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“I know he did. He was checking the guy is wearing a cup. Male fighters have to wear one. They’re not allowed in the cage without it.”

“Oh.” That makes sense, I suppose. Still, it does seem a rather hands-on way of performing the check. It’d be quite a painful way to discover you’d forgotten your cup.

The fighter moves on to another official, who rubs something shiny across his eyebrows and cheekbones.

“Quick facial before the fight?” I ask.

“Vaseline.”

“Dare I ask why?”

“Stops them getting cut as easily when they get hit.”

After he’s got his Vaseline on, the fighter climbs into the cage, and then the second fighter makes his entrance. He’s shorter, stockier, and in red shorts. He goes through the same checks—and is every bit as unconcerned about the crotch slap as the first guy.

Once he’s inside, an announcer in a suit introduces both fighters in a booming voice that makes every syllable sound enormously important. Their names mean nothing to me and go in one ear and straight out the other. Blue Shorts and Red Shorts it is.

The announcer leaves, the cage door is shut, and the referee calls the two men into the middle. He says a few words to them, then they return to their corners. And then, just like that, the fight begins.

At first, not much happens. They circle each other cautiously. Blue Shorts flicks out a hand. Red Shorts leans back, out of reach.

I’m just beginning to think this isn’t so bad after all when Red lunges, catches Blue round the middle, and drives him backwards into the cage with a metallic crash that cuts through the noise of the arena.

“Oh!”

“There we go!” Innes says.

Blue manages to stay upright, but Red has him pinned against the cage. They shove and twist against each other, heads tucked close, arms tangled together.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“He’s trying to take him down.”

“Right, okay. To me it looks like a very angry cuddle.”

Red hooks a leg behind Blue’s and they topple onto the mat. Blue immediately tries to get onto his hands and knees, but Red follows him, climbs onto his back, and wraps his legs around him.

“I assume they call that move the rude backpack?”

Innes chuckles and shakes his head.

Red reaches under Blue’s chin. Blue grabs his wrist with both hands and pulls it away.

For the next few minutes, they’re up on their feet, then down on the mat, then pressed against the cage again. Every time I think I’ve worked out who has the advantage, something changes. Blue lands a couple of punches that make the crowd roar. Red gets him back onto the mat and then they’re grappling once more.

When a horn sounds, both men stop immediately.

“Is that it done?” I ask.

“Just the end of the first round. Each round is five minutes.”

“Right, and how many rounds are there?”

“For most fights, three, but the main event is five rounds.”

Five rounds? Meaning Ryan has to do twenty-five minutes of that? I’m exhausted already, and I’m only watching.

“Of course,” Innes adds, “fights can end early. Someone can get knocked out, or tap out from a submission.”