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I am sad to report the death of David Stuart Taft on Tuesday 19 November
2002. David died from cancer of the oesophagus in Rowcroft Hospice in Torquay.
David was born on 5 November 1943 in Coimbatore, South India and was sent to
Clayesmore Prep School at the age of 6 and then went up to Clayesmore Public
School. David was immediately taken to by all his fellow students and the school
staff as not only a bright pupil but also great fun.... if not to say naughty!
It was our English teacher, Pat Harding, at the Prep School, who was the first
to 'tap' the depths of David's literary skills; he encouraged us to develop
italic script and to use 'free expression'. I recollect that some of David's
free expression was wonderful, almost Coleridge but without the assistance of
opium .. but possibly assisted by Capstan Full Strength cigarettes? This was the
start of David's love of writing poetry.
All his Clayesmorian compatriots remember David with very fond memories - his
dry humour, his sense of fun and honour enhanced all our school days. He is the
only poet our generation of Clayesmorians knew.
After Clayesmore, David became a journalist. He started on the New Milton
Advertiser, then the Western Daily Press. In 1969 he married Valerie and they
have a son, Hugo. In 1979 the family moved to Toronto where David working on the
Globe and Mail Newspaper; and went on to become Sub-City Desk Editor, Senior
Sub-Editor and finally Universal Desk Editor. He left the Globe and Mail in 1991
when he took early retirement. In his retirement he wrote poetry and developed
his love of nature, raised Arab horses, took up gardening and liked to walk for
miles.
Just prior to his death, he wrote a poem he titled "Terminal".
I want to believe in the impossible
and the sureness that is happening somewhere
as I always breath and dream.
Not for me the seductive lull of the probable
and the hapless, hopeless meander
through the known maze of chance and choice and certainty.Show me the lock to a door that isn't there
and the view from a window shuttered and bare
and the smile of the face that died years ago
but is breathing with greater loveliness now.
To close, a friend and colleague of David's wrote the following Eulogy for/to David Taft.
David Taft's name and reputation made him a legend in the newspaper industry.
Colleagues around the country- in Manchester, Birmingham, Cardiff and in the
bars of Fleet Street, London - they admired him, spoke well of him.
David had a touch of class, an abundance of style and a presence that drew
people to him. In the sixties and the seventies he was one of the most
accomplished journalists on the Western Daily Press in Bristol, and his rise to
fame there was guided by the outstanding editor of the day, Eric Price.
David could write like an angel and make a phrase dance across the face of a
page. He was a penetrating news reporter, a first rate feature writer and an
astute film critic. His natural talent and flair eventually saw him take charge
of the news desk, and this heralded a golden age of newspaper journalism in
Silver Street, Bristol.
There are, of course, stories galore about David Taft and those great days in
the sixties and the seventies.
When the paper had been put to bed - to coin a phrase - and was rolling off the
presses David was ready for the city night life. He loved to have a flutter, a
gamble, chancing his luck in a game of black jack on the casino tables in
Clifton. He loved a drink or two in the Bay Horse, the Old Granary, the
Landogger Trow and The Old Duke. There was nothing he liked more than
socialising with his friends and fellow journalists in the late hours of the
morning.
Those colleagues from the past, who were to move onto Fleet Street, to radio and
to television, will be saddened by his passing. But they will go on talking
about David Taft, reminiscing and singing his praises, and they will make sure
that his name is not forgotten.
David will be sadly missed by his mother, Jay Daunton, son Hugo, sisters
Barbara, Hilary and Anthea, brother Nigel, Valerie and step-son Nick, and also
by his O.C. friends.
Memories drawn together by Piers Sabine (56 - 60)