There’s a little tale – which we admit we can’t quite nail down right now – about the plethora of cutlery that sits upon an aristocratic dinner table. It doesn’t actually matter in the slightest which knife, which fork, is used to do what – nor even that they fire their asparagus at each other from cannons. What does matter is that they know and you don’t. That makes them inside the group, you outside it and that’s the purpose of the enterprise.
Orwell maybe? Thurber?