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

Qusai Al Shidi/Flickr
Show Hide image

I can’t follow Marie Kondo's advice – even an empty Wotsits packet “sparks joy” in me

I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

I have been brooding lately on the Japanese tidying freak Marie Kondo. (I forgot her name so I typed “Japanese tidying freak” into Google, and it was a great help.) The “Japanese” bit is excusable in this context, and explains a bit, as I gather Japan is more on the case with the whole “being tidy” thing than Britain, but still.

Apart from telling us that we need to take an enormous amount of care, to the point where we perform origami when we fold our underpants, which is pretty much where she lost me, she advises us to throw away anything that does not, when you hold it, “spark joy”. Perhaps I have too much joy in my life. I thought I’d give her loopy, OCD theories a go, but when I held up an empty Wotsits bag I was suffused with so many happy memories of the time we’d spent together that I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

After a while I gave up on this because I was getting a bit too happy with all the memories, so then I thought to myself, about her: “This is someone who isn’t getting laid enough,” and then I decided that was a crude and ungallant thought, and besides, who am I to wag the finger? At least if she invites someone to her bedroom no one is going to run screaming from it, as they would if I invited anyone to my boudoir. (Etym: from the French “bouder”, to sulk. How very apt in my case.) Marie Kondo – should bizarre circumstance ever conspire to bring her to the threshold – would run screaming from the Hovel before she’d even alighted the stairs from the front door.

I contemplate my bedroom. As I write, the cleaning lady is in it. To say that I have to spend half an hour cleaning out empty Wotsits packets, and indeed wotnot, before I let her in there should give you some idea of how shameful it has got. And even then I have to pay her to do so.

A girlfriend who used to be referred to often in these pages, though I think the term should be a rather less flippant one than “girlfriend”, managed to get round my natural messiness problem by inventing a game called “keep or chuck”.

She even made up a theme song for it, to the tune from the old Spiderman TV show. She would show me some object, which was not really rubbish, but usually a book (it may not surprise you to learn that it is the piles of books that cause most of the clutter here), and say, “Keep or chuck?” in the manner of a high-speed game show host. At one point I vacillated and so she then pointed at herself and said, “Keep or chuck?” I got the message.

These days the chances of a woman getting into the bedroom are remote. For one thing, you can’t just walk down the street and whistle for one much as one would hail a cab, although my daughter is often baffled by my ability to attract females, and suspects I have some kind of “mind ray”. Well, if I ever did it’s on the blink now, and not only that – right now, I’m not even particularly bothered that it’s on the blink. Because, for another thing, I would frankly not care to inflict myself upon anyone else at the moment.

It was all a bit of a giggle eight years ago, when I was wheeled out of the family home and left to my own devices. Of course, when I say “a bit of a giggle”, I mean “terrifying and miserable”, but I had rather fewer miles on the clock than I do now, and a man can, I think, get away with a little bit more scampish behaviour, and entertain a few more illusions about the future and his own plausibility as a character, when he is squarely in his mid-forties than when he is approaching, at speed, his middle fifties.

Death has rather a lot to do with it, I suppose. I had not actually seen, or touched, a dead body until I saw, and touched, my own father’s a few weeks ago. That’s what turns an abstract into a concrete reality. You finally put that to one side and gird up your loins – and then bloody David Bowie snuffs it, and you find yourself watching the videos for “Blackstar” and “Lazarus” over and over again, and reach the inescapable conclusion that death is not only incredibly unpleasant, it is also remorseless and very much nearer than you think.

And would you, dear reader, want to be involved with anyone who kept thinking along those lines? I mean, even if he learned how to fold his undercrackers into an upright cylinder, like a napkin at a fancy restaurant, before putting them in his drawer? When he doesn’t even have a drawer?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 05 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's war