You've got to be chuffed for David Bowie, haven't you?

The singer has just nabbed his first top-selling album in two decades.

Not only that, but The Next Day is the fastest-selling album of the year. It might only be March and the next highest selling album was by Biffy Clyro (sorry, I’m over 40, I’ve never heard of them/her/him).

But to give Biffy a biffing (Dave sold 94,000 copies last week, 20,000-plus more than them/her/him) is no mean feat.

Not only that, but the former Ziggy Stardust is also the subject of the fastest-ever selling show at the Victoria and Albert Museum.

Which is either (a) a ringing endorsement of the Bowie legend; or is (b) a sad reflection on some of the shows the museum has put on in the past.

Either way, Bowie mania is back. For a bit, at least. And to the millions of fans who cherish those classic recordings from the 1970s, that has got to be a good thing.

We live in an era of uncertainty, upheaval and insecurity and musical nostalgia, linked to the back catalogue of an androgynous rebel-rebel, acts as a unifying comfort blanket.

It’s probably not what Bowie, in his heyday, intended – that Life on Mars, Diamond Dogs and John, I’m Only Dancing – would act like a warming mug of Ovaltine to soothe his fans in their golden years.

But I suspect the young, strutting star would have enjoyed the irony. It would probably make a good topic for a song.

So there is unqualified cheer that Bowie is again enjoying a surge in popularity, if popularity is indeed to be measured in unit sales of thin optical discs and museum ticket revenues in south Kensington.

This is all well and good. The question, however, is not one of goodness, or happiness. Our joy at Bowie’s fourth, fifth or whatever “coming” it is, is irrelevant.

The question, rather, is one of right and wrong.

Put simply: is it right that a 66-year-old man – albeit one who formerly bestrode the music industry – should be at the top of the hit parade in 2013?

And, more worryingly, what does this tell us about the state of modern pop music?

I am trying to imagine how I would have felt when I was 17 had I learned that the coveted No 1 album position had been taken by a pensioner, by someone who was – yes! – older than my dad.

I like to think I would have done what any self-respecting sixth-former would have done in 1984: namely, rounded up my mates, purchased several cans of Carlsberg Special Brew, a bottle of Cinzano, maybe some Scampi Fries, and retired to the nearest park bench to discuss the parlous state of the charts.

If we were feeling particularly avant-garde, we may have taken along a tape recorder on which to play a mix tape featuring Visage’s Fade to Grey, Ghosts by Japan and The Buggles’ Video Killed the Radio Star. There might have been a Bowie track on there, too.

Having an old codger at No 1 wouldn’t have been tolerated. The only oldies (i.e people over 30) who got to the top of the charts were either dead (Elvis, John Lennon), members of The Beatles who weren’t dead, or old people performing novelty Christmas songs, like Bing Crosby, although he might have been dead as well come to think of it. And didn’t Bing do that song with Bowie, Little Drummer Boy? 

The signs were all there, weren’t they? If only we had taken notice. This grand return at the age of 66 was part of Bowie’s masterplan all along.

Of course, it is not Bowie’s fault that his (very) late career output retains such commercial pulling power. It is the fault of the talent-spotters, the A&R flunkies and the sterile, risk-averse record label bosses who are all looking for the next bland Justin Bieber.

A 12-year-old Danish kid, Benjamin Lasnier, has just been signed by Sony on the grounds that he looks like Bieber.

There is no evidence to suggest young Benny Bieber-lite can actually sing, but he is on his way to getting a million followers on Instagram and that kind of “buzz” is good enough for the music business.

As long as Benny doesn’t overdo the blue Smarties, like his famous look-alike did on a recent tour of England, then it’s only a matter of time before a child who looks like a child star – and, err, that’s it – bags a No 1 slot in the charts.

Sure, there has always been ridiculous hype and over-promotion of new acts. Who can forget the great big-haired, not-really-very-menacing Sigue Sigue Sputnik of Love Missile F1-11 fame?

Everyone knew they were crap. The video to Love Missile finished with the out-take sample: “Soon the whole world will know my name.” Soon, the whole world didn’t. It was a brilliant conceit.

We all knew the Sigue Sigues were in it purely to make as much money as possible and the best part of it was that they probably didn’t.

But there was humour there. There was pop panache. Were they silly? Yes. Did they dress like big girls’ blouses? Yes. But were they bland? Never. 

Sigue Sigue Sputnik would never have spawned a Danish look-alike band.

If you want to reacquaint yourself with the banality of today’s pop charts you have to look no further than the Brits last month.

The winners included banjo slappers Mumford & Sons, Ben Howard (no idea), Tom Odell (no, again) and Coldplay, all of whom should be thoroughly acceptable to me, as a 45-year-old dad, because they are triumphantly inoffensive, harmonic, worthy and dull. And that is so wrong.

Record companies should not be promoting acts that appeal across the generations. They should not be fast-tracking groups that appeal to the nutters on ITV’s Loose Women.

They should be backing bands that get right up parents’ noses and make adults say things like “Disgusting!” and “What a racket!” and “Ruddy nonsense!” not: “Oh, yes, I love a bit of the Mumfords when I’m cooking the Sunday joint.”

Music today has become a god-awful small affair to the girl with the mousey hair. And I want none of it.