Moguls who have made their dough in tabloid media are rarely uncontroversial. But you really have to rise and salute when they decide to put a little back into the entertainment ecosystem.
Which is why I dedicate this column in grateful thanks to Mr Rupert Murdoch and Mr James Packer who – selflessly and without a thought for themselves – deliver so much pleasure to so many simply by choosing to marry amusing people.
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James Packer and Mariah Carey engaged
Media mogul James Packer popped the question to Mariah Carey, presenting the singer with a 35-carat diamond ring - and she said yes.
Take Mr Murdoch, first. It takes a certain kind of mogul to preside over an empire in which the phone-stalking of Peter Andre is in any way central to the business model.
But it takes another kind to bounce back from several years of rank international ignominy by marrying Jerry Hall.
The happy pair – who pledged their troth late last year in the announcements pages of The Times – were pictured on Wednesday stepping out with Michael Caine and his wife (the redoubtable Shakira), Miss Hall's relevant finger fighting bravely to remain aloft under the weight of what The Daily Mail estimated to be a 2.4 million-pound sparkler.
That old dog! There is something ineffably romantic about spending – on your bride's engagement ring – exactly 1200 times what your newspaper 10 years earlier paid Calum Best for an exclusive account of his "nightclub sex romp" with that bride's teenage daughter. Awwww.
This is, in many ways, a love story that sparkles with drama and redemption.
One of the very earliest instances of phone-hacking at The Sun, for instance (as reported by Nick Davies in his book Hack Attack) involved a junior reporter monitoring the mobile telephone messages of Mick Jagger's PR assistant Ben Doherty, thus enabling The Sun to publish the worldwide scoop that his other half, Jerry Hall, was filing for divorce.
The divorce petition, as any half-serious gossip hound or student of family law precedent will readily recall, ended in disarray with Mick's gallant counter-claim that he was never in fact married to the mother of his four children, due to certain (imagine!) procedural imperfections in their 1990 Balinese Hindu wedding ceremony, reportedly performed in an Ubud carpenter's hut ritually cleansed by spilling the blood of a black chicken just before the big moment.
There are some big lessons there, obviously, for the global ranks of the affianced, and the poultry world appears at this stage unruffled by the prospect of the approaching Murdoch nuptials, which is probably a good thing.
But think about the broader story of redemption here. A man whose newspapers are famous for feasting off the scandalously interlocked and fascinating lives of the celebrity set will now effect a union, in public, with a woman who has been directly romantically linked with Mick Jagger, Bryan Ferry and Robert Sangster. (Indirectly, thanks to perma-priapist Mick, she is indirectly romantically linked to pretty much everything on the planet with a smile and a pulse).
It is, if nothing else, an epic piece of community service. And it even creates commercial opportunities for Murdoch's persecutors at The Guardian, a newspaper whose columnist Marina Hyde two weeks ago effortlessly took line honours for Most Hilarious Murdoch/Hall Nickname with the superb "Jerry And The Pacemaker".
There is, of course, a shrewd sinew of commercial self-interest in the whole deal for Rupert. In an environment where the principal market reservation about you is that you're 84, what better way is there to declare "I have no intention of dying" than marrying a smoking-hot six-foot supermodel a quarter of a century your junior? One could sense editorial staff at The Australian extending their mortgages, the second the announcement dropped.
Turning to James Packer for a moment, one is of course forced to acknowledge that he is no longer a media mogul in the technical sense. But his deep commitment to popular content generation is beyond compare. I don't know if I can think of any series of paparazzi biffo snaps that has provided more shouts of joy than the action shots of Mr Packer, in 2014, deep in a Dad-scrabble with his mate David Gyngell while clad in an expensive but tragically gravity-susceptible pair of silk and cashmere trackie dacks.
But those trifling capers were as nothing compared to the hillbilly-heroin rush of pleasure to be derived from any Google image search incorporating the terms "James Packer" and "Mariah Carey". Now add the term "Halloween", and tell me I'm wrong.
A romantic alliance between Australia's most restless billionaire and the pop star who hit (to my mind, anyway) peak fabulousness in 2009 when she requested 20 white kittens and 100 doves as part of her rider when launching the Christmas light display at a West London shopping centre?
It's a source of constantly self-refreshing delight, all the more rare for being completely harmless.
So congratulations on your engagements, fellas. Thanks for thinking of the little people.