I have a confession to make. I was there. At the Presidents Club fundraiser at The Dorchester. Don’t judge me. I didn’t want to be there. One never does. That’s the thing about being a relatively well-off, middle-aged, white bloke. You just end up there, despite yourself. You were there, too, weren’t you?

You were invited in the grim, freezing weeks before Christmas. The big stiff white card hit the doormat with a thud and you tore it open and at first thought, “Ooh, a party!”

The cover of the programme given out for the Presidents Club fundraiser

But then, reading the details, you thought: “Oh, ‘men only’.” Loads of boring old financial windbags getting plastered, crap cabaret, indigestible wedding food, thin, sour claret, endless speeches, some awful auction with rich men showing off to each other