Trevor is understated. Trevor is quietly assured. More Melbourne than Sydney.
Trevor is a scuffed pair of Blundstones more than a polished pair of RMs.
Trevor is not too fussed about talking the talk. After all, Trevor’s walked it. Trevor never shoots off at the mouth.
Trevor never seeks the limelight. More Hugh than Brad.
Trevor is your favourite pair of jeans, that cap you just can’t throw away, that night playing Cluedo with your high school friends; you know the ones – the one’s you turn to when the shit hits the fan.
Trevor is more The Rails than The Beach. With an occasional visit to that one in the middle when a cracking band is playing.
Trevor is public bar, not cocktail bar. Like that public bar from your younger days. That one with the cocky in a cage at the end of the bar, that old guy drinking handles telling cool stories and the barman that remembers what you drink.
Trevor is being overseas and finding someone from your home town. Trevor is being overseas and losing yourself in a non-English speaking country years before the crowds get there.
Trevor loves chips. Salt & vinegar chips. Trevor never calls them S & V’s though.
Trevor loves Liquid Paper. Old school.
Trevor never owned a pair of white leather shoes. More thongs than Massuers, Trevor.
Trevor is a surprisingly good dark ale in a recently discovered corner pub far from home.
Trevor probably stayed at your house while you were overseas. Not in a creepy way. As a guest of your house-mate. On the couch. BYO sleeping bag. Trevor would have made breakfast for everyone though. Hungover.
More like a brother than a boyfriend.
Everyone loves Trevor.