A Cambodian friend had scored some kickboxing tickets in Phnom Penh.

Outside the stadium, ill-tempered soldiers — wearing tin helmets — were treating the confiscation of plastic bottles as if it was a military operation.

My friend, Arun, downed his bottle of water.

“At the last match a Cambodian fighter took a bribe to lose,” he said. “The crowd were so upset they threw bottles into the ring.”

Ironically, the first thing I saw inside the stadium were vendors selling bottled drinks.

As part of the pre-fight entertainment, a Cambodian singer strutted around the ring — singing as if her life depended on it.

I don’t know why she bothered; the crowd had come to watch people bleed — not listen to pop music.

As the stadium filled up, a man in a tracksuit sat down next to me. He was from Newcastle and would be fighting shortly. A friend asked how he was feeling.

“I’m shit scared,” he replied.

And who could blame him? The noise, the heat, the smell of sweat and incense — it all seemed so foreign and intimidating.

An hour later, he and his Cambodian opponent entered the ring to the pounding rhythm of drums.

The Englishman was so nervous he completed his warm up at double speed. This meant he had to stand around and watch while his opponent finished his.

Then the bell went, the music temp picked up, and the kickboxing began.

It took thirty seconds for the bout to descend into a pub brawl of mistimed punches and rope slams. The crowd cheered for blood — the dirtier the fight got, the more excited they became.

The Englishman fought like a boxer, naively wading into the Cambodian’s kicks. The crowd enjoyed this — and they weren’t the only ones. The stadium commentator announced a businessman was finding it so exciting that he had pledged additional cash to the winner.

This spurred the Cambodian on — and doubtless contributed to his eventual points victory. The Englishman didn’t seem to care about the loss — he just looked elated it was over.

The next fight was another international — a Russian vs. a Cambodian.

The Russian got a raw deal: whenever he began to dominate the arena lights failed — which allowed the older Cambodian to recover. The breaks between rounds also seemed very long. The crowd agreed the pauses had been extended to give the Cambodian additional time to recover.

Without the “faulty” lights and “faulty” stopwatch — the Russian may have won. After the fight, the victorious Cambodian didn’t seem to register this — he wandered the crowd and accepted donations.

To get to the restroom I had to go through the tunnel from where the fighters entered the arena. Here, a crowd had gathered to watch the headliner’s hands being taped.When I returned to my seat, I learned there had been another fight and I’d managed to miss the only knockout of the night.

The anticipation grew as the evening’s headline match-up edged closer. All of the seats were now full — and children appeared from behind advertising boards where they had been hiding all day.

When the champion danced out of the tunnel, there was a collective sigh of disappointment. Anyone would have thought he hadn’t trained at all. The general consensus was that he must have spent the past three months drinking beer and eating beef.

By the end of the first round, the champion looked like he had fought a hundred — even sitting down on his stool appeared an effort. After each break, he sloshed back into the ring once more, desperate to avoid the tall Australian and rarely landing any blows of his own.

Overweight and undertrained, the only weapon he had left was experience. In the final round, he embraced his opponent in a bear hug — and as the Australian relaxed — the Cambodian landed a heavy punch. The Australian instantly lost his discipline and, from that point on, he got caught again and again.

At the final bell the crowd stood for the result. Had the champion done enough with his late resurgence?

No, he had lost on points.

The crowd digested this news in confused silence.

The Australian held the belt above his head and circled the ring shouting: “Awkun! Awkun!” (“Thank you, Thank you”) — which prompted begrudging applause from the crowd.

I turned to Arun.

“So an Australian has won the Cambodian title. What happens now?”

“These two will fight again in three months,” he replied. “But this time our champion might train …”