The Olympic SpiritD.E.Edwards It would be an exaggeration to say that the Savoy was pleased and honoured to be host to the leaders of the finalists in the All London InterGang Heptathlon. On the other hand, it was certainly more pleased than it would have been if it had known it had the honour. Side by side in a double bed, the same thought was circulating through both Gang Leaders’ heads. "The final day of the Final. All down to today." After months of whittling away the opposition, it all hung on today. Crapper’s Lambeth Lions had easily beaten every gang south of the River, only the Brixton Bastards giving any trouble. Good, beating them; the Heptathlon had been their idea. Shirley’s Westminster Wonderwomen had done the same to the gangs north of the River. Her name had originally been Bitch, but she’d changed it during the Homes for Votes scandal. So the Final had everything. North versus South, Lambeth versus Westminster, male versus female, black versus white. And they were good. They were both very, very good. Well wicked, to coin an out-of-date phrase. Arms around each other - there was no point in leaving this comfortable position till they had to - they silently reviewed the first six events, their own strengths and weaknesses, and the other’s. But which were strengths and which were weaknesses? Crapper: physical strength, single-mindedness, a nasty, vicious, cruel streak - leading to his most valuable attribute: unpredictability. Shirley: agility, imagination, deviousness, vindictiveness, and beauty - all the Wonderwomen were beautiful. Forget political correctness; you can’t use ugliness as a weapon against a man. The Lions had started well with the Pub Fight. The first five events in the Final were fought on the Enemy’s territory, and the Lions were well informed about most pubs in central London. They had chosen one where they could break up the entire bar, including the band’s instruments, injure most of the other drinkers and yet not figure in the twenty four arrests unlike one unfortunate police cadet. The Wonderwomen had cut a lot of things up, but too much was reparable. And as many as four’d spent a night with the pigs. Selecting for beauty has its drawbacks. The Lions went two-nil up with the Muggings. They lost points for causing injuries, but won on sheer scale: numbers of victims and amounts acquired. The Wonderwomen worked with style, but style only looks good; it doesn’t pull in the loot. Then the Wonderwomen pulled one back with the Shoplifting. They were like locusts; they’d pass through somewhere and leave it looking as if it were a shop in Moscow. The Lions did well, but... The Lions won back to three-one with the Riot. Even allowing for the fact that Westminster was not used to riots and that its shops were fuller than Lambeth’s (especially after the previous event), the scale of the Lions’ operation was breathtaking. Thousands of passers-by and police involved, millions of pounds’ damage, hundreds of shops looted - and such variety! There was even a statement by the Home Secretary on television. The Wonderwomen were hardly noticed in Lambeth. The Graffiti was a foregone conclusion. You’d never think the Wonderwomen were so good to look at Westminster; straightforward tags, ad defacements and political, football and rock music slogans: pretty low-key stuff. But they never tagged home ground - changes in graffiti help locate the boys. Other boroughs got the benefit of their work - the work of art students among others. Lambeth had woken up the previous morning in wonderland. Enormous, beautiful paintings on ends of terraces and all over office blocks. Rude paintings, but beautiful. Only one Wonderwoman had been arrested - and she only because the police station needed decorating. The Lions had put up a good show - appreciated by the inhabitants of Westminster. But, when you’re up against the best, you just do what you can. The Gang War was fought on neutral ground: Tower Bridge. The Lions went into it confident. They were boys. They were South-of-the-River. They were used to fighting. But... they were unprepared. They’d attack a girl and she’d burst into tears. They’d grab hold of her shirt or her skirt and it would come off, revealing an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty that demanded close study. Only Crapper had the strength of character to resist this; he and Shirley were rolling on the pavement, failing to get a submission, failing to get their hands to their knives, equal in effect - Shirley’s cunning exactly matching Crapper’s strength - when the bridge started to raise. But it was all over. The Wonderwomen had won. The contest stood even: three events each. The final event, the decider, the joy-riding, was for gang leaders only. It was Crapper against Shirley. Shirley against Crapper. "Me against you, baby." Shirley confirmed Crapper’s thoughts, kissing him and stroking him. "Against me’s how I like you." he replied, adding proof. After the gang fight, Crapper had faced his enemy and said, "Thanks. I enjoyed that. You’re good." "So did 1. So are you. We going to find somewhere to eat tonight?" "Well... Should we? I mean, we’re still competing tomorrow. Should we be together tonight?" "Just for a meal, silly. I can handle it - if you can..." That was the key. Congenitally incapable of doing anything without competing, Crapper had to respond. "Oh, yeah. I can handle it. I was just worried in case any of our members saw us." He was afraid that she would try to get under his skin and take the