Tag Archives: women

Big Old Trev turns 40

There are lots of cool ages.  When you turn 18 you are legally an adult – able to get pissed and drive at will (even if not at the same time).  When you turn 21 it usually signals finishing your higher education and departing off into the big world.  When you turn 30, it’s a celebration of surviving all the stupid shit you did in your teens and twenties.

When you turn 40 however – it just means you are f*cking old

‘C’mon Reaper you bastard!’

Well loyal readers, today I turn 40.  And I can confirm it is not a cool age to turn.  No teenager thinks turning the big Four Oh will be fun and they are right.  I don’t feel cool, I don’t feel special, I don’t feel like I am on the cusp on a great adventure.  What I do feel is a tiredness in my limbs, a soreness in my back and a general irritation with the world.

(Writers note: I wrote the above a few days beforehand so I would have this piece ready.  Now it’s the actual day I’ve been spoiled rotten by my family and received a slew of well wishes from people so it is actually making my day pretty damn cool.   However it would ruin the theme of the piece so lets just pretend I’m still not feeling special eh?) 

So what the hell happened?  How did this happen to me?  I mean, I remember being young and looking at people like me, thinking why and how could they give up?!  And young Trev is still inside, looking out through these tired old eyes, feeling like a young man trapped in an old farts body.  I used to party all night and play video games all day.  I used to sleep with stranger’s, drink and smoke near anything passed my way, get into fights with buddies and then wake up the next day feeling a million bucks to do it all over again.  Now I go to bed sober at a decent hour and I still wake up tired.  What. Happened. To.  Me?

 

In fact, let’s have a look at the progression of my life in some key categories.

 

Drinking

Teens: Any alcohol our fake ID’s could get us

Twenties: Scotch & Cokes at the pub

Thirties: Beers with mates

…and now: Cup’o’Soup before bed

 

Music

Dancin’ machine!

Teens: Whatever was on MTV

Twenties: Whatever was on Rage

Thirties: Whatever was on Triple J

…and now: ‘Hey Diddle Diddle, the cat and the fiddle’

 

Parties

Most innocent party pic I could find

Teens: Getting pissed at 18th’s

Twenties: Getting munted at 21st’s

Thirties: Dinner parties with friends

…and now: Driving my kids to other children’s birthdays

 

Work

My brief stint as a night porter in Scotland

Teens: Below minimum wage at a fruit shop

Twenties: Minimum wage Security Guard

Thirties: Decently paid Departmental Employee

…and now: I clean my wife’s house

 

Travel

I miss you Rome!

Teens: Interstate trips to theme parks

Twenties: Backpacked around Europe

Thirties: Honeymoon to Vanuatu

…and now: To the shops and back

 

Video Games

How the times have changed

Teens: Street Fighter II on the Super Nintendo

Twenties: Halo on the Xbox

Thirties: Fall of Cybertron on the PS3

…and now: Hoping for a nap while my son plays the PS4

 

Women

Fictitious women love me!

Teens: I made my girlfriends laugh

Twenties: I made the ladies swoon

Thirties: I made my wife smile

…and now: I make my daughters bed

 

It first really sunk in I was getting older about 3 years ago.  Back in my twenties, when I had a gleam in my eye, an ever-present bulge in my trousers and a six-pack under my shirt, I used to get my hair elaborately done at the hairdressers at least every six weeks.  I used to really enjoy it too; I always had two or three of the young women on staff hanging about while I made them laugh and unashamedly flirted.  Used to walk out looking great, feeling great and more often than not having charmed my way into getting a nice big discount.

Three years ago I was getting my tips done blond when the hairdresser said ‘Oh it’s so great when men your age get this done – my step-father gets his done and it really helps hide the grey’.

‘No really, its my natural hair colour’

The look of horror on my face said it all as I had been unaware that I had any grey hairs!  Also, this girl was comparing me to her father figure?!  Yep – if I had dusted off my old flirt-circuits she would have no doubt classified me as an old creep and locked the door as I left – no discounts for old fart Trev.

