When talking about the disgustingly loaded, it’s hard to avoid the fact that, at some point, opulence strays into the realms of the pathological. Take Kashmir and Tim, one couple who feature on How The Rich Get Hitched (Tuesday, 10pm, Channel 4), a nicely frivolous documentary looking at the weddings of the wealthy. Or, to be more specific, the dresses they buy at Caroline Castigliano’s bespoke bridal shop. Tim and Kashmir took two years off work to wed. This might seem excessive, but when you factor in the three ceremonies over several continents, you’ll see that extravagances such as this are just a cog of necessity in the super-rich machine. “Tim loved me in yellow diamonds,” Kashmir says as she sits for her portrait in the £12,000 dress she was married in, “so we had this magical experience where he was flying in yellow diamonds, diamond dealers and jewellery designers from all over the world.” Kashmir seems like a sweet bird, but I’m not convinced anyone needs that much love lavished on them.
Usually during programmes like these, the stiff, left-footed waltz the documentary makers dance with the rich in order to get them to admit that their wealth is a bit obscene becomes pretty tiring. For this reason, Cheryl, mother of bride Katie – whose dress cost five seamstresses 200 hours and her £9,000 – is a delight. “If you want me to say it’s value for money it’ll be like pulling teeth,” she says, “because I am embarrassed.” I love Cheryl for being able to hold the contradictory views of “I could cry with joy that my child is entering into a union of tenderness and companionship” and “nine bloody grand?!?!” with such ease. Being rich is nothing to be ashamed of, but let’s not pretend it’s conducive to a life of rational choices.
As someone who doesn’t give a toss about weddings, it’s always interesting to see otherwise reasonable women regress to a bridal fantasy that translates roughly into them flapping their hands at their sides and bleating, “Mummy I’m a pwincess!” Having an emotional prolapse over table plans, flowers or 50 quid’s-worth of diamante table sparkles strikes me as no more or less stupid than spending £40k on a wedding dress, as some of Caroline’s clients do. The fun thing about seeing childhood fantasies playing out is that it opens a pretty interesting window into people’s interior worlds: seeing exactly what shape a person’s inner princess takes can be very telling. At the unveiling of Kashmir’s portrait, reported to have cost £75,000, tears flow as freely as the conspicuously placed champers. “That’s you, baby,” Tim gushes. “It’s the most incredible work of art I’ve ever seen,” sobs Kashmir. “Better than the Mona Lisa.”
Programmes like these proliferate because they bring wealth out of abstraction and exhibit it in the form of actual things. Often, as some really ugly jewellery. “This is where diamonds get sexy,” says Caroline’s diamond pedlar as he fingers a gaudy, multi-toned princess-cut necklace. The price? “Half a million pounds,” he says, transporting something that briefly facilitated a collective grasp of abundant wealth right back into the surreal again.
From extreme inanity to face-clawing horror next in Breaking Into Britain: The Lorry Jumpers (Monday, 10pm, Channel 4). Unsurprisingly, the trials faced by refugees in Calais aren’t heavy on the LOLs, and this doc by Leo Maguire (who was behind the excellent Dogging Tales) isn’t an easy watch. It is, though, a necessary one. “Why would you not go to the UK?” says a young refugee called Ozzy, after praising the safety and opportunities the country offers. “It’s called GREAT Britain.” Ukip merchants would do well to remember that Britain was just a chunk of rock until prehistoric migrants schlepped over here. The only Brits who can truly call themselves indigenous are a few species of lichen and one or two shrubs. Not even very exciting shrubs. If being a haven for the persecuted is at the core of our national identity – as I believe it is – maybe it’s time to ditch the self-conscious fairy-cake-and-bunting-street parties and embrace that instead.
