Moomba has never been quite what it seemed, mainly because it didn’t quite mean what it said.

It was long widely believed that the word “Moomba” translated from an Indigenous language as “let’s get together and have fun”, which sounds harmless enough and, let’s face it, that’s precisely the problem.

The forecast of rain did not deter the crowd for the 2010 parade.Credit:Paul Rovere

It sounds like Sunday school.

So it was a relief that some years ago it was established that Moomba does not mean “let’s get together and have fun” (it may even mean “up your bum”, in an epic language gag played on the colonisers, but you can read a full history of that murky etymology here.

In any case, this linguistic correction was a very good thing – not only to correct the record, but because it meant Moomba no longer bore the annual pressure of having to live up to that label. And never has a festival been more in need of relief from the obligation to be seen as fun.

The relabelling freed Moomba to be what it really is, which is less an occasion of inevitable “fun” and more a uniquely Melbourne celebration of nothing in particular beyond going out in sizable numbers and doing something.

Even in 1970, some were skeptical about the Moomba parade.Credit:The Age

Melbourne loves going out and doing something.

We are famously more engaged in going out and doing something than any other city in Australia and perhaps the world. It is a city that cocks its snoot at its climate limitations and says “Rain on me if you will, I am going to sit here in the wind and rain and have this amazing coffee”.

Melbourne would go out to watch sport during a nuclear war. It would go to the city centre to look at an exhibition of celebrity table tennis bats. (Note to Moomba: you can have the celebrity table tennis bat idea for free. Go nuts.)

Moomba might be daggy, but at least it’s something to do.Credit:Luis Enrique Ascui

This is why we have Moomba.

It doesn’t make much sense on the face of it, which is why you won’t often find Melburnians trying to explain it to confused people from less fortunate places

The scene plays like this:

“So there’s a parade?”

“Oh yes. And a throne. With a king and a queen.”

“That sounds like a big deal!”

“It is! Once the king was Daryl Somers. And another time it was Rolf Harris.”

“Did you say ‘Rolf Harris’?”

“We also have rides!”

“Like rollercoasters and waterslides?”

“Not quite. But almost. And we have an aerial and boating competition on the river.”

“Which river?”

“That one.”

“Well, that sounds amazing!”

And so it goes on.

Tuckered out after a long day at Moomba in 2017.Credit:Scott McNaughton

Personally, I have not paid much attention to Moomba since I was in primary school, in the soft middle belly of Generation X in 1977, when school excursions to the festivities were common and one year, when I was 10, both the Queen (the real one, not Patti Newton) and dancing queens (ABBA) were in town for the occasion.

Indeed, to the extent anyone outside Australia knows about Moomba it is thanks to ABBA appearing on the Town Hall balcony before a massive throng of cheering fans 46 years ago this very week. Ask ABBA about Melbourne and that Moomba crowd is what they remember. (I once did ask Frida this very thing in an interview. “We felt like royalty,” was her misty reply. If you are a Melburnian casting around for a Moomba brag, that’s your only option.)

But my lack of current attention paid to Moomba does not reflect my lack of affection. Like Humphrey B. Bear and the Skipping Girl on the vinegar sign, I don’t need to be presently engaged with it to appreciate it, and I very much like to know it’s there.

The Birdman Rally is always a highlight. Pictured is British consul-general Steph Lysaght and his craft, the Liver Bird, in 2022. He was joined by Monaco honorary consul Andrew Cannon.Credit:Chris Hopkins

Is it a corny dag-fest, a diorama of another age that has no place in a vibrant modern metropolis? Of course it is, and this is exactly why we should love it even if we are inclined to find it a bit embarrassing.

Embarrassing is one of the things we do best.

Sure, Sydney has its Mardi Gras – dazzling diversity and gay abandon, showing off this year with the added sparkle of World Pride glomped on top. And sure, we did lend them two Minogues for the show. But otherwise we really can’t compete with that flamboyant whoopee cushion of a city, which has never been embarrassed in its life.

Dear old Moomba is not in that contest. It has never really tried to be, and you can be assured it is not about to start trying now. Let’s be honest, we’d fall about laughing if it did.

It is both timeworn and timeless, a festival of whatever it summons in the memory. The Birdman Rally? Bring it on. The Moomba monarchs? Bow before them. It may not be the biggest or the best, but it is exactly what it says in the more accurate modern Melbourne lingo: let’s go outside and do something!

Embrace it, Melbourne. Or ignore it. Whatever. Just be glad it’s still there.

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