I ONCE had the privilege of being invited to dinner by a very special sportsman. In fact the most identifiable face on the planet. Muhammad Ali.

The venue was Planet Hollywood (how appropriate!) at Leicester Square in the West End of London.

“The Greatest” was in the capital with his biographer Howard Bingham promoting his latest book. I have never seen such hysteria when he arrived. Everybody wanted a glimpse. And just to touch him. Magic!

And despite the obvious effects of his illness – Parkinson’s Syndrome – Ali still had that twinkle in his eye as he lapped up every single moment of the adulation.

But his first words to me were: “How is Henry?” Then he gave me a high-five.

The “Henry” he was referring to, of course, was Britain’s one and only Henry Cooper who passed away this week after a long illness. I am not frightened to say that the news broke my heart.

I knew Our ’Enery very, very well. I “ghosted” his column for a national Sunday newspaper for two years and it was a joy just to be in his company.

Every Monday evening I would arrive at his home in Hendon, North London to be greeted first by his diminutive Italian-born wife Albina – who also sadly died last year – and who was convinced I needed “fattening up” and so offered me all sorts of delights.

When I did – there was Henry pouring me a large gin and tonic (the first of many I hasten to add!) to begin proceedings. We talked and talked not just about boxing but all the sporting talking points of the moment.

Henry was – and I hate writing in the past tense – a national institution and treasure and not just because of ’Enery’s ’Ammer which so dramatically floored the young upstart Ali (then Cassius Clay) at Wembley in 1963 and which triggered a life-long friendship between the two pugilists.

No. He was much more than that. His endearing quality was that he was such a genuinely, nice man with a wicked, traditional Cockney sense of humour.

There was no side to him. No chip on his shoulder which is the characteristic of the modern sportsman.

He would not be offended in the least when I tell you that he was never world class in the boxing Hall of Fame. But he was always a 100-per-center and devoted his life to the Noble Art and the public loved him for it. And, yes, that left-hook could take out any opponent.

He was also a very knowledgable man – and was not frightened to voice his opinion. He was the first pundit to tell the truth about Britain’s big heavyweight hope – Frank Bruno. “He is just muscle,” he told me. “He has no natural movement. A completely manufactured fighter.”

It is not just me who is devastated over the demise of Our ’Enery.

Listen to Guy Preston who is a boxing “fanatic”. He lives on Portland and is an industrial cleaning contractor travelling all over the West Country.

“Henry gave us hope. British fighters were always regarded by the Yanks as ‘horizontal heavyweights’. When Henry floored Ali all that changed.

“We all crowded round our crackling wireless sets in 1966 when the two fought for the world title at Highbury. But it was not to be. He suffered from cut eyes and that is what happened. But we all respected his big heart.”

Let me leave you with one last controversial statistic, Frank Bruno, Lennox Lewis and now David Haye never once fought for the British Heavyweight Championship. Because it was beneath them. Our ’Enery won three Lonsdale Belts as British champion.

That’s because he came from an era when it was an honour to be acclaimed OUR champion.

Sir Henry Cooper, 1934-2011. RIP.