THE comrades chanted “Jez we did”. Some even began singing the Red Flag as the bearded wonder romped home even more emphatically than T Blair did.

With Tom Watson securing the deputy’s crown, the Tom and Jerry Show had been born.

Arriving at the QEII Centre opposite the House of Commons was like going back in time with Socialist Workers activists leafletting anyone they could stop. Red T-shirts abounded. One bore the slogan “I’m not a moron; I’m in the majority”.

Inside the auditorium, the expectancy of a Corbyn victory could be cut with a knife. “It’s in the bag, darling,” quipped one London leftie.

At one point alarm bells sounded. Oh dear. But it was only a fire drill. Prophetic perhaps.

As a warm-up, we were entertained to a video of the campaign with cheers from different sections of the audience when their candidate beamed at the cameras. Interestingly, the only one who prompted boos was Jezza.

After a few words from Iain McNicol, the party’s General Secretary, talking about Labour’s journey, it was time for the contenders to walk out. Of course, all of them knew the result but had been sworn to secrecy. Yet the rumour running around the comradely congregation was that Mr C had won it handsomely with a 60 per cent vote.

Andy Burnham, at one time the favourite, walked behind his colleagues and his face could not belie the fact that he had lost. He looked crestfallen with an apologetic expression etched across his face.

After the hors d’oeuvres of the deputy leadership race, won comfortably by Mr W, the main course arrived.

As the numbers and percentages of the other candidates began to flash up on screen, it soon became clear that Mr C was on course for a thumping victory. Whooping turned into cheering and clapping. And when the number for old Jezza came up – 251,417 – the roof was raised.

Amid the applause the London leftie duly arrived at the podium, sporting the Syriza tieless look.

Magnanimous, he praised his rivals and even his predecessor. He was critical of the media or parts of it for targeting members of his family, which prompted an impassioned plea to the tabloids to “leave them alone!”.

His speech was full of sentiment – Labour was a “party organically linked together”, we are “one world” – and hit the right buttons for his leftward constituency, moving from inclusiveness, democracy, and compassion to fighting poverty, inequality and injustice.

He made clear his first act would be to attend a pro-refugee rally in central London.

By the end of his acceptance speech the leader of the “Trotskyite tribute act”, as Jon Cruddas put it, was swallowed up in a sea of photographers as he waved to his adoring fans.

Perhaps we got a taste of what is to come when, rumour had it, Mr C would forego the usual conventional nicety of appearing on Sunday’s Andrew Marr Show. There was even talk of the Leader of the Opposition not bothering to do PMQs.

As the faithful crowds outside the QEII waited and waited to welcome their new hero, the minutes, and indeed, hours went by until someone had the courtesy to tell the waiting horde that Elvis had left the building by the back door. Was that elderly gentleman bicycling off down a side street the new leader of the Labour Party?

As the media circus continued to analyse what it all meant one senior Labour figure rolled out the expected lines of unity is strength, traditional Labour values and the real enemy is the Tories.

Seconds later, out of earshot of the cameras, he was quietly asked what he really thought about the Corbyn victory. He whispered: “We're f*****.”