Who was the true legend at this year's Glastonbury? As we now know, it wasn't the veteran grey-haired septuagenarian musical genius with an estimated multi-million pound fortune equal to his age and homes spread across the world; among them a decently sized 16,341 square foot bolthole in Miami and a Buckinghamshire mansion set in 90 acres of glorious English countryside, on which could potentially be built quite a lot of much needed social housing if only it were to be used for such an accommodating and public-spirited purpose. Known for his distinctive falsetto voice and a string of hits to his name stretching back decades, it was he the column inches should have been devoted to
Yet the legend in question, the one all the newspapers were writing about, turned out not to be Bazza as in Barry Gibb, but Jezza as in Jeremy Corbyn, the political genius with, ahem, two A- levels, both grade E, to his name.
Forget Stayin' Alive. A few short months ago, his aspirations along with his party's hopes of achieving anything more than complete electoral wipeout were practically dead and buried. Barely comatose, if you were being kind. "Ah, ha, ha, ha, barely comatose, barely comatose. Ah, ha, ha, ha, barely comatose".
However, at the weekend just gone, there he was: Labour's very own Lazarus on the Pyramid Stage acknowledging the crowds in front of him as they cheered his name. A rock star welcome for the man many previously saw as having all the charismatic appeal of a lesser known folk singer. And by his side, in a rather touching display of familial support, the twin brother (oh alright, it was Michael Eavis) he couldn't stop praising, even handing him a copy of the manifesto that's become his own version of Mao's little red book. In the naffness stakes, this was like Ed Sheeran giving Worthy Farm's owner a copy of Divide, his latest album, and saying: "I've signed it for you, Michael".
Of course, none of this is how it was meant to be, although perish the thought we'd have had to witness Theresa May struggling to introduce Run the Jewels had the election brought forth a reversal of fortune. If there's two worlds which should never collide, it's music and politics. Who could forget the cringeworthy embarrassment of (Un)Cool Britannia all those years ago when Tony Blair invited various chart toppers to that Number 10 reception?
Instead of bragging that in six months' he'll be Prime Minister (slightly less than that if I'm a betting man) Jeremy Corbyn should by all rights have quickly vanished from view, licking his wounds after being stabbed in the back from the few remaining colleagues who once professed their support and hadn't already knifed him in the front.
Having been dealt a devastating blow by the voters, the PLP would by now be desperately trying to persuade Chuka Umunna or preferably, David Miliband to step up to the plate and do their duty. If the Miliband Bothers are the political equivalent of the Gallagher's, I continually fail to work out which is Noel and which is Liam. Somehow I peg David as Liam - bitter, twisted, resentful, still revengeful.
Not that it matters much, this generation's sanitised Che Guevara is firmly in place and it's unlikely he's going anywhere anytime soon. And maybe that's Ok. More than Ok, actually. For all his faults and failings, perhaps the last thing we require right now is a politician's politician. In fact, could it be that what we really desire is the public's politician? To coin a trite phrase, do we dear God want the people's politician? I'm unsure we're quite prepared for the touchy feely connotations of that. After all, we're supposed to be British, aren't we? Stiff of upper lip and reluctant to show our emotions.
But like it it not, here's the indisputable truth. Britain isn't the country it once was. We're no longer the brash, money obsessed, success at all costs wannabes the last few administrations turned us into. Greed is no longer good, much less vaguely desirable.
Something has changed within us. Whether it's the challenging circumstances we presently find ourselves facing or the uncertain future that lies ahead of us, we're suddenly out of step with our brash and and callous transatlantic cousins.
Ironically, as we're about to leave Europe, we're almost becoming increasingly European in how we view our fellow citizens. As a nation state, if we're not careful, we'll fast be in danger of ending up a more caring, more considerate and more compassionate group of people.
It's difficult to say whether these feelings will last - we're also a pretty fickle bunch. As long as they do though, we might well have Jeremy Corbyn to blame for them. Or should that be thank?