Goal screams they circle the Stony Beach at Dover on England's southeast coast.

Waves drag and rattle the pebbles and a stiff autumn breeze whistles through the salt

spread. At the huge castle perched on the iconic white cliffs, military

centuries call to one another. Down here on the beach there's a more raucous sound,

the coarse banter of a gang of kemptish fishermen. These fishermen are hard at

work, dragging their boat up the sands, heaving it foot by foot until it's high

on the beach. It's tough graft. They've been out at sea for hours, wet through and

shivering cold. Once they've got the boat home and dry though, they see something that makes

them stop and stare in astonishment. A little way down the beach, they spot one of

their mates. He's stripped off his wet weather gear and he's naked from the waste up.

Looking he's quite the lethario, he's trying to chat someone up. His companion is a sad

looking lady in a long and very pretty green dress. Needless to say, she looks out of

place on the beach. The fishermen can't hear what their mate is saying, but they can

tell from the body language exactly what's going on. He's muscled in on this woman during

her walk. Now he seems to be demonstrating far too forcefully how he might cheer her

up. He's making an unwelcome, unwanted nuisance of himself. But he's about to get his come

up and...

To explain, it's probably best if I leave the next bit to a chronicler of the time. Suddenly

pulling at the gown, the fisherman plunged unblushingly in only to be confronted with

irrefutable evidence that this woman was a man. The fisherman, lacking our more sophisticated

21st century understanding of gender, is shocked. Jumping back and hearing his mate's cat

calls, he demands they come over to help him work out what's going on. When they arrive,

...