And the band murdered Waltzing Matilda

I feel gypped. I may have no right to feel gypped, but I do. And while to err may well be human, to whinge about the cock-ups is even more bloody human.

I walked to my local Anzac Day dawn service this morning. The sun rose in a chill, grey sky, showing about 500 people standing around a clock crowned with a stone angel. It started to drizzle as we waited. Twenty-five minutes late, a piper struck up a lament, leading in the marchers from the nearby RSL Club. Between the piper and the old soldiers were the members of the historical re-enactment regiment. For some reason, they wear what appear to be 19th century British Army uniforms that come complete with natty little white helmets and navy jackets and a captain with an Amish-style moustacheless beard. At least they did better this year in the marching stakes, because they all managed to turn the same way at the same time.

The young man with the crew cut who was leading the service could have been a Salvation Army officer or a military chaplain, but he didn't introduce himself, so I haven't a clue. He invited everyone to look at their programs and sing "the first hymn" while Kylie struck up a tune on the Hammond Home Organ. Sadly, all we could hear was the chaplain's reedy tenor because someone had neglected to hand out said programs.

Next the piper had a go at Black Bear, which everyone knows is useless without drums. He hit enough bum notes to put my teeth on edge. Kylie had a crack at Abide With Me, which luckily most people did seem to know without the aid of the apocryphal cheat sheets.

The wreaths were laid, the Lord's Prayer was muttered and the national anthem (first verse only) was droned. The historical fellows fired off a 21-gun salute that startled half the audience and all of the dogs and sent every pigeon within cooee into the air.

But the worst was yet to come.

The Last Post.

One of the historical blokes stepped away from his fellows and took out his bugle and I realised with a sinking heart that it was the same guy who had "played" last year. I hoped he had spent every waking hour practicing and was about to do himself and his country proud.

But no. He still sounded like a retarded four-year-old blowing through a crushed toilet roll.

If anything, it was even worse than last year. At the moment when I should have been solemnly contemplating the fallen, the Anzac spirit, mateship and the futility of war, I found myself biting my lips and trying not to laugh aloud. I think I may have cracked a rib with the effort.

When the service drew to a merciful close, about half the people clapped, which I thought was rather inappropriate. Do you clap at a funeral? But perhaps it was an indication of what people really think of Anzac Day now - that it's a way of being wrapped in the flag and entertained while feeling virtuous for getting up early. Or perhaps they were just relieved to be getting away from the disgraceful bugler, the off-key piper and Kylie and her organ.

I stomped home along the seafront, feeling cheated of my moment of solemnity and thinking that I might as well have stayed in bed. I kept pace with an Air Force officer striding down the other side of the road and vowed to choose another service next year. I wouldn't have minded anything else, but there is no excuse for slaughtering The Last Post.

But at least my attendance at the dawn service was carbon neutral. Self-satisfied eco-halo for me. Well, it was until I got home and fired up the toaster. Apparently you can have carbon neutral weddings, carbon neutral festivals and carbon neutral presidential campaigns these days, but no-one seems to have any hints on making carbon neutral toast and Vegemite.