More than 25 years ago, I was a very junior lecturer in Cambridge -- and I had been put onto a rather grand (but in truth not very important) University Committee.
Let me reassure you, such committes are not like that now (or have I just got older?).
I remember vividly walking into this suitably grand room at the appointed hour, and the chair (the then vice-chancellor) asking "who are you?". It came across more preemptorily and rudely than it was probably meant, but it did not exactly put me at my ease. (Imposter syndrome is sometimes real.)
Apart from that, I really remember only one thing about the proceedings. The point of the meeting was to choose some eminent person for a more-or-less sinecure at the uni. As we narrowed it down, one very senior member (and cleric) remarked of one of the leading candidates for this sinecure, who happened to be another very senior cleric indeed, "he's quite the wittiest man in England". (I am not going to say who either of these gents were; but they are both dead.)
I still recall wanting to say, "well mate, come down The Granta (local pub) of a Friday evening and I bet I can show you some rivals". I think now that I would have nerved myself to say that. But, of course. back then I didn't (and, after the "Who are you?" greeting, I'm not surprised). I did however go home and reflect more broadly on the totalising vision of the British elite. Isn't it extraordinary how they equate those people they know with "the country" (here defined as "England ... not sure if I am pleased about that).
I guess it is partly what Grayson Perry is talking about in his New Statesman edit, about the "great white male".