With this final TRM of 2020, as promised, I'm recalling a few more of the 'unusual' events of my Yuletides past..and this week they include the Royal Lola and Wanton Beach Lady incidents.

I'll begin with the latter.

Living overlooking Scotch Bay, it was natural that the stony, craggy beach, which stretched across the coast from Pill to Milford Beach, along with Ward's Shipbreaking Yard and the Gunkle, would become one of our, (the Vicary Crescent kids) most popular, and frequented playgrounds in the 1950s.

There was the myriad of magical rock pools to explore, the rock-climbing exploits from the beach up to the Back Line's infamous 'canoodling couples' spot; the Bull Ring, and also the ancient old wreck to dive off at high tide during the summer months.

Depending on the time of year, Scotch Bay was a venue enjoyed equally in wellie-boots or a pair of daps.

As this particular incident occurred immediately prior to Christmas 1955/56... it was one of the boots kind.

It was a Sunday morning, and when my dad said to me: "Come on, let's go down the beach," I knew what that meant. We were going beachcombing...in search of driftwood and logs to burn, along with the nutty slack, on our living room fire, which endlessly crackled and flamed so happily over the Christmas period.

It was something we'd done together quite often - and rarely did we return home empty-handed.

If the beach was unusually barren, then sometimes we'd carry home one of the abandoned, oil-soaked old railway sleepers that were strewn casually around the Wards Yard compound.

That morning, as usual, we arrived at Scotch Bay via the Rath's bottom path, and clambered, expectantly, in our wellies, down onto the beach on the Bull Ring side.

The tide was well out and the wonderful smell of seaweed, which always excited my senses, hung heavily in the air, making me feel glad to be alive.

We were about to begin our foraging duties when we realised that we were not alone on the beach.

A distinct sound of wailing was coming from the direction of the Old Wreck, which had languished underneath the Ward's Yard wall for as long as I could remember.

Immediately, my dad, like Superman shedding his mild-mannered Clark Kent identity, leapt into action, and with a firm: "Wait here Jeff," flew the 50 yards or so over to the Old Wreck.

My eyesight as an 11-year-old was perfect, so I could perceive that the moaning came from a woman who, somehow, had become 'anchored' to the old wreck, and was struggling to break free.

My superhero father quickly unshackled her, and calmed her down.

When I arrived at The Wreck, the woman, who I vaguely recognised, was still profusely thanking her rescuer. My active, yet innocent, 11-year-old mind was in overdrive.

There were two things I couldn't understand.

What was the woman doing on Scotch Bay dressed in such a 'flamboyant' fashion... she wasn't wearing typical beachcombing gear for a start. She wasn't wearing wellies!

In fact, her attire was more like those worn by the seductresses pictured in the glamgirl-mags we kids often found while rummaging around inside some of the ships waiting to be broken up.

I kept that thought to myself.

Secondly, how on Earth had she got herself entangled on the Old Wreck?

There seemed to be rope involved for some reason... as she hobbled her way across the stones, scuffing her unsuitable high-heels, my dad once again as Clark Kent said: "Right, son, let's see what's here today. Looks like we might be lucky."

I nodded and started kicking some seaweed as my dad added.."I don't think we should mention this to your mum, do you? You know how dangerous she thinks it is for you playing down here, especially the Wreck...you don't want her stopping you from coming down here to play, do you?"

I certainly didn't.

And it's only in my old age that I've considered writing a book based around that Christmas beachcombing: I'd call it Fifty shades of Scotch Bay!

Now I'm leapfrogging a few years to 1961, when, at 17, I'd reached the age when it was time to learn how to drink beer.

I'd not long left Milford Grammar, with a handful of O-levels, to start my working life as an accounts clerk in Haverfordwest's Dew Street garage, Evans Motors, and I hated it because, as well as the book-keeping aspect (a Kalamazoo system) which I enjoyed, it also included manning a telephone switchboard.

There were months of cross-lined/cut-off chaos, because I wasn't used to using ONE phone, never mind controlling a series of them. We didn't have one at home - phones were only for businesses - or the posh people who lived on the Rath!

But I was earning £5 a week and had a lift to and from work with one of the mechanics, the late Brian Robinson, so the extra bits of cash in my pocket allowed me to give my mum a little for my keep, buy records in the Backhouse shop in Charles Street, and frequent our favourite meeting place - Jack Byford's coffee bar, which was right next door to Backhouse's.

I don't remember whose idea it was, but we suddenly upgraded our drinking habits from sipping iced coke bottles to guzzling pints of "brown-split" in the back room of the Royal Hotel in Charles Street - served by the delightful Maureen Dyter.

There were usually three of us, Dave 'Wiggy' Wigham, Dai Migs Mills, and me, who, for some reason, was never anointed with a nickname.

On the night in question, with beer at less than two bob a pint, we three musketeers were at our usual table, enjoying the second of our three pints.

I don't think our conversations included the then topical items in the news, such as: "Boy Scouts now allowed to wear long trousers" and "Decimal coinage has been accepted in principal by the British Government".

It was far more likely that we were discussing why Frankie Vaughan's Tower of Strength was at No 1 in the charts and not Runaround Sue by Dion.

There were a few other people in the snug, including a bronze-haired lady who'd come in after us, and was sitting at the bar with her back to us.

It was my turn to buy the final round for the night, and both Daves, with a nudge nudge; wink wink, urged me to 'check her out' at the same time.

Maureen came out from the busy main bar to serve me - "Same again, Jeff ?"

I nodded, taking a sly look at the brassy haired, mini-skirted woman on the stool next to me.

If I'd been holding a pint glass, I would've dropped it. For the femme fatale was not the beauty we'd imagined - it was a bloke - who hadn't even shaved.

Today of course, it wouldn't have been a big thing at all. Eddie Izzard has seen to that, but 60 years ago it was a different kettle of fish.

Mind you, even then it wasn't the first guy in drag I'd seen.

That honour fell to my dad... who, for the Queen's coronation street party, much to my mother's dismay, and my astonishment, had donned one of my mum's dresses, shaved his hairy legs, and plastered himself in more make-up than Danny la Rue... just to win a wager, laid down by Skipper Noel Delf, one of our neighbours.

As the three of us walked home, devouring our bags of vinegar soaked chips, I will never forget the look on Maureen Dyter's face as she saw me 'turn to stone' that night.

We learned much later that the guy was a cook on a Belgian ship that was in dock for repairs.

I've often wondered if that night, Ray Davies from the Kinks, was in the Royal bar, and had seen the guy who "walked like a woman but talked like a man" arrive... giving him inspiration for his Lola.

That's just about it from me, I leave you with a few snaps to tie in with these simple tales - I hope they managed to raised a smile.

Happy New Year from me, hope to see you soon. Stay safe,