Trev’s status in the WA crabbing community has diminished over the years. While rarely observed, Trev has stolen more crabs than a clothesline undies raider in Mandurah. 

Things came to a surreal head last season when an old mate he crabs with had a fall on his boat and broke his arm. As he was rushed to hospital he asked Trev if he could be so kind to bring back his dinner from whatever he caught in his nets.

Alas, Trev’s insatiable lust for crustaceans led him to a despicable act of villainy. He bagged old mate’s crabs for himself and let the bloke know his nets were empty. It may not be normal to rob a pensioner’s catch but high on crab-lust it is. 

Unluckily or Trev, he was spotted by a mutual friend this time and the dog act circus rolled into a local crabbing page. He was finally exposed for who he was and dogged the boys so hard you’d think he was in the Hyde Park public toilets. 

Perhaps for some, public ostracism from your community might lead to some soul searching. Perhaps Trev would seek to repair his reputation? Nope, he stormed into the 2020 season with his trademark bullshit. 

Basically, from December 1, he spends his time whining in FB pages about the slow growth of blue mannas, trying to manipulate people into giving them their best spots and of course, talking shit about other people’s catches. 

It’s a sunny day and Trev realises that he’d been so balls deep in crab-mania that he hadn’t acknowledged his 10-year-old son’s existence for the past 22 days. To make up for it, he tells the boy he’s taking him to Mandurah to scoop the shallows. A true cats in the cradle moment. 

A chance for bonding gets completely Trevified when he grows impatient at the lack of legally sized crabs in the estuary. After 2 hours, they’d only caught a couple and Trev’s young son was beginning to doubt his father’s constant boasts that he was a crab whisperer. 

If there’s one thing about Trev, it’s that he doesn’t like losing. He tells his son to go and distract a nearby family by falling in the water and faking a fearsome toe attack. It’s a grand ruse, and while the scenes distract the other crabber, Trev steals a couple of nice-looking blue mannas from the guy’s floating foam esky. 

Textbook Trev. After yet another heist, he starts getting pretty relaxed with measuring the crabs he scoops too. Just like the Rolf Harris of crabbing, he isn’t concerned about the maturity of his prey. 

He loads up his predominantly undersized catch in his car and yabbers endlessly about his skills as a crabman. To his horror, he notices what looks to be a Department of Fisheries checkpoint up ahead. 

He’s done the crabby tango with the fish cops before and has no intention of going back in front of the magistrate. Plus he had his 6th beer in his hand. Not their jurisdiction but not a good look, really. 

These aquatic pigs were never going to take him alive. He chucks an abrupt uey and narrowly misses oncoming traffic. Wild-eyed, he turns to his son, “if they catch us, you have to put this preggo female down your pants boy, I can’t be caught with her, boy”. 

His son is terrified as Trev rants about the police states infringing his right to eat crab linguine every night with their so-called “laws”. He spends then next couple of hours ducking and weaving through Mandurah’s back roads to avoid detection. Perfectly sane behaviour. 

Back at home, he acts like he didn’t just take his son on a crab crime spree and posts a photo of his (legal) catch to a FB group full of people who hate him, “took the boy crabbing, it’s these moments we’ll remember forever”. 

One father’s memory is another son’s future therapy fodder. Bless.