The Vegas sun is unforgiving, and a dry desert wind blows the pungent smell of weed over the hot asphalt of the parking lot. Ground feeling like you could sink your feet into it if you stood still for too long. Eyes sore and cracked from late nights and long journeys. I check the ‘Will Call’ ticket section for our comp tickets to ADCC, silently hoping we haven’t flown all this way for non-existent tickets. “Come back tomorrow,” she says, dismissive and confused. “Ask them at the booth.” She waves her hand towards an empty sidewalk, where I assume – hope – a booth will appear tomorrow.

I swallow dryly. Mo, the ADCC organiser, said he’d reserve us tickets. This is a long way to come to drink expensive coffees. Ninety seven dollars, the breakfast cost us this morning. Not including parking. Vegas is an efficient, money-extracting machine. A jewel in the desert, glistening with the disembowelled guts of the American Dream.

Last night, when we arrived at the hotel apartment complex, the receptionist tried to sell us a timeshare so hard I thought she would grab us by the ear and drag us to the presentation kicking and screaming in our cute Briddish accents. We stood like zombies in front of her, dreaming about sleep. Gullible Englishmen drawn in by American faux-friendliness.

The halls at the Thomas and Mack arena are full of jiujitsu brands and other things I don’t care about. Half-recognised faces move past me. This feels good, in a way. Our little sport is getting bigger. The tackiness of major sports coming along with it. SPORTS! Neon lights and hotdogs flash in my mind. AMERICA! This is Brazilian Jiujitsu now; 20% off flyers trodden into the floor, meet and greets with athletes, the scuffed steel frame visible behind a sagging printed banner. Stem cell treatments. Eighteen dollar nacho plates. Sign up to our newsletter for an additional 10% off today only. High fives. It’s all a blur.

Later, we visit an art gallery with Miha, Sloan, Paige. They’re all quite high on edibles, apparently. I decline – past experience has taught me to be very cautious. The gallery is pretty out there, with a surprisingly accomplished level of surrealness to it, which I consider an achievement for American art. I photograph lots of things that make me laugh, including a tin of nut-free salted peanuts (it’s just salt.) We throw axes, I miss every single one and break four axes, until finally figuring out my groove and hitting eight bullseyes in a row. America!

The booths, mercifully, appear on the day of the show. I present myself to one of the ladies working there, and say I am from Polaris, and there should be some tickets for me. It’s so great to meet you! she says, and I am puzzled. I am Roberto Jimenez’ mom!

She hands me the green wristbands that are our entrance to the show. Relief. The sun is hot against my neck. Somebody flips open a baggie filled with pre-rolled joints. Ain’t nobody taking my weed from me, he blurts out, unprompted, and someone high fives him. I smoke everywhere! He proclaims, proudly, joint jutting from between his lips, lighting and sucking on it. I briefly wonder if the mental health crisis in America is exacerbated by the abundance of weed, and check my pockets for the edibles I bought yesterday. The jellies have melted into one long gooey lump inside the plastic tube, which is disappointing. The risk of eating too much is too great – I can’t think of anything worse than having a cannabis-induced panic attack in an arena full of 15,000 jiujitsu fans. I asked the guy in the store, do you sell anything that won’t blow my head off? And he laughed, and said, nah, man. Nah.

There is a brief moment where I worry that something bad is going to happen. The doors to the arena are late to open, and there is a significant crowd building up outside. Hundreds, thousands of people. Suddenly there is a collective groan, and a rush, and the crowd murmurs and vibrates. It’s almost too much, but then the doors open fully and the crowd streams in. We are ready for some jiujitsu. Excitement builds.

The arena lives up to expectations. Cavernous. Colourful. Loud. This feels like a spectacle, but also gaudy and somewhat naïve. It’s like an Olympic opening ceremony but the adults have left the room. Lachlan Giles and Craig Jones get the biggest pop from the crowd. Lachlan maybe just edging out Craig. It’s reassuring, that once you leave social media behind, and get into the real world, real people are popular. The matches start, and we don’t know where to look. The crowd gasps. A flying armbar. Someone wins. Someone loses. Someone is heartbroken. Someone is elated. This is the best day of their life. The worst.

Gordon Ryan makes it look easy. It’s almost boring. He’s on his best behaviour, though. Not wishing death or suicide on anyone. Not bullying people into closing their Instagram accounts. Just winning and saying nice things.

Before you know it, day one is over. Ten hours sat on a hard plastic chair, no problem. We do Vegas things – eat and drink and play golf at Top Golf. Off the strip slightly, where it is a little seedier, the slot machines- and the people playing them – look tired and worn out. Looking for a barbecue place to eat brisket but don’t find it, we end up eating something forgettable and huge, I can barely finish half the plate. I’m embarrassed until I realise I will never see this waiter or the inside of this restaurant again and swagger out, throwing my napkin over a half-eaten pork cutlet. I try to eat some of the edibles that melted into one long tube of jelly, but fall asleep before I know if it has worked. Rock and roll.

Finals day, and we are off to a strange start, with a drawn-out awards ceremony, the highlight of which is Renzo Gracie mumbling something about the Sheik not hating jews. It’s a stark reminder of the strange fact that the biggest event in our sport is still funded – and controlled – by a very wealthy member of another country’s royal family. The crowd is restless. Nachos are bought and consumed. Ditto watery beer. The fights are back on! Excitement fizzles. I spot a group of Brazilians in the VIP box behind me. I know them, vaguely. The owner of a big kimono brand. Royler Gracie. Some others. It’s as if they’ve known each other for years, grew up with each other. There is a pang of jealousy, although I am enjoying being anonymous here. Then again, even if I had a sign around my neck saying “Creative Director / Co-Founder of Scramble and Polaris” I don’t think anyone would actually care. The Ruotolo brothers are on fire, fully and completely embracing and filling the huge shoes that Mo Jassim and co had laid out for them. Rising to the occasion, in every sense of the word. Young, dynamic, exciting – I am mad as hell that One Championship have signed them exclusively.

Watching ADCC live is like mainlining a highly potent form of jiujitsu straight to the brain. It’s an endurance race, an ultra marathon, that leaves you husked out and exhausted at the end. I can barely remember any of the matches. The Liver King was there. So was Jujimufu and Devon Larrat. America! Great.

We finish our Vegas experience with barbecue. It’s good, if a little dry – although god knows how you keep a brisket warm until ten on a Sunday night. It feels like a high water mark for jiujitsu. A rising tide lifts all boats. Let’s see what’s next.