Time Runs Out for Russians in Ice Chess Contest

The British team for the first Anglo-Russian Ice Chess Challenge match did not inspire confidence. It included Darius Parvizi-Wayne, UK champion, but at under-seven level; Peter Ackroyd, a terrific writer but with only an embryonic knowledge of chess; and me, currently Guardian chess champion after the paper's two best players withdrew citing the feebleness of the opposition.

Admittedly, our team captain was grandmaster Nigel Short, the former World No 3 who once had a crack at Garry Kasparov's world crown, but he was a benign presence rather than the controlling genius. "Maybe the Russians' queen will dissolve before they get mate," was one of his less helpful interventions.

Russia fielded Anatoly Karpov, the former world champion; Konstantin Savenkov, the Russian under-seven champion; and a gymnast and DJ of unknown chess strength. The Russians were in Moscow's Pushkin Square, while we braved a blustery dawn in Trafalgar Square - the game had to be played early before the giant pieces, sculpted out of ice in the shape of London and Moscow landmarks, melted. Global warming is a threat to ice chess, too.

The toss for choice of colour was in Moscow and the Russians won it - cue early accusations of dirty tricks. Karpov's team, playing white with the advantage of first move, opted for an aggressive opening. I was out of my depth by move four, but Darius, with a few nods and winks from his coach, kept a steady nerve as a team of youthful chess enthusiasts slid the heavy ice pieces across a board rapidly filling with water.

Our brief early advantage dis-appeared, the Russians - traditionally the strongest chess country - began to exert control and Short had to admit we were being outplayed. But we had one crucial advantage - the timing of the 30-minutes-a-side game was being coordinated in London. "Stalin said the only important thing was who counted the votes," explained the wily Short. "Here, the important thing is who controls the clock."

The Russians started complaining that their moves were not being recorded quickly enough: was an event organised to coincide with this weekend's Russian Winter Festival in London about to generate an icy diplomatic incident, a new cold war?

They fell behind on time; we managed to complicate the position - using the fog of war to disguise the fact that we were in hasty retreat - and the Russians became confused. With only a minute left on their clock and fearing a loss on time they offered a draw. Darius was keen to play on and claim a win, as were the crowd of mildly perplexed onlookers, but the counsels - probably worried for the fraternal spirit of the winter festival - prevailed, and the draw was accepted.

Honours were even; the winter festival was saved; Darius did a round of interviews and basked in his sudden stardom; Short proclaimed a fine result for British amateurism against the mighty Russian machine ("We played with balls," he said with characteristic directness); and the Guardian chess champion, who had contributed only visible panic to the game, melted away, like the lovely ice sculpture of Big Ben, whose time by early morning was already running out.