From the moment Harlequins were given a referee with the same name as their disgraced former coach, Dean Richards, it was inevitable that the colour red would play a part in this encounter. But to have it flourished as a card after just 47 seconds was remarkable, even by their standards of playing the part of bad boys.

The game had just started when Joe Simpson and George Robson found themselves in a snarling tussle, first at a respectable distance, then toe to toe, then suddenly engaged face to face as the second row's forehead struck the scrum half in the upper cheek area. Off went Robson, the latest to test the disciplinary procedures. The minimum for a head butt is six weeks. They should convert a room in the Twickenham Marriott into a permanent assizes. Simpson stayed on – bleeding, naturally.

Of course, Harlequins are by now well accustomed to rugby life with a man down. They responded to their latest self-imposed woe by scoring a try. Danny Care took a quick penalty, initiating a forceful attack that ended with Nick Evans, not strapped up and failing with a drop-kick here, but landing a crossfield punt beautifully into the hands of Dave Strettle. The wing off-loaded just as precisely with one hand to Ugo Monye, who scored. Defying the odds seems to come as naturally as breaking the laws.

Wasps were not slow in responding. They have a bad boy of their own in Danny Cipriani, if only because the gifted one is out of synch with the slightly austere England regime of Martin Johnson. Still, he gave a reminder of his attacking worth by making a two-on-two on the blind side into a try for Tom Varndell, who had just made a mess of a much clearer chance after racing clear and delivering a pass into the ground.

Strettle, out of the game for a long time with persistent foot injuries, brilliantly chased and caught the restart, and Evans placed another crossfield kick into the arms of Gonzalo Camacho, who crossed the line. This was verging on the ludicrous, or perhaps confirming that Wasps are not the ruthless bunch they once were. In the days when they stacked up the trophies they would delight in inflicting agony on fully manned opponents. Here, they appeared hesitant before 14.

As if conscious of the embarrassment they faced, they edged closer with a couple of penalties before taking the lead before half-time – Varndell again, on the end of a sweeping movement that pulled Harlequins this way and that.

That attack involved many pairs of hands, and Wasps should have scored again after smart work by the single pair of feet of Simpson. They took him out of congestion into open space, but somehow he managed to run away from the support of Varndell on the one wing and David Lemi on the other. The run broke down in the middle.

Harlequins should have regained the lead in the second half, but Evans missed a simple penalty. When they were forced back to their own end of the field, Quins somehow managed to hold out when their line appeared stretched beyond repair. A third penalty by Mark van Gisbergen seemed poor reward for the pounding by Wasps, if only because the four-point margin seemed to galvanise Harlequins rather than deflate them. Wasps reverted to their ill-at-ease mode and the revellers in adversity came forward again.

Evans missed with another penalty. His precision across the field was admirable; his aim at the posts less accurate. For the mission to be impossibly won, every survivor had to do his bit and Evans was leaking points. There had to be a toll among the Harlequins forwards. They began to dip hands into rucks and fall off tackles on Varndell. Eventually they pulled down a maul near their line and yielded a penalty try.

The game ended with a flash of yellow, an echo of worse beginnings as Jordan Turner-Hall was binned for a bit of obstruction, practically innocent in his club's hall of shame. Down to 13, Quins rounded off their defeat on the front foot, obdurate and perverse to the bitter end. If ever they reconnect with the protocols of their sport they will be a right handful for all the right reasons.

For the victors this was a struggle. Early days, but a mess nonetheless. In such a strange way, the London double-header closed its two-faced day.