We should be upset that the most extravagant social event of the year has been cancelled

ARK galas can raise as much as £26m in one night. Why are we storming the Bastille?

“It was all getting to feel a little bit 1788 and all that”. So said somebody connected with the opulent ARK gala in this week’s Financial Times. In one fell swoop, a symbolic link was drawn between Louis XVI’s pre-revolution balls at the Palace of Versailles and the annual ARK charity gala – thought of as the most extravagant social event of the year – that has this year been cancelled.

Just to give you a taste of this extravagance, previous ARK galas have been hosted in Kensington Palace Gardens and London Waterloo’s former Eurostar terminal, which was decked out with mature trees to resemble a woodland grove. Guests – mostly made up of "A-Listers" and financiers – have been entertained by Madonna, Bill Clinton and Prince, while served Krug and lobster. And the auction is another thing entirely – no homemade hampers here – prizes have ranged from a private dinner with Mikhail Gorbachev and yoga with Sting to a week on a private superyacht.

All the money from the gala – which has topped £100 m over the years – is donated to ARK (Absolute Return for Kids), a charity founded by Arpad “Arki” Busson, one of the country’s most successful hedge fund managers.

So it is little wonder that such an annual ostentatious gaiety has been cancelled. Such irresponsible illustrious in an age of austerity. Displays of excess while the remainder of the country is bordering on recession, claim most of the news stories, is not a good image.

But this is ignoring the wider point, which is raising money for charity is hard enough in these times. There is a simple rule: the more extravagant the party, the more money is raised. Besides, persuading wealthy individuals to part with their cash is no easy feat, so what if it takes Krug, Clinton and Madonna to entice wallets and purses to open.

In this, the hedge funds are leading the way. Chris Hohn is one of the UK’s most generous philanthropists having donated over £800m; his Children's Investment Fund Foundation receives direct grants from his hedge fund of the same name. Two other philanthropic arms of hedge funds – Tudor Investment Corporation and Tiger Management – accounted for about £110m in 2010 according to research by the Alternative Investment Management Association.

Then there are the parties, which – as the ARK gala has shown – can raise as much as £26m in one night. So, regardless of the 1 per cent vs. austerity, these types of events are crucial for charities and, unlike 1788, there will be no storming of the Bastille.

Kate Middleton at last year's ARK gala. Photograph: Getty Images

Oliver Williams is an analyst at WealthInsight and writes for VRL Financial News

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Wrists, knees, terrible rages – I felt overwhelmed when Barry came to see me

I teach my registrars to be aware how a consultation is making them feel: that can give valuable clues to the patient’s own emotional state.

To begin with, it seemed that Barry’s wrists were the problem. He told me about the pain he was experiencing, the pins and needles that came and went in his hands. I started to examine him. His palms were calloused, his fingers thick and stubby, veterans of the heavy work he’d undertaken throughout his 57 years. Even as I assessed this first problem, he mentioned his knees. I moved on to look at those. Then it was his back. I couldn’t get to grips with one thing before he veered to the next.

I teach my registrars to be aware how a consultation is making them feel: that can give valuable clues to the patient’s own emotional state. Barry was making me feel overwhelmed, the more so as I learned that he’d been experiencing all these problems for years.

“Why are you coming to see me about them now,” I asked, “rather than six months ago – or in six months’ time?”

“I need some time off, doc.”

There was something about the way he wouldn’t meet my gaze. And again, that feeling of being overwhelmed.

“What’s going on at work?” I asked him.

His tone hardened as he told me how he’d lost his temper a couple of days earlier. How one of the others had been winding him up, and something inside him had snapped, and he’d taken a swing at his workmate and landed a punch.

Barry had walked out and hadn’t been back. I tried to find out if he’d heard from his boss about the incident, if he knew what was likely to happen next.

He told me he didn’t care.

We talked some more. I learned that he’d been uncharacteristically short-tempered for months; his partner was fed up with being shouted at. Sleep had gone to pot, and Barry had taken to drinking heavily to knock himself out at night. He was smoking twice his usual amount. Men like Barry often don’t experience depression as classic low mood and tearfulness; they become filled with rage and turn in on themselves, repelling those closest to them in the process.

Depression is a complex condition, with roots that can frequently be traced right back to childhood experiences, but bouts are often precipitated by problems with relationships, work, money, or health. In Barry’s case, the main factor turned out to be his job. He’d been an HGV driver but at the start of the year his company had lost its operator’s licence. To keep the business afloat, his boss had diversified. Barry hated what he now had to do. He was now a “catcher”.

I didn’t know what that meant. Getting up at the crack of dawn, he told me, driving to some factory farm somewhere, entering huge sheds and spending hours catching chickens, thousands upon thousands of them, shoving them into crates, stashing the crates on a lorry, working under relentless pressure to get the sheds cleared and the birds off to the next stage of the food production chain.

“It’s a young man’s game,” he told me. “It’s crippling me, all that bending and catching.”

It wasn’t really his joints, though. Men like Barry can find it hard to talk about difficult emotion, but it was there in his eyes. I had a sudden understanding: Barry, capturing bird after panicking bird, stuffing them into the transport containers, the air full of alarmed clucking and dislodged feathers. Hour after hour of it. It was traumatising him, but he couldn’t admit anything so poncey.

“I just want to get back to driving.”

That would mean landing a new job, and he doubted he would be able to do so, not at his age. He couldn’t take just any old work, either: he had to earn a decent wage to keep up with a still sizeable mortgage.

We talked about how antidepressants might improve his symptoms, and made a plan to tackle the alcohol. I signed him off to give him some respite and a chance to look for new work – the one thing that was going to resolve his depression. But in the meantime, he felt as trapped as the chickens that he cornered, day after soul-destroying day.

Phil Whitaker’s novel “Sister Sebastian’s Library” will be published by Salt in September

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt