Well, you can't help feeling that they got the wrong man for the job. Not only the wrong man, but in all likelihood also the wrong sex.
Writing's on the Wall. It is indeed. Has been for a while now. Probably ever since Blair departed for pastures prosperous. The title couldn't be more apposite. The moment the lush orchestration starts and the words come out of Jeremy's mouth, you get a sense of impending doom. Somehow you realise that sooner rather than later, it's all going to end in disaster. If you're reading this after his Brighton conference speech, it might already have done.
I'm prepared for this
I never shoot to miss
But I feel like a storm is coming
If I'm gonna make it through the day
Then there's no more use in running
This is something I gotta face
Spooky! It really is as if Sam Smith saw into the new Labour leader's soul when he came up with these lyrics.
Despite his obvious unsuitability, you have to admire Corbyn's confidence, albeit slightly misplaced, that he can make a genuine difference. The backroom hierarchy plainly aren't quite so certain. Look at Mandelson - the political equivalent of Blofeld - wriggling uncomfortably in his chair.
Publicly he's telling everyone that it's far too early to try and unseat the man they just gave an overwhelming endorsement to. Privately the duplicitous Dark Lord is screaming into his mobile: "Get me Bassey, Adele or even dear God, Sheena Easton". By which, of course, he means Yvette Cooper, Andy Burnham or Liz Kendall. The latter's rendition of It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want To being particularly heartfelt.
Surprisingly, Barbara Broccoli and Michael G. Wilson aren't screaming along with him. They should be.
Suddenly Madonna's Die Another Day is starting to sound like a work of pure genius. Meanwhile, Michael Foot is being looked back on as a practical vote winner.
NB: It's a little known fact amongst today's MPs that even towards the end of his parliamentary career, Michael could often be seen Voguing and singing down the corridors of the Palace of Westminster.
They had style, they had grace,
Gwyneth Dunwoody gave good face.
Margaret, Dorothy, Susan too
Barbara Castle, we love you
It's hard to fathom precisely what possessed Labour's rank and file to vote for Jeremy. However, it's a lot easier to understand why the aforementioned Bond producers were so keen to have Sam Smith onboard.
Along with Ed Sheeran (a definite 'no' if they wanted anyone in the audience to still be awake after the opening credits), the Boy George doppelgänger is the nation's most popular male singer. After his Grammy success earlier in the year, his fame extends globally, meaning that he was a shoo-in for the 24th instalment of a movie franchise that is one of the most successful in cinematic history with the last outing, Skyfall, taking over $1.1 billion at the worldwide box office.
The trouble is that Smith's output to date has been a collection of sad and soppy laments for boyfriends who never were and lovers who for one reason or another have shunned him. By his own admission he finds it hard to write songs from a happy place.
Therefore, what in essence he's given us is a Bond who is sitting in on a Friday evening with a tub of Haggen-Dazs patiently waiting by the phone for someone from his past to call up and take him on a date to Nando's. Finally, when no one rings, he dials the number of his GBF, Moneypenny, who comes over and they have a good old chinwag and a cry over what bastards men are.
As they dry their eyes and open another bottle of Lambrusco, the world is under threat from a crazed master criminal with his twitchy finger on the button of a nuclear arsenal that could see the destruction of millions. In a nutshell, love, it's all a little too autobiographical.
Sam's proud boast that he wrote this "masterpiece" in 20 minutes only serves to make matters worse and is a piece of musical trivia that he should have kept quiet about. When 007 spends hours making love to Russian spies, the last thing he or the great listening public want or deserve is a quick knee-trembler of a song that comes (not that there's much, if any of a climax to this composition), pulls its pants up after the deed is done and disappears into the night, leaving everyone unsatisfied and gagging for more.
What he should have said is that he sweated over it for days. OK, we might not have believed him (never mind 20 minutes, it sounds as if he took 18 of that for lunch), but we may have listened to it in more of a favourable light.
What this needs is the late and great John Barry, Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley who between them came up with Goldfinger. It is without question the most iconic and memorable Bond song of all time. Playing over Maurice Binder's celebrated titles, you know that what's to follow is going to be a treat. And you're not wrong.
Make no mistake, Writing's on the Wall will be a huge success - a monster hit, the first Bond theme to be Number 1, which it already is on iTunes and the Vodafone Big Top 40. But that won't make it any good. It's a pale, lacklustre impersonation of what's gone before. It will swiftly go the way of instantly forgettable X Factor chart toppers. Above all, it doesn't bode well for the film itself.
Spectre has had so much hype, disappointment must surely follow. At least Daniel Craig, increasingly looking every bit like James - Sid James, that is - has had a good run in the role.
The same I fear won't be true of Jeremy Corbyn, destined to be yet another one of Labour's George Lazenby's.