a primeval and fatal air about it as Fury's clubbing fists seemed to get stronger and harder. You were reminded of a factory worker clocking on for a day of businesslike toil and drudgery. Fury was now piling into his American opponent, smothering Wilder with beefy hits to the neck, head and the shoulders. It was boxing from the old days, the old fashioned fairground booths, giant, muscular prizefighters who showed a clean pair of fists before waving their arms about like Dutch windmills.

Round six was rather like the final curtain for Wilder, now crouching in the corner and almost pinned to the ropes as the Fury bombardment seemed to just build in momentum. Wilder's legs were now betraying him, as Fury pounded and battered the American almost senseless. It wasn't long before Wilder's corner were preparing their surrender. This would be Wilder's last hurrah, the coup de grace and now he was just living on borrowed time.

In what would be the final and seventh round for the American, Fury blasted away at Wilder, fists pumping away almost heartlessly, the Englishman bobbing, ducking and dodging the occasional bullet from Wilder. Now Fury drilled home a whole flurry of punches that left Wilder begging for the intervention of the referee. One final punch from Fury took Wilder's legs away from him and that was it for the bullish American.

So an Englishman called Tyson Fury reclaimed the heavyweight title away from Deontay Wilder who must have been longing for the refuge for the treatment room at the end of the fight. It should be interesting to see where such a major fight now takes us. Does Fury now rise to the ultimate challenge of what would be a memorably fascinating eye balling contest with Antony Joshua or will he now launch a sustained bout of boasting and bragging?

As the flashing search lights began to fade you reflected on a triumphant night for British sport. You thought of that heavily sponsored boxing ring, a riot of betting companies, Irish whisky and that celebrated TV channel that wasn't Sky but ESPN. Boxing loves a rousing punch up and most of the nation could celebrate its latest hero. Well done Tyson Fury.