This is a story about something that was eminently predictable. It shouldn’t be, not in the wake of Weinstein, Larry Nassar, Bill Cosby, R Kelly, and too many others to mention, but even that charlatan Nostradamus must have predicted this one*.

You can’t have expected me to have left alone the debacle that was the Presidents Club dinner at the Dorchester this week. What happens is you invite a load of blokes (male-only invites, so it must have been like Wentworth Golf Club went out for the night with the Hellfire Club), stick them in a room, get them pissed, and then open a charity auction. One of the lots might have raised your eyebrows, as it did mine. It was a voucher for breast surgery to, and I quote, ‘Spice up your wife.’ That tells you all you need to know really.

Of course what this was inevitably going to degenerate into a financial dick-swinging competition, a real, to quote Harry Enfield, ‘Look at my wad!’ I imagine you could smell the testosterone down at Marble Arch.

To keep the 360 participants eager, the Club had drafted in several hundred ‘hostesses.’ They were required to wear black dresses, and here’s the thing. Their underpinnings had to be black too. The organisers felt that matching undertogs to tops was the way to go. I can only assume they knew that some ageing captain of industry would attempt to lift a skirt at some point and be horrified at mismatched undies. Given that all the hostesses had to sign Non-Disclosure Agreements**, they were expecting some bad behaviour, and so it transpired.

Apparently, there was lots of groping, hands up skirts and down bras. At one point one of these privileged idiots slapped his penis on the table. You might not do that if you’re dining with the vicar, but it’s OK with a bunch of crapulous richkids.

One of the attendees was the Government’s minister for children and families. He’s been given a ‘dressing down’ by the Chief Whip, so that makes it all OK. Then Labour’s Lord Mendelsohn got the bum’s rush from Jezzer. That’s a bit more robust, isn’t it?

It’s difficult to know who was behaving so badly, because attendees, when questioned, all claimed to have gone home before the after party got going, and hadn’t been aware of any malfeasance. They must all have been tucked up with cocoa and an improving book by about 8:30, much to the delight of the Dorchester staff, since that meant they could clear up and clear off at a reasonable hour.

I despaired of my friends of a certain age who act like meerkats when attractive women enter the room, but they look like Trappist monks by comparison.

*I expect some follower of the old fraud is searching his babblings even as we speak. They do that.

**What happens in the Dorchester stays in the Dorchester.