My Stargazer Lover That Poet Taff

Those seagulls always made the welcome home calling sounds at Plymouth Millbay docks. In that haze of the drunken poet, listen to their squawks. In flying, swooping screeches fighting for a scrap of food, those sounds made him realize he was back on British soil and reality was screaming in his head and insides, wanting the pain to go away those bloody, noisy seagulls This was all insane. 

Why had he agreed? 

Taff stayed slumped in the backseat of his retired boxing navy champion Big Steve and his wife Violet in their Volvo car as they arrived off the ferry from Santander. The customs officer inquired whether he was alive or dead. Seasick, Steve said as they opened the boot, checking on customs declarations. Steve did not have a clue about what was in store everywhere. Bottles were all open, partially drunk. Okay, he checked a few No duty on returning used household goods on your way, sir, with your terribly smelly friend. He may need a doctor. He was so drunk. 

They drove him up to Turnchaple, where he had bought his new house with nothing in there, just an old camp bed, an empty wooden case of cider turned upside down for a table, and three legs milking cow stool. Steve unloaded everything into the empty garage and lifted him onto the camp bed as if he were a rag doll. Violet measured those windows for curtains, and they left him to sleep his oblivion drunkenness off. Saying plenty of water in the kitchen tap 

They lived over at Torpoint. Steve, the ex-chief engineer of submarines, was originally from London. He had met Violet when starting his naval service career at Devonport Shipyard; she was a Plymouth girl. That was where he stayed all his life. He did not take kindly to strangers and would spend six months in Spain over the winter months. Their apartment was underneath the Poet Taff, and that's how they had met up.  

They had brought him back to England a few times and helped him choose this brand-new house. He didn't want three bedrooms but thought it was a good investment to let out in the Devon holiday season. Our poet's heart was still in Spain, watching Flamenco dancing.

His new home at Tapson Drive ticked many boxes it was twenty steps to the local bus stop with terrific views from the bedroom he could write overlooking the Blue Sea of Drakes Island and Plymouth Sound her inspired views, when he was sober he had seen the vision, Steve and Vi looked after him like a Son they had never had children, Steve was a big man at seventy now could still knock people out, ever so handy in any fight, and Violet was a sweet laughing lover of life with him. All three seemed to bond when Taff sold his poems; the whole World was told, he would be partying for Days, but in Rejections he locked those windows and doors and spoke to nobody for weeks at a time Such waves were his tsunami in extreme emotions that lent to his drinking wild habits; he just could not stop the pain of rejection. It was just too much. 

The Flamenco Dancer was as hot as he was, a real Spanish wild gypsy, His poetry had captured her heart and their love, making his parts and wild parties legendary in Fuengirola. He was the young hot-blooded trainee bullfighters Pal Taff the free Pizza and free-flowing Wine, talked to them for hours.

 What was it inside that mind that made them fight a bull to stand? With a Cape and Sword in that arena of Blood Gore and ultimate death, many are killed from all that bravado. They just need one mistake to still creep over their minds: is it your turn to die today or mine? Deep thoughts on mind rage of bulls

That risk of standing your ground screams inside Young Blood's Spanish mentality of Man and Beast, where death rumbles her feet and horns lock on to the enemy wanting to kill each other. 

This madness of bravery is a symbol to Spain's traditions within a farming Community across those divided opinions and Regions

Taff, Fascination with the Young Bullfighters, Reasons and Prowess of Leading being taught all those skills in their lives to being a Matador, there were no shortcuts; it was that ultimate goal of their lives. They all had different reasons for this Sceptical Death wish 

RIP the many who died in those Spanish bullrings. The City of Malaga season is every year in the month of August.   

Taff and his lovemaking made Steve and Violet blush those sleepless nights above their heads. As did all the other apartments, they could pick up cockroaches' farts through those thin walls and floors. Steve thought it was very erotic and wished he was in his thirties again. 

Alas, when things got wild, they were throwing things out windows as all Hell Blew up in verbal abuse with so much noise in plates smashing bottles and loud furniture crashing out walking screaming. Abuse of his Flamenco dancer; they all knew the drinking would start all over again When Taff was sober, Steve persuaded him to come and do as they were doing: buy a house, stay the summer, and go back to Spain for the winter. It made sense and the Six-Month rental would offset the Mortgage Yep, all agreed, Plymouth. Was it a new life to begin his sobriety journey? So this was the result of a camp bed for now. The basics of his existence when Violet and Steve had finished. Putting those curtains up, his sobriety started to kick in, knowing he had his privacy back. They all walked down the street to Hooe Lake. The Royal Oak Pub for a lunchtime special and two bottles of Spanish red wine. Steve talked about the advantages of a good cheap Charlie meal with all the different menu choices and Daily Specials, or grocery shopping weekly bills.

It hit home; this was a good idea. He told Taff they would be away for a month looking after Violet's sister in a hospital in Bristol, so he would be on his own. Please, Taff, do try to stay sober and write your heavenly poetic words. Get your feet on firm ground, pal, to make some rules. Fix times to have a drink and stop looking like you're a lost dog. Today down for lunch, two pints or three glasses of wine, and home, then tonight at Eight on the Dot. Join in for a couple of hours and go home when the bell rings to keep you in check. The bell of closing time lets you control and bring the discipline regime into your lost poet's mind again and write it all down. Who knows, Plymouth might just make you famous, and six months later we are all back in Spain. It sounds like a winning plan; Taff agreed to give it a try. St John's Church Hill Give you Exercise 

The new carpets were all laid, and all the furniture was bought and paid for. The kitchen and his 2nd bedroom, his writing study, had such a great view to inspire him to want to write; that was the key. 

He took up his leather-bound notebook and would take it with him wherever he went, jotting down inspirational quotes to remind himself of his own poetic business that was Taff, never the first to speak out, that was that other man, Mr. Jekyll the Drunken Devil. 

He didn't want to go back there for now.

The Royal Oak regulars all took to him and respected his daily silence over his lunch specials at the pub. He would look up from time to time at those Pub characters who came into his view from all walks of life and write a few notes to capture the mood of those strangers he had conjured up impressions of their lives in his vivid imagination.  

The Royal Oak Pub landlord was Husband and Wife Team Sheila and Jeff, always pleasant and very polite, being more boisterous at night and then on Fridays and Saturdays. Two nights a week, with a live band in the bar and the food served in the lounge, the place was packed out with quality People food and menu was good value

He had been doing this regular lifestyle for a month or more, and Sheila was always more in the friendly, chatty landlady frame. Getting to know him as a friend to chat with made him feel more than welcome as a good customer 

He had no wife or girlfriends; she finds out about his world— Google flashes up acclaimed Spanish and. The USA poetry writer, sitting among the royalty rich and famous photos on a Saudi Prince Yacht at Puerto Banus Costa del Sol, Spain, That common link, as they have their own two-bedroom villa near Marbella, so that struck a home run a man of means with his penthouse in Fuengirola lots in common the Costa del Sol to chat about, they all became firm friends. 

Most of the bar's evening staff are all Sheila's friends and single; the lunch crew is married, the night crew are divorcees looking for an extra few pounds, whereas the lunch ladies are all married with kids in school and husbands working; this is their extra pocket money.

Taff's royalties were mostly six monthly payments to his Spanish bank account. Not a lot, but enough to pay all those bills and his apartment in Fuengirola. It was by sheer chance meeting the USA publisher Harvey Crawford; they both were pissed watching the Late Ivor Emmanuel RIP sing a few birthday songs where everyone joined in Harvey's mother was Welsh, so he kind of had that friendliest feeling with Welsh link and noisiness to take or leave people, as was found. Ivor Drinks on Sundays up at The Cavern Pub in the Mountain of Village of Benalmadena He's married to a lovely Filipino lady, but Sundays were that get-out of his villa and drink day, and that's how they all met up and became drinking buddies, not on regular terms. Just acknowledge they were piss heads with no control, Ivor, who was saying when the bottle emptied, he went home, leaving Taff and Harvey to buy another bottle; both would collapse or Taxi carried them home. Such a great view from the Cavern Pub Terrace

That's when Harvey awoke in Taff Penthouse, and he got caught. In his bed with his Flamenco dancer