Bob McMahon as many remember him: Taking the fight against the pulp mill to Parliament
At about the time his son Andy was born, I met Robert and we became instant friends. Kindred spirits, vagabonds and louts. We’d steel away to la Calabrisella in St John Street and drink cheap red wine and eat baked cheese cake emmersed in Dylan and Waits, in Hunter S and PJ O’Rourke. We ruled the world.
We both loved the visuals and the textures created by language. He was a historian, a raconteur and loved using language in the same way as a bloke on the back of a ute would brown eye a red traffic light or a speed limit sign. He was one of the most complex people I’ve met and we could be the closest friends and in an instant argue with emormous vitriol – abusing each other and then pissing ourselves with laughter at our intensity. Sometimes I wondered how we didn’t end up fighting.
He was the best man at my wedding. Better than me – he reminded me from time to time. Daily. He loved the way Pete Townsend attacked and at the same time carressed the guitar, and he loved the lyrics from ‘we wont get fooled again…’ Once after 12 hours walking on the north west coast one day and over a camp fire at dusk he broke an hour’s silence by saying “meet the new boss. Same as the old boss” before falling asleep. He sometimes fancied himself as Townsend in the way he attacked things. Full passion, an unmeasured or at least an unbridled energy – loving the moment. It was always that moment, making each one count, each one special. Free form, freestyle precision. Like Hendrix and Pollock.
One bitterly cold winter night, Suzie, me and Robert went in a 1 seater beetle down the highway to the Granada Tavern in Hobart, where we stood in awe of Irish guitar player Rory Gallagher. He played an old gibson as modernist Paganini – devil posessed, Irish tragic blues with razor riffs that cut the night into shreds. Robert showed me a world I never knew existed-and from that experience I knew I could never become a lawyer and singularly because of Robert, I became the first son in 7 generations that walked away from that tradition. There was something else calling and it was called LIFE.
He was tough, difficult, hard to get on with and had to have his own way. He was also mostly fun and the air was always slightly electric around him. He was beautifully read, adored poetry and would not stop talking about Iseult, Suzie and Andy and later Leila and his 3 other beautiful grandchildren.
He bought my first camera for my mother to give me on my 21st, and as much as he was less than comfortable in our legally compliant home, I do recall him eating most of the suckling pig … We both laughed at this later with him decreeing ‘eat the rich !’ Not long after we together coined the phrase ‘Total Animosity’ which we used to describe anything and everyone we didnt like much. The list was long and it always began with all councillors and politicians.
To Robert I say – my life was richer becuse of you. Who would have thought we connected as well as we did. But we did – and it was apparent to both of us that we were great fun together – the day I blew my nose on a parking ticket and gave it back to the ticket writer – and 3 minutes later you saw Richard Clapton walking near the then Butter Factory in Launceston and said ‘g’day Eric !’ And he chased us down Charles Street mad as hell…. I kept hearing Tom Waits – ‘c’mon baby let’s set of all the burglar alarms’. For more than a couple of decades we did. Thank you Robert and God Bless, and blessings to Suzie, Iseult, Andy and Allison and those heroes in the clan that Robert loved, worshipped and cared for.
Bless you all. The journey until we meet again will be all the more lonely. — Richard Butler