 

So are there any upsides to getting this old?  The main three I can think of are that you are less of a dickhead, less inclined to tolerate bullshit and are more self-reliant.  These days I actually think before I open my mouth to say whatever random thought passes through this oddly-wired brain of mine, and getting naked in public is truly a thing of the past.  I won’t cop shit or tolerate bullshit – I quit a job because of something that happened to me and I knew that if I continued to work there my self-respect wouldn’t allow me to look in the mirror anymore – that was a very depressing time for me.  As for self-reliance, it may have taken me decades longer than some males but now I only call a tradie as a last resort.  I always try to build it or fix it myself and if I can’t then I watch how the tradie does it so I can do it myself from that point on.

 

So today for the first time I look in the mirror and a forty year old man looks back at me.  It’s been a helluva ride.  I’ve traveled the world and learned how to order a beer in a dozen languages.  I’ve had a Uni Radio Show, appeared on Television, Sworn on the Big Screen and done Stand-Up Comedy at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.  I’ve been painfully thin then fat then buff then… kinda flowing.  I’ve lived in Melbourne and London and even returned to the Mallee for a while. I’ve lost my parents but had children of my own.   I’ve become the sum of my experiences…. which somehow has turned me into a Blog Writing, Hobby Farming, Househusband and Father who spends his days looking after his kids and propagating plants.  Doesn’t sound much but really when you think about it, having a loving wife, beautiful son & daughter, a big house in the hills (even if it’s not mine) and only working for others when I feel like it – I may have not become the megastar I thought I would but I could have done a lot worse that’s for sure.

 

So what pearls of wisdom have I learned that can prepare others for turning the big Four Oh?  Well… none.  Nada, Zip, Zippo.  It’s going to affect each one of you differently.  I can’t say it feels any different to being 39 and to be honest in my head I’m still 25.  All I can say is that yes, the concept of turning forty sucks…

…but it’s better than the alternative 😉

 

Are you about to turn forty or already have?  Would love to commiserate with you in the comments section below!

 

Retraction: I have been contacted and instructed to remove certain opinions from this blog.  Due to my leaving the comments in question so vague (no names, places, dates, any specifics at all) it has lead to someone mistakenly believing the comments referred to them.  Therefore to avoid continued accidental offense the instructions received have been followed; the opinions are officially and publicly retracted and have been permanently removed from this site.  bigangrytrev.com apologizes for any misunderstanding regarding this matter. 

The day I learned to have empathy for all women everywhere

 

The actual event that taught me to feel sorry for what the entirety of the female population has to put up with took place well over a decade ago (and involves me hightailing it down the road with a fear of sodomization forefront in my mind) whilst I was living in the UK.  But first I will relate what has brought this harrowing (but to you probably humorous) event back to mind.

 

The other day I was walking to work.  A woman in her mid 20’s was walking with her young son in a stroller.  She was dressed very neatly, looked like maybe she was a secretary in a law clerks office or something – business shirt, knee length skirt, jacket etc.  So dressed nicely but neatly – there was no overly ample amount of leg or other body part on show.

Around the corner came a fellow on a pissy scooter, looked like something one should be riding on the way to a picnic in southern France rather than around a country town in the bush.  He was dressed slovenly with a beard that would put Costa from Gardening Australia to shame.

He saw the woman, his eyes went wide and his mouth gaped a little.  He then uttered the following cry in her direction:

“Arghahagrhahghagagr!”

In fact it was less of a cry, more of a guttural gargle.  Apparently they phrase “Whey hey!” was too eloquent for him.  He continued on his little fricken scooter around the corner and was gone.

I saw the woman mentally sigh, straighten her shoulders, and then proceed about her day with her kid in tow.  I felt so sorry for this woman – all she was doing was walking with her son – she didn’t deserve to be gargled at in a lecherous fashion.  And what did the gargler expect to happen?  Was this woman going to throw her son – stroller and all – behind a bush, bare her breasts and run at him looking to copulate right there in the middle of the street?  I mean – what was the end result he was after?

You women have to put up with that kind of stupid crap all the time, and it makes me feel for you.  But what happened to me all those years ago made me feel it all the more.

Stop treating me like a sex object! I'm not just a stellar pair of legs!
Stop treating me like a sex object! I’m not just a stellar pair of legs!

