BOXING: Johnny Wattersongets a preview of Gerry Nelson's documentary on the extraordinary life of the Irish heavyweight legend Jack Doyle

Dear Mr Doyle, would a chronic drinking habit, reckless womanising, heavy and all-night gambling and the primary stages of syphilis tend to work against me as I launch into a professional boxing career? PS: I am 19 years old.

Jack Doyle, Ireland's great heavyweight hope, was a man who probably requires more sympathy than ridicule. The Doyle who in 1933 attracted 85,000 fans to White City in London to fight against an English champion named Petersen lit up the 1930s and burned out just as fast.

In time he came to epitomise the modern dictum of being famous for being famous.

Doyle could have been someone. Instead he died penniless in London living on the streets, having drunk and gambled away millions and beaten those who loved him. And yes, he was also fighting syphilis.

Unlike George Best, whom he actually trumps on the self-destructive scale, Doyle achieved little of note in his sport.

But, as with Best, his good looks, bad-boy image and ability to attract Hollywood divas and American heiresses to bankroll his entirely hedonistic existence brought him close to people's hearts.

The flaws in the "Gorgeous Gael" were awesome and eventually fatal but so was his ability to charm, whether working the crowds at Ascot, in the ring before another knockout blow or singing Macushla replete with cravat and luxuriant black mane combed back in deep furrows.

At one stage when his career was flashing up towards the stars between the age of 18 and 24, the heavyweight had the audacity to pilfer the then squeeze of Clark Gable, a screen beauty named Carol Lombard.

Doyle, who had successfully reinvented himself as a bon viveur and raconteur, sans his Cobh, Co Cork, accent, tells of his flirtation with the world-famous Lombard.

"In comes Gable. Marvellous. 'Come outside,' he says, 'Come outside.' Of course. What could I do? Bump. Bump. Bump. Down he went."

In RTÉ's Jack Doyle: A legend Lost we get an early impression of the 6ft 4in labourer, who joined the Irish Guards and quickly set about knocking out British soldiers.

"He had the looks of Rudolph Valentino, the voice of Count John McCormack and the right hand of Jack Dempsey," we're told.

His appearances in the ring caused traffic jams from London's Marble Arch to White City as he fought and sang his way to superstardom while still in his teens.

Doyle believed himself to be the new Jack Dempsey and his crossing of the Irish Sea coincided with the changing of his real name, Joe, to Jack.

Reading Dempsey's book How to Box, Doyle set about becoming the legendary champion.

In his sixth fight, he drew 17,000 people. He wore a silver robe and green shorts, and a smile to the ladies was sufficient warm-up.

The less ladylike threw themselves at him and he was happy to catch.

"I never think of being down. It's all in the mind. Up all the time. Never, never look down," was his philosophy. "I'll always find someone to buy me a drink. Never short of a good old time. Women by the dozen . . . Errol Flynn, James Cagney and all the boys . . . got disqualified on a foul . . . that's how life goes."

The foul arrived in 1933 in front of 85,000 people. He was paid £3,000 for the fight but was bloated from drink and lack of training, so he resorted to low blows and was ignominiously disqualified. His purse was also withheld and his dream of becoming Jack Dempsey lay in ruins.

Naturally he signed up in Hollywood for a three-picture deal for £10,000 and reinvented himself as a Tarzan-like figure for the big screen. He married wealth in the Hollywood actress Judith Allen but was routinely unfaithful. He fought Gable, divorced at 23 and returned to the ring in 1937, when 11,000 turned up to Wembley to watch him fight. Doyle broke his right hand in the early stages, went 12 rounds and won.

His ring life ended a few years later when he was so out of shape that he sank a half bottle of brandy before a fight, then fell out of the ring and knocked himself unconscious. Even the great Dempsey could not have recovered from that.

But for Doyle the world was never enough and he had become a caricature. He arrived in America again but was jailed for not having a visa.

Another Hollywood diva, Movita, who was being "squired" by no less a figure than the billionaire Howard Hughes, came to the rescue. She was rewarded with some happiness and some beatings, the worst of which knocked her out cold and made her miscarry. He had become more Jack the Ripper than Jack the Lad. Movita left him.

Doyle was in his 40s and homeless. A good-natured Dublin woman, Nancy Keogh, was the last kind heart to befriend him. After they met on O'Connell Street she too took a few blows for her charitable nature but remained loyal.

People began to avoid Doyle as he asked for money and never repaid. Finally he ended up living in doorways in London and was eventually found dead, from cirrhosis, in 1978, aged 65. His body lay unclaimed in London until a delegation from Cobh brought his remains home.

Jack Doyle: A Legend Lost, written and directed by Gerry Nelson, will be screened on New Year's Day, RTÉ 1, 10.30pm.