Nigella and the high-Tory scandal. She is a ex-Chancellor’s daughter; her ex-husband Charles Saatchi, whose advertising agency got Thatcher elected. His major art collection; her public cooking, done as music-hall burlesque and sexual innuendo. Beauty and the Beast. The Domestic Goddess. The pointlessness of acquisition. A secretive husband who uses litigation as a form of conversation. Paparazzi photographed him appearing to strangle her while sitting on a restaurant terrace (so he could smoke), on the occasion of his seventieth birthday. A quickie divorce, then the bizarre court case brought against former employees which became an excuse to air major marital laundry. Shrivelled souls. Stashes of cash on the fridge. Money as addiction. PAs on apparent uncontrolled spending sprees (acquitted). Allegations of a dope habit (hers). A room full of silver that cost £9,300 to clean. Money beyond most people’s dreams – life as a one domestic balls-up after another. For all the semblance of good taste, the financial vulgarity makes the golden couple look like low-rent lottery winners. He likes to repeat: twelve copies of the same Paul Smith suit. Pills. Depression. A secret box. Taxis on standby. Schadenfreude big-time. Weak tea and burnt toast. Newspapers respond to the digital revolution by pretending we are living in the 19th century. This scandal feels 130 years out of date.