Sung to the sounds of thrashing guitars and snarling faces, ahhhh, one of the only punk songs I know. Lyrics reproduced with the kind permission of the Dead Kennedy's. Like hell, there are no laws in Cambodia, let alone copyrights.

I'm on holiday, and I'm in Cambodia. But I'll be damned if everyone's dressed in black, they wear t-shirts and baseball caps just like the rest of us. Well, the rest of us who wear t-shirts and baseball caps, that is.

Been here two days and I don't even know what the currency looks like. They do have their own money I hope. I sound like the Queen, and I think I know how she feels sometimes; I've been doing more than my share of regal waving. It's the kids, man, wherever you go they come out waving and shouting hello. It's another one of those places, but I'm getting quite good at the wave, just using the upper part of my arm. It's hot here, no point in wasting too much energy.

The only money that talks is the old greenback and, surprisingly enough, the Thai Baht. Just shows you how powerful Thailand is in Asia: their money is considered hard currency here. The same was true in Laos – just carry a pocketful of Baht around and you can buy anything from a bottle of water to paying for your hotel room. Thing was in Laos if you used Baht you would get Kip (Lao currency, I swear they just make these names up, just to mess us about) in return.

Here – get this, you pay for something in Thai Baht – the bastards give you Thai Baht, or goddamn U.S. Dollars in return. Something ain't right. I had to check my passport, make sure I crossed that border, and they had given me that exit stamp from Thailand. And an entry stamp into Cambodia. Or was it just a dream? Soldiers with machine guns, big stripy barrier across the road, loads of people trying to rip you off for taxi rides; sure seemed like a border post.

Two days trying to work things out in the border town, two days too long. I was trying to get used to the money, or just why I couldn't get hold of any. And work out how much things should cost, plus learning the greetings in Cambodian, like any good tourist should.

"How much?"

"Oh, that's far too expensive!"

"How's about a little discount."

"What's your favorite colour?"

Take a speedboat to the beach town of Sihanoukville (pronounced "scenic ville"). Sounded like a perfect place to start any tour of Cambodia, and I was right. Four- or five-mile long, white sand beaches. The only people who seem to know about this place are the Cambodians, and then only at the weekends! Deserted beaches, warm water and incredible sunsets over the Gulf of Thailand. Never imagined Cambodia to be like this! My impression was all summed up in the first line of this letter.

The most popular bar/restaurant in town (I got a nose for tracking them down) is called Chuck's Place, run by a retired Floridian and his Vietnamese girlfriend. It's more of a shack really, but it serves the finest fish and chips this side of the English Channel.

Surreal really, at the seaside in Cambodia and eating fish and chips, the only thing missing is shit weather and Punch and Judy (that's two things, or it could be three, but you get the picture). The $2 portions are too big; I've taken to ordering half-portions. A competitor around the corner is serving up other English gastronomic delights (what do you mean, we don't have any?): steak and kidney pie (homemade), chips (French fries, for anyone south of Dover).

But... WAIT FOR IT!!!

On Sundays, you guessed it... Before we watch Chelsea beat Man United, live from Wembley. ROAST DINNER, with all the trimmings. I check the history section of my guide book, just to make sure this was a French colony and not one of ours. I check my Cambodian entry stamp AGAIN (just in case I got time-warped to Brighton).

If Thailand is the Costa Del Sol of Asia, Cambodia is the Wild West (just without the cowboys and indians). Anything goes, and it quite often does. I'm in a bar in the town center, playing pool with another English guy. With the change from buying two beers, the owner gives me a pre-rolled joint. The police are all paid off; give them enough money and you can do whatever you want in the bars.

The next day the same bar holds a pool competition, $1 to enter. First prize (it's all or nothing here, there are no other prizes): a bottle of plonk and a girl for the night! There are three to choose from – girls not wine – they only make one brand of wine.

You can hire motorbikes to scoot around town on: $3 a Honda moped, $6 a 250 motocrosser. No license, no passport, no helmet. Pay ya money, take ya chance. The police love to stop foreigners to supplement their income: