Island dreams

It was quite possibly the first of its kind: a destination funeral. Martin Dankworth, Marty to his friends (and everyone was a friend to Marty), had planned it years ago.

"This is where I want to spend eternity, Lily."

"You don't speak Greek, Marty."

"I don't mean live here, darling. I want to be buried here."

"Ew! You can't be buried in sand, Marty."

"Lily, I'm sure there's a cemetery somewhere here in paradise. But I want my funeral right here at Paraga," he said gesturing towards the beach.

Lily looked around. "Marty, it's a beach. A nude beach. People wear clothes to funerals." She paused then added, "Black clothes."

"Not to my funeral."

Within hours of his death, his widow, Lily, had sent out all the digital invitations Marty had designed himself after that first visit to Mykonos, Greece:

And so the end has finally come

Grim death it seems at last has won Grieve not dear friend, for I'm not sad

A party in my name shall be had

Come wine and dine and bask in the sun

Drink champagne till the day is done

The only thing I ask of you

Is to party in your birthday suit.

And so it was that three days after Marty's passing, a chartered plane flew 200 of his closest friends to Athens and then a fleet of yachts bore them to Mykonos...

Where they partied on the beach in all their gravitationally challenged glory, and toasted the memory of their dear friend Marty who lay stuffed and buff in his glass coffin, the shining centerpiece.