Scotland have never had it so good. Fourteenth in the latest, albeit flawed, Coca-Cola world rankings, genuine hope that a decade-long hiatus from major football championships might soon be over, and a nation still in awe of James McFadden's Exocet in the Parc des Princes.

Hampden Park sold out within hours of tickets going on sale for next month's visit of Ukraine. A winner-takes-all qualification finale against the World Cup holders, Italy, remains a realistic proposition long after the most fervent patriot would have expected Alex McLeish's side to be consigned to carrying out irrelevant commitments.

Now it is time for the Scottish FA and the Scottish government to do their bit. George Peat made his feelings clear at his inaugural press conference as president.

Alex Salmond, a man who would recommend a referendum for selecting his tie in the morning, has, you guessed it, promoted the idea of national consensus.

There is no debate. Flower of Scotland should be retired forthwith as the national anthem. Peat, not a man to indulge in platitudes, has referred to the folk song as a "dirge" and regards the recorded version used for away fixtures as "an embarrassment played at one third of its normal speed". Frankly, it would be a more enjoyable experience inside a football stadium if played backwards to reveal a secret satanic verse penned by Roy Williamson.

Ten years after the SFA bowed to pressure from the Tartan Army, some of whom dress as if they are re-enacting the Battle of Bannockburn, the novelty value has long since worn off. We have had Caledon, a trio of tenors who make the MacDonald Brothers sound like Simon and Garfunkel, desecrate the ditty. Donnie Munro, the former Runrig singer who now sports an age-defying Andy Roxburgh sheen to his hair, actually refused to sing the third verse because it goes against his British unionist views. It is a bit like getting John Lydon to sing the other God Save the Queen.

More recently, cuddly old Ronnie Browne has been kilted-up to rouse the troops, while the squad stand uncomfortably to attention wondering who hired Papa Smurf for the karaoke gig.

Bad enough that the lyrics are now at conflict with the SFA's attempts to stamp out discrimination, the Flower of Scotland now creates the kind of car-crash entertainment popular among embarrassing uncles when the wedding disc jockey delves into the Titanic soundtrack.

As well as being painfully out of tune, the Tartan Army are also horrendously out of sync. Being subjected to this audio torture is like watching X Factor: Those Who Didn't Even Make the Heats.

There is a fundamental issue with Flower of Scotland: it simply cannot be played properly with bagpipes; something to do with a flattened seventh on the third last note not part of the standard pipe scale. Reverting to Scotland the Brave will be a triumph on two fronts: there is simply not a more stirring sight or sound as a pipe band in full flow and the Tartan Army don't know the words.

For the past three years, the government have consistently ignored pleas to spare us all (at least within the football fraternity) from this ritual humiliation. The rugby boys still love it, which should be reason enough to think again. Scotland the Brave was hastily introduced during the 1970s after consistent booing of God Save the Queen became intolerable. It is still used as the official anthem of the Commonwealth Games and its upbeat tempo would surely better capture the pride of a team storming up the FIFA charts.

Better still, a country that prides itself on its artistic expression should surely have enough talent to provide a modern national anthem that accurately reflects modern Scottish culture and society.

Scotland needs an anthem to challenge the greats. Star-Spangled Banner brings a tear to the eye when not bastardised by Borat or a squealing diva. La Marseillaise is an uplifting marvel and the Russian hymn a haunting, jangling classic.

The Flower of Scotland has long since wilted. It is time to flourish again. Over to you, First Minister.

And another thing . . .

THE Woman's World Cup has struggled to fight its way to the head of the BBC's sports schedule. Nestled away in the darkest recesses of the galaxy accessible only through the portal of the interactive red button, it was discovered more by accident than design.

Two things struck me about this weekend's action, culminating in England's quarter-final defeat against the USA. The art of goalkeeping is generally as elusive as the three-point turn or, to pre-empt emails headlined Chauvinist, about as natural to the fairer sex as men find doing two things at once.

The other, is how wonderfully sporting the whole affair is. No punch-ups, no hounding referees, no close-up of Abby Wambach gobbing her innards on to the turf. And no diving. The menfolk would do well to switch on for the latter stages for lessons in the spirit of the game.