Scoring an own ghoul

IF NOT exactly holiday time, it is very much holiday brochure time.

The most recent issue of our own NUJ trade publication, Journalist, has some interesting travel offers and tales, not least a report on two specialised courses for journalists travelling to war zones.

On a much lighter note, however, is an article entitled "Swimming on his grave."

This is a delightful piece of travel writing by Anna Wagstaff, describing how she and four companions journeyed to Tenerife "to celebrate the fifth anniversary of Robert Maxwell's death by retracing his final movements."

Hence, swimming on his grave.

Anna and her companions are described as "Maxwell survivors". They all fell foul (professionally) of the media mogul and Mirror boss who disappeared from his yacht, the Lady Ghislaine, while cruising in the Canaries. His body was subsequently found and formally identified, yet "faked his own death" theories remain popular in some quarters.

But I am spoiling the fun filled holiday spirit of the article.

Arriving in Tenerife, the five female adventurers first stopped at the small cove where, the day before his disappearance, Maxwell had stepped off his yacht for a quick dip in the sea: "Here we donned our swimsuits, Maxwell T shirts and masks and waded in, taking the opportunity to pose for some floating Maxwell pictures.

An excellent idea, ripe with comedy, a smile in the face of death. The article duly reproduces various photographs, complete with the five ladies wearing their "Mad Max 2" T shirts and comical Maxwell masks. One picture shows them waving gaily as a waiter holds up the Sun's front page announcing "Maxwell dead".

The five then continued their re enactment of Maxwell's final hours, visiting the hotel where he ate his last dinner, and the Cafi Olimpo, overlooking the Plaza Espanol with its memorial to Franco.

It was here that Maxwell finished his meal with a cup of coffee: "As he contemplated this scenario over his espresso, Maxwell will have known that his own dictatorial ambitions were about to come to a humiliating end. The following morning, the Swiss Bank Corporation was going to blow the whistle on his illegal transactions, bringing down his empire."

And so the fun continued. Irish readers of the article will relish what writer Anna Wagstaff herself describes as "the crowning moment". This took place "at the Claddagh Irish bar where we were invited to sing our Obituary to Maxwell song (to the tune of The Wild Rover). It was a triumph, and the resident musicians promised to add it to their repertoire and include in on their next tape. To know that it will live on, so close to the spot where Robert Maxwell met his end will indeed be sweet..."

All in all then, a delightful account, though it is a pity no "Getting There" details were provided.

I spotted only one factual error: Robert Maxwell's body could not have been found "off the small island of Las Palmas". Las Palmas is a city, the capital of the island of Gran Canaria.

But that is mere quibbling.

Dancing on the graves of people who have caused you personal grief strikes me as an excellent holiday idea, a much needed spin on the rather tired adventure holiday notion.

Accordingly, charged with enthusiasm after reading Anna's article, I rushed out to the recent "Holiday World Experience" at the RDS to put the idea to various executives and travel bosses gathered there.

You would hardly believe the reception I got. Everywhere I went I was met with looks of utter disbelief, horror and shock. Some people reacted with downright hostility, and one self styled gentleman even accused me of gross tastelessness. Another actually called me a "ghoul".

I gave one executive a copy of the Journalist article, confident it would convince him. He took a cursory glance at the report and pictures, and then excused himself, saying he needed to vomit.

In vain did I point out that Robert Maxwell was a crook, a megalomaniac, a bully and a cheat on a grand scale, who had stolen millions from pensioners. They said they were aware of all this, yet still found the notion of dancing on his grave "ghoulish in the extreme".

However bad Maxwell was, said someone else, he was not Hitler, or Ceausescu, or Franco or even Idi Amin or Emperor Bokassa or Saddam Hussein.

Well of course he wasn't. I never said he was, nor did Anna Wagstaff. Anyway, as far as I know Nicolae Ceausescu never sacked anybody - quite the opposite. Really, some people are too sensitive by half.