T he blade rears up, pearly white as it catches the gleam of strip lights above, and in a fluid, fast movement it tears down, piercing the opponent's neck.

Blood streams across the mud floor. The crowd of more than 200 roar approval and the carcass lays limp on the ground, its skewered head at an unnatural angle to the rest of its body.

The dead fighter is picked up by the scruff of its now S-shaped neck and taken out of the simmering arena to a vat of steaming water, thrown in and boiled for a few minutes. Then it is hoisted on to a dirty, fly-infested table and plucked.

This would be considered a grisly, even repugnant, sport in much of the world but hundreds of thousands of fighting cocks battle to the death every year in the Philippines where the sport remains a national obsession for a huge portion of the male population.

The Humane Society of the United States calls cockfighting "cruel and inhumane" but it is still legal in two American states and illegal fights are common. While it is banned in many Western countries, it remains popular in Southeast Asia, although the outbreak of bird flu has led to calls for it to be banned in Thailand on public health grounds.

In the Philippines, the cockfight is found from the northern tip of the main island, Luzon, through the archipelago down to Muslim Mindanao, with most villages and towns having their own rooster-rousting realm - a place where men go to let off steam and empty their wallets.

In the Philippines, cockfighting dates back to the 400 years of Spanish rule that ended in 1898. For many, it is part of the rhythm of both urban and rural life, with the birds tethered in front of houses and their calls filling the morning air.

This particular poultry skirmish takes place every day from 9am to 3pm in the slums under the mess of Smoky Mountain in the Tondo district of Manila. For years, scavengers haunted the immense smoldering garbage hill to scrounge for things to sell, earning the place a perverse reputation as a potent symbol of Third World poverty entrepreneurialism and despair.

The site was officially closed in 1995 and garbage dumping was relocated to another district. The 40,000 people who had made the area their home and source of livelihood were shunted into nearby basic temporary accommodation.

Ten years on, they are still stuck in the rancid stench of overflowing sewage, still tripping over the same dangerous tangle of electrical wires, their homes testament to their recycling skills with bedsprings used for gates and litter for roofs.

An air of resignation permeates the narrow, dank walkways. Talk of permanent relocation and a better life is just another failed government promise.

For the many unemployed men who inhabit this nether region, cockfighting is the only entertainment they have - and a chance to win some money, although the limited odds heavily favor the noisy bookmakers.

In the pre-match pen, owners stroke their prized feathered assets, as a middle-aged, potbellied man wanders around, pairing off prospective bouts according to size.

A cockerel costs 1,200 pesos (HK$167), says Orlan, a 22-year-old from Iloilo in the central Philippines. That is nothing compared to wealthy big-league rooster owners who will pay up to 120,000 pesos for a top-flight imported Boston Roundhead, considered the ultimate warrior.

"I don't think he'll win," says Orlan, petting his 11-month-old speckled prospect. "He's just too small."

Inside the tightly packed former cattle shed that serves as the sabungan, or cockfighting arena, the betting is under way.

Men walk by screaming, arms flailing, fingers raised, taking in bets. These central figures, known as Kristos are the focal point of the betting action with their uncanny ability to set the odds and keep track of the betting in their head, never writing down anything.

In fancier cockpits, millions of pesos can change hands. Even in this poor community, a single 20,000-peso bet is not uncommon, although 100 pesos is the more standard punt.

Watching a tupada - as Filipinos refer to these illegal fights - is like a 19th century low-end boxing brawl compared to the Vegas-like events that take place in more upmarket surroundings.

The prize money in the forthcoming Tri-Cockpit Derby in Mactan, Cebu, for instance, totals 10 million pesos. The accepted weight there is 1.8kg to 2.4kg, the entrance fee a whopping 25,000 pesos and the average bet is expected to be more than 30,000 pesos. Those wanting to win big must shell out a fortune to gain access to the high rollers' top table.

Back in Tondo, in the left corner, sporting a green sheath over the hooked blade on its left claw, is a well-groomed, shiny `Lemon' rooster. Pre-match, this cock displays supreme confidence, strutting around, its feathers so well- plumed they look polished, the tail feathers proud. The cockerel employs the psychological tricks that are the hallmark of all successful boxers. This one has the arrogance of a champ, pulling an Oscar De La Hoya pose, if only he had some ropes to somersault over.

At the far end, wearing a blue sheath over his blade, is the `Grey' and it is hard to imagine a more worried and scraggly bird. His owner holds on tightly, fearful of the mauling that might ensue.

The sheaths come off, the owners bring their charges beak to beak and the cocks peck at each other, trying to rile each other up for the big match.

The referee, wearing a white basketball shirt, gives the go-ahead for the fight. Both cocks leap in the air, their neck feathers extended. The crowd delights in the ferocity and is whipped up further by the frenzied commentary of a wizened old man in a bright yellow T-shirt.

Despite his ragged appearance, Grey suddenly shows all the qualities of a street scrapper, using a combination of leaps, kicks and pecks to lethal effect, pinning down his bigger opponent time and again. In no time at all, the floor is a mass of feathers. As soon as the pair reach an impasse, the referee picks them up and drops them back on their feet to square off once more. After a couple of minutes, the cocks look exhausted. If the bout lasts for 10 minutes, the fight is declared a draw. But there is not one draw on this day.

Grey wins, with an acrobatic lunging kick at his opponent's stomach - a killing blow.

Behind the arena, meanwhile, the rare surviving loser is patched up for a possible return to action while there's more betting activity in the shape of a glorified game of heads and tails, called cara y cruz, in which people bet on the outcome of coins with red stripes on one side that are tossed into the air.

A youth walks past and yells above the din: "This is a town of gambling." Around the corner, a boy holds on to a wounded cock while his father sews up a gash in its leg .

Another fight and this time we move closer to the action, in the pit with the birds, the bookies, the referee and an old cigarette vendor peddling individual sticks of the local Hope brand.

The fight gets under way and we find ourselves circling the ring fast to avoid the flying blades, whose razored edges can cause a nasty wound, as happens later to a fan whose grazed shin quickly oozes with blood.

"Did you see that?" says a man next to me, beaming with excitement. "Wasn't it great?" The offending rooster makes short work of his real opponent and becomes a firm favorite with the baying gamblers.

So what is the attraction of cockfighting?

"I like it because it's beautiful," says Robert Lee, who is in his mid-thirties. He says his wife gives him the money to gamble.

Lee is surprised to learn that cockfighting is not common in Hong Kong. "But it's such a beautiful game," he says.

The man standing next to him adds: "It's our national game. Our best sport."