He is probably the most maligned politician in Australian local government. 

He has drawn national media attention for a unique and often controversial brand of community service, and no one before him has done it quite the way he does.

This week, the spotlight intensified when North Coast Greens MLC Sue Higginson unleashed an extraordinary parliamentary attack, listing more than a dozen allegations under privilege – from bullying and harassment to intimidation and misogyny.

Yet when I sat down with Lismore City Councillor Big Rob for what is, remarkably, the first extended interview he has ever granted without it ending with the interviewer being thrown out,  he was not shaken. He was energised.

And this interview is significant for another reason: he has refused almost all media engagement for years.

His standard response to local journalists – from the ABC to the Northern Star to The Echo – has become something of a catchphrase.

“Fake news. No comment!”

The last time Big Rob broke his rule and granted a journalist a sit-down interview, it did not end well.

Earlier this year, when the ABC’s Background Briefing reporter visited his Molesworth Street office, Rob agreed to speak — not once, but twice.

“The first interview went for ages,” he said.

“I gave him a lot of time. But it became clear he was only interested in challenging me about the feral leftards I was criticising.

“He didn’t go and speak to supporters.  He only tracked down people who hated me.”

When the reporter returned for a second attempt, the meeting quickly soured.

“He wouldn’t leave,” Rob said. “I asked him several times — politely.

“In the end I stood over him and said, get up now and go, or I will drag you out. He left pretty quick after that.”

This time, however, he stayed. And talked. At length.

His first response to Sue Higginson’s parliamentary attack?

“My vote will double in 2028,” he said

Lismore – a city like no other

Before going further, a disclosure is necessary. I served alongside Big Rob for several years as a fellow Rous County Council representative. 

Before that, we had never met. Like many locals, I had already been through the town’s unofficial rite of passage — I had been “blocked by Big Rob” on Facebook for saying something he found objectionable. In Lismore, it’s a badge of honour that has even been printed on t-shirts.

Lismore itself is unlike any other regional city.  For two decades its council was dominated by Labor and Greens-aligned councillors, backed by one of the most active protest cultures in the country. CSG campaigns, climate marches, Palestine rallies, refugee vigils – protest is stitched into civic life.

It has a strong and proud left-leaning bloc that celebrates diversity in all forms.

Into this landscape stepped a kebab shop operator named Robert Bou-Hamdan, who ran a late-night takeaway on Keen Street and often found himself breaking up drunken fights out the front.

“The constant violence used to piss me off,” he said.

“Especially when I had to get involved to stop it.”

As social media took off, he embraced it early. He built pages that soon dominated local discussion.  And when he ran for mayor in 2016, he was told he couldn’t use his nickname on the ballot.

“So I legally changed my name to Big Rob,” he said. “Simple.”

Floods, citizen journalism, and unexpected respect

My own impression of him formed during the 2017 flood. When ABC North Coast — the official emergency broadcaster — went off air at midnight, Big Rob went out into the dark with his iPhone, livestreaming as the levee overtopped for the first time since it was built.

“I was out there because nobody else was updating people,” he said.

“Anyone else would have gotten an award. I got abused… and a traffic ticket.”

“I kept going all night, even when police first told me to stop. SES watched. Emergency crews watched. Politicians watched. So did half the town.”

I admired the work at the time, but later that year after he blocked me online and I followed some of his escapades via mainstream media, my early respect evaporated. 

So when I realised we would be working together at Rous County Council, I anticipated a volatile dynamic.

Instead, I found him diligent, respectful and relentless in preparation.  He read every page of every agenda.  He asked forensic questions. He challenged assumptions.  And in person, he showed none of the aggression people attribute to him online. 

He excelled on the Audit Committee.  At our first local government conference, he attracted attention simply for being different and willing to debate.

By the end of our term, my early apprehension had been replaced by genuine respect—and, unexpectedly, a degree of fondness. 

His ever-present companion Missy charmed nearly everyone.

So when he contacted me this week wanting to give his first full response to Higginson’s speech, I accepted.

The battle that has been brewing for years

His response to the Greens MP’s attack was immediate.

“I’d been stirring her up to post it,” he said.

“I wanted it all out in the open.”

He rejects every allegation and argues that context has been stripped from nearly all of them.

“She says I bully people,” he said. 

“Yet they’ve been bullying me for years.”

“They can’t stand that someone fights back.  They’re shocked because I use the same tactics they use — just better.”

He believes the Greens have been trying to politically destroy him since he entered public life.

“They’ve dominated everything for years,” he said.

“They’re used to controlling the narrative.

“Then someone like me comes along — someone they can’t intimidate — and suddenly they’re the victims?”

He adds, pointedly:

“If you insult me, expect me to give it back. Male, female, trans, black, white — I treat everyone the same. 

“I just won’t hit a woman. That’s the only difference.”

As for Sue Higginson: 

“She accused me of harassment, but look at what she did in Parliament.

“If I’d said those things about her? I’d be crucified.”

Who he is, and why it matters

His “outsider” identity is something he leans into.  In 2016, after a minor incident, he spent a night in a police cell.

“One officer was abusing me through the glass,” he said.

“I told him I’d made a promise to my dying mother to finish my law degree.  He convinced me to keep it, so the next day I re-enrolled.”

He now holds unrestricted practice and two Masters degrees.  His long-term plan? A motorhome fitted as a mobile legal office to serve disadvantaged communities across NSW.

“All I need is a bed, toilet, shower, a desk, internet and Missy,” he said. “That’s freedom.”

The expanding media empire

Parallel to his legal work, he has quietly been preparing something else — a coordinated media strategy.

He already runs some of the region’s largest online pages. North Coast Crime is approaching 140,000 followers. His “Unofficial: Big Rob” page continues to grow.

“I got seven million views in 28 days during cyclone Alfred,” he said.

“And that was just testing.”

Now he’s planning to step up the operation:

“You’ll start seeing regular videos,” he said.

“Two-minute explainers. Legal tips. Council breakdowns. Local government rules. Things every councillor in NSW should understand.”

He gestures towards the flags and lighting setup behind him.

“That’s my studio now. Intro, content, outro. All tight. All simple. And monetised.”

He sees it not just as media, but as service.

“If you can explain the law in plain English, you help people,” he said.

“And social media’s the best tool for that.”

Diversity, but not the political kind

Perhaps nothing frustrates him more than what he sees as hypocrisy from his critics.

“They preach diversity, inclusion, acceptance,” he said.

“But not for political opinions. That’s where their diversity stops.”

It is both his grievance and his fuel.

As Lismore Mayor Steve Krieg told the ABC earlier this year, Big Rob is “a complex guy”.

He is blunt, confrontational, strategic, diligent, loyal, stubborn, effective and unpredictable — and those contradictions make him impossible to categorise.

“They want me gone?” he said as our interview ended. “Then stop attacking me. Make me boring. Make me irrelevant. But they can’t help themselves. And that’s why I’m still here.”

He stands, stretches, and smiles.

“Sue Higginson has done me a huge favour,” he says.

 “She’s made me more popular than ever.”