Foisted on us by Gough, our national anthem justifies his dismissal

It must have been tricky to pen an inspiring anthem when the only words that rhyme with Australia are regalia, genitalia and failure. But who the hell is this Gert who lives by sea?

Gold medallist Mollie O'Callaghan, right, and silver medallist Ariarne Titmus pose on the podium at the Paris Olympics as Australia’s national anthem is played. Picture: AFP

Guinness World Records reckons Happy Birthday to You is the world’s most recognised song. It is probably the most often sung as well, and in my view also qualifies as the worst song ever written.

When reluctantly turning 85, I was subjected to several well-intentioned solo and choral performances and marvelled at the dirge’s popularity. Consider the lyrics – hardly of Gershwin, Hammerstein, Porter, Berlin or Coward quality. The same words are thrice repeated with “happy birthday to (insert name here)” the only subtle variant. Talk about easy to memorise. Only the comparably repetitive God Save the King comes close – making it the second worst song in the history of the known universe. But more on the Brits’ bathetic national anthem later.

Who on Earth would want to take credit for Happy Birthday’s lamentable libretto? Believe it or not, Mildred and Patty Hill claimed they wrote it in 1893. And believe it or not, the damnable dirge is still embroiled in copyright lawsuits – with demands for royalties! While opposed to the death penalty, were they still alive I’d countenance it for the Hill sisters. (I have neither the time nor the energy to go through the legal arguments about the effing song but, to be on the safe side, if you must sing it, please do so in private as public performances might lead to litigation.)

As well as the woeful wail of this awful song, there’s the ritual of the birthday cake. Fortunately, there was no attempt to provide one for my 85th. Even in cold weather 85 candles would pose a fire risk, and lacking lung power I’d require a leaf-blower to snuff them all out. At my age the ceremonial cake is more like a funeral pyre.

But back to the other dirge. Though a Republican, I’ve always felt pity for the incumbent monarch who pays a heavy price for being sent happy and glorious, long to reign over us, by the world’s second worst song. No British king or queen can go a hundred yards without being forced to endure yet another rendition, often by a full brass band. Talking of royalties, I hope the royals are paid for this most jingoistic and jangling of jingles. Think of poor Elizabeth II. How many thousands of God Save My Gracious Me’s did she to have to endure while we subjects stood to attention?

Give me La Marseillaise anytime. We’ve heard the French national anthem a lot during the Paris Olympics – and each time I’m ready to formez battalions and stormez le Bastille.

And then there’s Advance Australia Fair, the anthem foisted upon us by Gough, which fully justified his Dismissal. (It was HM’s way of punishing us. Thank you, music critic John Kerr.) Admittedly, it’s tricky to pen an inspiring anthem when the only words that rhyme with Australia are dahlia, regalia, genitalia and failure. But who the hell is this Gert who lives by the beach? When up for debate in the Whitlam years, the popular choice for our new national anthem wasn’t Gert but a girl named Matilda. Gough refused her invitation to waltz, though, and vetoed our unofficial anthem because he felt it would be insufficiently dignified for formal occasions. Like state funerals. Not sufficiently solemn for Gough’s sake? When it’s a song about a suicidal swaggie?