A soap opera on the nation's stage

Adam Smith was, of course, right when he declared in The Wealth of Nations that: "The chief enjoyment of riches consisted in the parade of riches."

It is why we were all gagging to be at David and Victoria Beckham's white-tie and diamonds party last night. Even just to see what 60,000 orchids looked like under one roof, or to watch Victoria parading her rocks in front of the other footballers' wives at the most lavish celebrity event since, well, since Posh and Becks's own wedding.

But coveting an invitation to the Beckingham Palace bash (£10,000 worth of oriental cards tied with strands of Japanese grass, if you must ask) was more than simply a case of wanting a good gawk. It marked a particular celebrity moment.

So sought after are Mr and Mrs Beckham of Hertfordshire that Hello! and OK magazines, for the first time, put aside their rivalry and photographed the event together, to avoid a stratospheric bidding war.

A new level of celebrity was achieved by the Beckhams as they fused the boundaries of music, sport, fashion, even royalty of a sort (remember those thrones at their wedding) to become über-celebrities, part of a tiny band of single-name celebrities like Madonna, Gwyneth and Nicole.

What is even more remarkable about Posh and Becks is that they have transcended definition by class. They can no longer be defined by their origins, their accents or any of the usual markers.

Their lives have become a soap opera on the nation's stage. No one else's foot injury could interrupt a Cabinet meeting discussion during the Middle East crisis. But then no one other than Beckham would get away with turning up at No 10 in nail varnish and bed-head hair and still steal the show, making the Prime Minister seem as if he was posing with Beckham rather than the other way round.

Recently, when Prince Charles was planning a charity gala, he asked how they could get Posh to attend. It takes the heir to the throne to know who outshines him. So it was no wonder that some folk thought it value for money to splash out £30,000 for a table of 10 to sup with the Beckhams. Their standing is a sign of how society has changed, how in tune we have become with Hollywood-style glamour, and how Americanised we have become. David and Victoria are the British equivalent of the American Dream, becoming the richest, most famous couple in the land through their talent, luck and looks. They are models of consumer spending, icons of fashion, adulatory figures for 10- to 99-year-olds and that makes them a pretty classy act as well as beyond class. So of course we all want to be at their fantasy party.

Well, almost all of us. There have been the predictable snipers and carpers, the snobs who cannot resist calling them tacky and terrible.

Tasteless. Extravagant. Empty-headed. Vulgar. That is what they say. Yet to do so is to miss the point of money, success and dreams. They have done what the nouveau riche always do best. By spending what they like, they have made the old establishment, with their diminishing inherited money and their reluctance to shed out the readies on having fun, seem dusty, fusty, stingy and unjoyous. Why not spend £40, 000 on lanterns if you want to?

It also misses the point of life today, in which society is so vibrantly mixed and varied. It is why, as editor of Tatler, I have to change and adapt to maintain the magazine as the social barometer of society, of what is cool, desirable, interesting and happening. Of course, Posh has been on our cover. We saw the point of her way back and have continued to follow her course, even more so since she married David. As the magazine with the richest and most aspirational readers in Europe we see nothing wrong in celebrating those who know how to spend, spend, spend, particulalrly when it is for other people's benefit and pleasure. Lucky old NSPCC, I say, for tying their fortunes to the golden couple. Spending, after all, according to The Economist, is precisely what has kept our economy buoyant for so long.

In his autobiography, Charlie Chaplin famously issued one wealth-health warning: "The saddest thing I can imagine is to get used to luxury." But then, maybe the Beckhams should not lose too much sleep over what he said.

Chaplin, after all, may have been joking.

Society has moved on since the late Lord Charteris, the Queen's Private Secretary, denounced Fergie as "vulgar, vulgar, vulgar". His remarks now sound simply ill-mannered, illadvised and ill-informed. He did, after all, apologise to Fergie and the Queen. It was churlish to see someone as inferior because they were young, exuberant, outspoken and at times over the top. The Beckhams are unabashed at being seen and heard to have a good time. And why shouldn't they be? He does pull in £100, 000 a week.

Their hospitality reminds me of a Gatsby-style party in the Hamptons in the 1990s given by David Koch, the steel billionheir, where guests were offered a choice of five different vintage champagnes as they arrived. Or indeed Malcolm Forbes's Moroccan party where private jets were as plentiful as taxis in the West End. It brought a gaiety to everyone's life.

Fergie once whispered "clock the rocks" to Princess Diana at another bejewelled affair and, of course, she expressed exactly the pleasure in being voyeurs of big spenders where there are no rules or limitations. So please, will someone tell me who went to the party if it was true that the nanny looking after Brooklyn on his own private bouncy castle was also kitted out in white tie and diamonds.

It was, after all, that sort of party.