Hi there, cobbers, you're looking great!
We're gonna wrap it to the story of 88.
It's 200 years since the first white lousy swam botany bay and got sand in his coddy.
It all began when little Jimmy Cook came cruising over here to give the place a look.
He said, Bex, my man, I got fruit, I got melons.
It's the perfect place to transport the villains.
Two, two, two.
Where?
To the great Southland, they set the first fleet and a rough a bunch of dudes you'd never want to meet.
They were sent for life, wearing nothing but pyjamas, but nice captain Tullot made a couple of them farmers.
John MacArthur, keen on shit.
Ol' James Bruce, rust-proof wint.
Caroline Chisholm had a little pet goat.
You can see it in the corner at the five dollar note.
Australia's Suns, let us rejoice.
In Sydney, however, boothin' paramounter.
The grass's getting greener and the sheep are getting fatter.
Things were looking good, killer rum rebelling.
Hey, there's a mini series we could use, John Millian.
Whole swing advice and exploration.
That's the way we expand the nation.
There was Lasseter, Flinders, every kind of jerk.
Most came back, shame about Burke.
Then gold was the rage and everybody dug it.
You could be a big knob if you found yourself a nugget,
but you covered up your nuggets when you saw Ned Kelly wore a stovepipe hat cause he had a pot belly.
Mr. Henry Parkes got irritated.
He said, Come on you steeds, get federated.
Build a capital city, yeah, Coomba Pass.
Sorry, Billy Griffin, gonna freeze your...
Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh.
Kitchener invited us to World War I. Billy Hughes said,
See you there, bring your own gun.
Said the dada now says the place you ought to be.
So he shoveled all the diggers off to Gallipoli.
And Zack.
Cows, that is.
Planning of Australia, monumental failure.
Yanks killed Parlap, did it for the money.
Then Wall Street crashed and we were eatin' bunny,
but depression didn't stop the don pullin' on a pad.
Got a tonne against the Poms as seen by my dad.
Ooh, how's that?
Big iron bobbers floggin' metal to the nips.
They turned it into guts, started sickin' our shits.
In World War II they threw our diggers, hit a checkers.
Gave them all malaria but wouldn't give them sanders.
General made us hold, we made the first FJ.
Still a heap of junk, called a Commodore today.
Hills horse, baby boom, quarter acre block.
Comfort to your backs and a rock around the clock.
Melbourne had the games in 1956.
Herb and Dawn on the telly, wow, black and white pigs.
Boatloads of foreigners lookin' for a job.
You can spot them up the back in there or we involved.
Where you wanna go?
Our king's a bloody cross.
Harold Holt took a scoop, I forgot you needed air.
While Normie Rowd missed it every night ahead.
He was singin' case arrived to the Viet Cong.
And the women's tennis champ was a Yvonne Goulagom.
Game, set, match, no war.
That was the cry of the great man gone.
We've had 23 years, it's time to bunker on.
He tried a lot of things that were hated by the wowsers.
Done like a dinner by a man with no trousers.
No worries, mate, now the country's lookin' beaut.
We've got a house, a color telly and a car phone in the yard.
We've got Dame Joan Lilly and Mad Max 3.
Ken Dome, the dingo and Mick Dunder.
We've got Ayrs Rock, Kakadu and Sydney Hababricks.
We've got bangers on the barbie and tiddies in the fridge.
Everywhere you look, we're the flavor of the day.
Stop all the knockers, we're doin' okay.
There you go, Australia, that's your whole life story.
A funky kind of rapid batch of all the love and glory.
But if you've got the feeling that the country's bein' conned...
...write a letter to the captain.
Pigana Bond.