Ridiculous, witless name? Check. Red trousers? Check. Likely to be running the country one day? Check

Name: The Banter Squadron.

Age: Unknown.

Appearance: Secretive. But probably not too hard to spot.

The Banter Squadron? The Banter Squadron? That sounds like something a heinous bunch of pricks would call themselves. Go on.

Maybe it's just me, but it conjures up a vision of a small gang of arrogant, self-regarding young – I'm going to go out on a limb here and say men – swanning around, stinking up the place with an air of smug overprivilege and entitlement while drinking and making each other laugh with non-witticisms they mistakenly regard as banter. And where might this place be?

If I had to guess, I'd say Oxbridge. Or, if there's a difference, Westminster. Well done. They're an "elite" secret drinking society in Oxford. They're also known as the Red Trouser Brigade.

And the hits just keep on coming. Why are we giving them newspaper and brain space? Because the president of the Oxford Union tried to secure union funds in order to sue a student newspaper after it outed him as a member.

Oxford toff gets narked by Oxford thing being talked about by other Oxford thing at Oxford. Why do I care? Perhaps because it gives us a window on to the formative years of so many of the people who have governed and who are currently governing our lives.

Like who? Recent former presidents of the Union include Michael Heseltine, William Hague, Damian Green, Michael Gove, Boris Johnson … I could go on.

Please don't. Former members of elite drinking societies include – in the Bullingdon Club alone – John Profumo, Alan Clark, David Cameron, George Osborne, Jo and Boris Johnson … I could, again, go on.

Please, again, don't. It's terrifying. Terrifying to realise from what a small pool our politicians are drawn from, or terrifying to realise what kind of forces, activities and tastes shaped them in their youth?

Both. It makes me think of a nest of baby eels slithering over and over each other … And eventually knotting themselves into a slimy, glutinous, inextricable mass?

Yes. If eels could wear red trousers and burn £50 notes in front of homeless people, I think you'd have it in one.

Do say: "Up the revolution!"

Don't say: "Tony Benn, Philip Toynbee and Paul and Michael Foot were Union presidents too, you revisionist commie bastards!"