edge off his competitiveness. "So, we eat at the Savoy. Come on. Lose the gangs and let’s go." "OK." Her ground. Got to be careful. How well was she known there? If she was known, nobody showed any sign. Either way. Crapper recognised that everything she did during the meal was designed to get past his defences, to show her as sexy, available, desiring, desirable. What she talked about: Leading gangs gave them more in common than they thought. She’d really enjoyed the last few days - competing against a gang she really admired. Had he recognised her contributions to the graffiti? "GLC building, railway bridges at Waterloo - on and under - and the girl seducing the enemy soldier on the Imperial War Museum." he said, matter of factly. "Thanks for the warning." That was nearest he was going to get to saying he’d recognised the soldier. "That’s right. And thanks for the National Portrait Gallery." he’d done a ten-foot high picture of her. Nude, as he’d never seen her. Untagged. "Look, have you noticed something about all the gang events?" He thought hard. He looked at her looking at him. She was willing him to get it right. "Only that we never run close. If you’re good, we’re crap; if we’re good, you’re crap." "Yes. We beat the North London gangs on everything, one way or another, and you did the South London ones. But against each other, it’s one or the other. Together we’d be invincible. After tomorrow, let’s talk about it." "Yeah." Dodgy. She was putting this idea in his head to distract him in the Joyriding. He knew what he was going to say to it, but decided to let it wait. "Sounds good. But not just now, eh? After tomorrow. Let’s think about it." He tested her relationship with the Savoy by insisting on using his escape plan. She recognised what he was doing and agreed. Outside the restaurant, she revealed a bottle in her handbag and said, "Let’s find a room and see about this." "Is it good?" "Forty nine quid." "Yeah, but is it good?" "Let’s find out." Still competing, they let themselves into separate rooms. If an event had been cancelled for some reason it would have been replaced by Burglary. One-upmanship also being deeply ingrained, they responded to their simultaneous finish by flashing a triumphant grin to each other and saying, "Congratulations, just pipped me." and "Nice one. Good thing it doesn’t count." together. In Shirley’s room - Crapper’s was only a twin - they valued the wine at £20 and, when Shirley said, "Want to check your portrait against the original?" Crapper was past resisting. The competitive element drove their love making as well. Neither was about to give reason for complaint or satire when the other was describing the night. And, of course, they both benefited. Comfortable, happy, proud even, Crapper was slightly worried. If her idea was to get under his skin, she’d managed it. He’d have to be especially careful and competitive today. He felt Shirley had something on her mind too, but didn’t identify it for what it was. She was afraid that her plan had backfired; she found herself caring for this big lunk. She, too, was warning herself to add a sharper edge to her competitive spirit. "About your idea." Crapper said, bringing it up again, "I’ll think, like I said, but an alliance, OK? Not a merger. Merger wouldn’t work. We’re too different. There’s you; there’s me. Allies would be good though. Work alone; work together. Play alone; play together. That’s what I’ll think about." "Yeah, good. Talk about it tonight, eh?" She didn’t want a merger, but he had to have a fall-back position. She’d have needed one. They walked together to Tower Bridge, to the start. The route would take them round to Lambeth Bridge, into Pimlico, and finish in the middle of Westminster Bridge. At the dot of ten, they ran off into the London morning, the London daylight - to get their wheels. Crapper went for fast. Crapper always went for fast. A Merc. Shirley went for tiny, for nippy. A Ka. Shirley was first back onto the bridge and across into Bermondsey. Tower Bridge Road being empty, Crapper left it first and led all the way to the Elephant. The wrong way up London Road was easier for Shirley than for Crapper and he had to do some vicious manoeuvring to keep her behind him, and a slight snarl-up at St George’s Circus lost him his lead. Neck and neck onto Lambeth Bridge - and neck and neck off it. Very little between them up Horseferry Road and Rochester Road to Vauxhall Bridge Road, Crapper leading on the straight bits, Shirley taking over at the tight corners. Buckingham Palace Road was Crapper’s but they entered Birdcage Walk together. And reached the lights at Parliament Square together. The only lights the rules said they must observe. During the red, they looked at each other and smiled. Shirley blew a kiss and Crapper blew one back. They gave each other a thumbs up and started simultaneously as the lights turned. As they jumped the light guarding the entrance to Parliament Street, they exchanged smiles again. It was at this point that both of them realised that the race was going to finish a dead heat. They each knew they would do all they could to make sure it would happen that way, and they knew the other would, too. Simultaneously they smiled at each other, simultaneously they crossed the lane coming out of Parliament Street, and simultaneously they looked ahead and saw the fire engine across the road, two yards in front of them.
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© 1999 Westminster Writer's Group. Last updated 31/03/99.