 

I was in my mid 20’s and living in a small town called Grays in the Essex countryside in the UK.  As was my usual routine, on a Friday night I would catch a train for the 40 minute ride to London, party the night away with my mutual backpacker friends, then catch the last train home.  This of course left me feeling very seedy every Saturday morning.

This Saturday morning I’d pulled on some old clothes and left the house to walk the 10 minutes to the shops to grab some groceries.  Not long after leaving my front gate I walked past a fellow about my age, wearing a black mesh singlet and jeans.  ‘G’day’ I say in my friendly yet hungover Aussie drawl as I dragged my carcass off in search of food.

As I wandered the different stores, I must have walked past this fellow a good four or five times, always leaning against a wall.  I was not firing on all thrusters so didn’t think much of it.

On my way home there he was again, leaning against a wall.  He detached himself and wandered over to me with an outstretched hand.  “Hi” he said politely.

“Hi” I said and shook his hand for what turned out to be the limpest handshake I have ever endured.  This must have been done on purpose – no one has a handshake that limp!  It was like he had dropped a raw, deboned chicken breast into my hand!

After some initial pleasantries I began to walk home again and he kept pace, peppering me with questions about did I have a girlfriend (I made the stupid mistake of saying that I did but that she was back in Australia – damn you Truthful Trev!), where I lived, did I have housemates, would they be home now etc etc.  I was fending off this verbal barrage as best I could in my mentally sluggish state but this guy was getting more worked up and insistent with his questioning.   Apparently I must have taken this blokes fancy and he was not letting up in pursuit of his quarry.

Now let me preface what I’m about to say with this – I have NEVER had an issue with gay guys trying to pick me up.  It’s something that has happened to me quite a few times, especially since I have gay friends and we all used to hit the town together.  From bars in Melbourne to nightclubs in London (and even one naked guy in a tribal dancepit at Confest at 1am) I’ve been approached but it’s never phased me and I’ve never really understood why some guys get so angry about it.  Heck – someone finds you attractive and interesting – it’s a compliment!  And every other time it’s happened to me I’ve politely rebuffed their advances and it’s been all good.  In fact, now I’m approaching 40 it’s sadly been a few years since I got to enjoy that kind of compliment from someone of either sex.

But this guy was really starting to ring alarm bells, especially with him being insistent about coming home with me ‘to see where I lived’ and wanting to know ‘if it would be just us there’.  I stopped to look at him.

I looked at him and he looked at me and I realized this guy wanted to f*ck meHe wanted to f*ck me very, very badly!  His eyes were wide and intense, his hands were grasping open and shut, his whole body looked poised to spring.  I realized that this guy was, with great difficulty, holding himself back from bending me over on the footpath and taking me right there and then!  I did not want to look down because there was NO WAY this guy was not sporting an erection! It made me feel really uncomfortable, I would have preferred the naked guy at Confest taking another crack! A smiling hippy, even one that’s nude, was way less threatening than this guy was coming across!

I made some hasty excuses, turned down a street that was not the one I actually lived on, then sprinted away into the grey English morning mist.

 

And this is how I came to have empathy for all women everywhere, because almost every woman on the planet has had to deal with this more than once in their lives.  It is very confronting to talk to someone and realize that they fiercely want to have sex with you right there and then – that you are basically a warm body for them to use to vent their sexual frustrations.  If it has never happened to you, you might be able to abstractly conceive of what it is like, but when it actually happens it is hard to describe how unnerving it really is (You can still laugh at the idea of me running like the wind to protect my back-door cherry though).

So guys, don’t gargle at women on the street.  And yes, the urge to mate can be overwhelming, I’ve felt it myself, like if you don’t shag right there and then something in you is going to shatter!  But tone it down, chill the hell out, and maybe it will happen.  But when you aim yourself at a stranger like you are an erection with legs, all you are going to do is ruin someone’s day.

 

And I suppose we must spare a thought for the now middle-aged mesh-singlet wearer, traipsing the English countryside at night, mournfully looking for his lost Aussie love… or his lost lust at any rate.

 

Got a story along a similar lines to share or wish to comment on the above?  Would love to read it in the comments section below!