When Trevor Crook emerged on stage at Melbourne Town Hall’s Powder Room, I had a bit of a cackle. He hadn’t actually started his Crookwit show but not since The Castle had I seen stone wash jeans, cheap no-brand runners and a tucked in t-shirt worn with such pride. If it is true that the clothes make the man, then Trev is a true bogan.

Self-deprecating and completely dysfunctional in thought, Crook’s hour long show covers all manner of topics: ageing, cultural divides, history, women, travel, failed relationships, sex and phobias of all sorts.

He is a rambling, mumbling, witty bloke, quick with a comeback and sharp with his tongue. He is also the kind of guy no one really wants to be – riddled with issues, lonely, ordinary looking and generally mediocre. Somehow, though, he manages to turn his seemingly boring life into a show filled with unbelievable stories and incredible failures.

Direct and to the point, his stand up show delivers smirks, giggles and a few belly laughs. Amazingly, he uses no props or notes, just plain old talking and ad-libbing. His show is like listening to a mate having a long yarn. And, judging by the content of his show, this is one forty-something year old man in dire need of a mate. Get along to Crookwit to make Trev a happy man – you might even recognise a little bit of yourself in him. And if you do, that’s perfectly ok.