A stocky Yorkshireman standing at 5'9, Terry wears a #3 haircut of salt & pepper, that's vaguely receded a good few centimeters up his forehead since his youth. His face is somewhat rounded, with a square jaw cropped in a manner that would imply he shaved not too long ago.

Fat is not a good way to describe him, though the lack of firmness and somewhat loose skin around his stomach does suggest it in the recent past. He's certainly not at peak fitness, but for a man his age his efforts to avoid neglecting cardio are demonstrated in the tone of his legs.

For the most part, Terry is what most would consider a laid-back individual. Most (mundane) things don't normally phase him, and he's quite used to flecking off insults like a hose pipe on a duck's back. He gets a little touchy when his private or his family life is brought up in tenous conditions, however - a recent incident is proof of that. Humour, sarcasm and general attempts at wit are part of both his public and private personas, with the latter expressing a degree of weary cynicism. There's a part of him that feels

One thing that characterises Terry; he's loud in the public view. He has a distinct "Pub Dweller's" accent stemming from his upbringing around South Yorkshire, with an inflection that pins him to somewhere anywhere between Barnsley- Sheffield - Chesterfield, although if you asked him he'd probably joke that he was the result of Channel 5 trying to clone a hybridised homonculus of Peter Kay and Sean Bean to appeal to that '00s demographic. Privately, he's a little more toned down, but the more stress he's under, the more his accent starts to slip into deedar levels of comprehension.

Terry was born and raised in South Yorkshire, under a traditional working class family the likes of which were common for the time. Mind you, his dad wasn't down the pit, it was a bit late for that, but he was a tradesman of sorts. Stripped cars here, sold some scrap there. When times got hard in the 80s, like many others of the time Terry's dad resorted to scrap metal theft to make ends meet. Consequently, he had a view of the ground level, gritter edges of society - where one wouldn't bat an eye at someone selling imported fags on the cheap.

Growing up, he spent some time in the workforce; some time working in a call center, and some more as a cabling engineer supporting IT network rollouts at commercial sites. Eventually this segued into work as a technician for one of the local radio stations, where by chance Terry's voice happened to catch the ear of the station manager during a recording test. That earned him a weekend slot, and before long his voice was eponymous with the station and he caught the ear of a talent scout working for Channel 5. Things moved forward from there.

His career was one of moderate success. He was never quite the big hit that some of his counterparts in the industry would be - the best he got was being remarked by the tabloids as a Poundland knock-off of Sean Bean who would never step outside the shadow of his greater contemporaries. Yes, he made national media appearances, and even came up in the international spotlight once or twice, but he never quite achieved the main cast punching power in global box offices like some of his peers and predecessors did in the big blockbusters. His most recent claims to fame were being the voice of that English peasant sounding guy in a lot of Victorian - Medieval punk games, and a leading role in Grafter, a nostalgic British comedy-drama series set in the North featuring a cast ranging from rogue tradesmen (like that plasterer who stuck newspaper in the holes rather than doing the job properly) to gypsies known for stripping scrap metal off anything that wasn't nailed down. His character in particular had established something of a loveable rogue reputation, being a local trader who sold illegal duty-free (untaxed) fags on the side alongside his usual business, and the comedic effects of keeping the police and the Bangladeshi Mafia at bay.

In his personal life, things flagged. For a time, he had a stable marriage; a son came with that, from his wife's previous relationship. Things were okay for a while. However, people can grow apart - that's a fact of life - and this happened with Terry's relationship. It wasn't one singular thing. Neither of them had been sleeping around, or mistreating one another (though Terry later acknowledged he could've tried harder) - but their relationship slowly drifted apart. By the time his mid fourties were rolling around, his wife came forward and admitted it seemed more sensible to end it. Terry, admittedly, didn't take it as well as he should've - but it happened, eventually.

Still, life wasn't a complete trainwreck for him. Especially in this economy, he couldn't complain - he lived comfortably enough, with a house that was otherwise empty now his (soon-to-be ex) wife had moved out and his (step) son was off on a gap year. But it was still an empty house, and that absence of the people he'd originally had around him was slowly sinking in, just a little.

More specifically, he landed himself in a bit of controversy when he threatened to twat some camera jockey working for the tabloids when he caught them photographing him and his (ex) wife when she dropped by with some of the paperwork for their divorce proceedings. He wasn't sure what had done it, maybe it was the fact that the guy had made the mistake of asking him who his wife had been sleeping, but needless to say, the footage of him lobbing a plastic lawn chair at the guy's car in his bathrobe had been a point of amusement for the British public, and a difficult conversation with the police.

Luckily, it didn't cost him his spot in Grafter, though a firm chat with his agent suggested he take a break. This holiday was supposed to be a break from that - he and his (ex) wife had always talked about dropping by the Carribean, but it never came up. Well, he figured he would be too old to do it if he didn't get on it. Here we are.

"Ah, fer fucks sake."

Dialogue will be "Bold - deed tha' know, some o'rem lads from up Sheff way speak a bi' like dis, orate?"

If you want to get an idea for what his voice sounds like, think of a slightly gravelly iteration of Peter Kay's portrayal of Maxwell Bygraves in Phoenix Nights/Max and Paddy