Like me, Brian Birrell was drawn to life on the river. He lived a few bends upstream, at Murchison North, where he grew grapes and wrote poems about red gums, among other things.
Each time I greeted him, it was at a gathering on the river, around a campfire, and he’d be wearing one of his caps. Not one of your American baseball caps but a proper flat cap made of felt or tweed or houndstooth; he looked very smart in a flat cap, but he liked fedoras and panamas and Akubras of various kinds as well.
Brian had the agreeable habit of being an attentive listener, even to a dog, and he always took the trouble to say a quick hello, offering a pat, because we shared another thing in common: he was once a columnist for this newspaper.
It was called Birrell on Wednesday, and naturally, I had to ask The Boss if Brian’s column was as popular as mine. He politely pointed out that Brian’s column generated a lot more letters because he wasn’t afraid to tackle tricky issues (as if I don’t, I thought, but I let it go.)
At the memorial service last Friday, The Boss said the word “fearless” was used to describe Brian, which The Boss said was spot on. “Brian Birrell was not afraid to speak out on what he thought was right, General, and he was untroubled by people disagreeing with him.”
He told me Brian’s column ran back in the mid-1980s, and Brian would always have a different angle on the issues of the day: while highlighting the discomfort endured by passive smokers, for example, he would also attack the government for its hypocrisy in heavily taxing smokers while assisting tobacco farmers at the same time.
From tackling the bizarre Aussie celebration of physical aggression in sport to the sheer absurdity of men going to war — and women’s view of it — or advocating for compensation for mothers who choose to stay at home, Brian brought his sharp legal mind to bear on things that affected readers every day.
The law was his game, of course, and he famously gave up a partnership in a law firm to become a permanent court lawyer, defending anyone who turned up at court without a lawyer, and very often doing it for free.
According to The Boss, Brian was a champion of social justice without making a fuss of it; a mischievous smile was his trademark and his love of a vigorous conversation made him fun to be with.
One of the controversies Brian canvassed in his column was a proposal by the former Rodney Shire Council (which ran the world west of the river for 90 years until 1994) to restore a paddle steamer to run between Shepparton and Mooroopna — for tourists to enjoy. It was a bold idea that soon ran into snags and faded away, but it gave Brian the germ of an idea and he built his own, a charming little barge called the Kombali Queen, which plied the waters between Murchison and Arcadia for more than 20 years.
The Boss said the only thing missing from Friday’s memorial service was Brian, who would have lobbed a verbal grenade in to get people debating, or put on Pink Floyd and turned it up loud.
He would have enjoyed the closing moments too, when son Sam — our federal member, who happens to be a handy guitarist — sang Neil Young’s Harvest Moon, one of Brian’s favourites. A song for your departed dad is a brave effort, but Sam was in fine voice, and Brian would have touched his cap to it. Woof!