THAT British heavyweight boxing is turning more and more into a farce was further confirmed with the newest sporting rumour on the block.

Frank Bruno, former world champion and panto regular, has kindly offered to heave his admirable physique out of retirement to take on Britain's current great might hope Audley Harrison.

Bruno's reasoning is that such a contest would spice up a division, whose moribund nature has not been eased by Harrison's largely ineffective and uninspiring outings.

Indeed, Britain's heavyweight scene is deep in the doldrums with Harrison's Olympic gold medal of nearly three years ago tarnished as nothing more than a false Sydney dawn.

But in truth, the domestic heavyweight division has often flattered to deceive. It has barely troubled the world rankings since Henry Cooper's long reign in the 1960s and 1970s until the emergence of the bizarrely under-valued Lennox Lewis this past decade.

In between then bruising boxing butterflies have come in and gone in the burly shapes of Joe Bugner, Jack Bodell, and Yorkshire's own Richard Dunn.

Bruno restored the balance from teetering totally towards the canvas by his ascent to a brief reign as holder of a version of the world title. However, he has since been utterly eclipsed by the magnificent Lewis.

Our Frank - never did he attain the heroic status of Our 'Enery, even taking into account his forays into television and those irritating HP sauce ads - believes he could win a duel with Harrison, despite being out of the ring for the past seven years and also lumbering past his 41st birthday.

Actually, that latter landmark has proved no handicap to comeback kings of the ring. Before George Foreman swapped red-leather pounders for oven gloves and his lean, meat-grilling machines, he scoffed several opponents even though he was well into his roaring forties.

But Foreman was, in deed and on duty, a genuine world champion, a monster of a man in the ring. Frankly speaking, Bruno looked the least natural boxer since Steve McManaman and Bruce Grobbelaar traded swipes while playing for the same Liverpool team.

By sheer force of will and determination - qualities every successful fighter needs by the bucketful - Bruno did rule the roost. But his style was more robotic than hypnotic. He was taut and tense, not loose and lithe.

Bruno was larger out the ring than in it and it must also be remembered that his retirement was based on medical advice as he faced the prospect of lasting damage to his eyes had he continued to keep on punching.

Knock it on the head, Frank, Stay at home.

THE world of retirement now beckons too for another exponent of the glove affair, though between the nets rather than the ropes.

That great Dane of goalkeeping, Peter Schmeichel, confirmed this weekend that he will finally hang up his number one jersey when the current Premiership campaign closes.

If anyone deserved the epithet of superstar then it is Schmeichel, who was the platform on which Manchester United's dynastic domestic dominance was built.

Too many Old Trafford fans still swoon to the tunes crafted by orchestrator supreme, Eric Cantona. But Schmeichel was as much, if not even more responsible, for the Red Devils' renaissance and then mastery of the elite corps.

Even if his powers have waned with age at, first, Aston Villa and now at Manchester City, the Premiership has never witnessed a better goalkeeper than when Schmeichel was in his United pomp. The Premiership will be the poorer for his departure.

THE final word this week must go to the exploits of Paula Radcliffe. She is the tough of the track, the conqueror of cross-country, the queen of the road age, the hit mistress of the marathon, the tsarina of tarmac. She is athletics' wonder woman.

Hit back at Tony Kelly. Write to him at 76-86 Walmgate or e-mail sport@ycp.co.uk

Updated: 11:45 Tuesday, April 15, 2003