Bazz, Mozz, Hen, and I go back a long way. We were all in Kimba during the nineties, where we played footy, cricket, and (bad) golf whilst living there. We all left that little town but stayed in touch and still get together a few times each year with our wives, Annie, Kathy, Ali, and Claire.

These are among my favourite occasions.

Over the years, we’ve all travelled and lived in different places — locally, interstate, and overseas. We’ve celebrated and grieved and lived. As people do. Around a BBQ or a kitchen table we share news and a certain finite library of old stories that enjoy welcome and compulsory telling.

You understand how this works. For me these are like putting on a Beatles record. You love the melody, the chorus, and all the words. The joy of anticipation adds another layer, making every retelling a little funnier.

Here’s a compilation of some of the punchlines, our Greatest Hits as it were:

              ‘And Hen dropped his driver in his bag and crawled straight back to bed.’

              ‘It was while yodelling along to Galveston that Mozz’s jeans ripped open.’

              ‘What ever happened to the cat-in-the-bag Bazz bought in Brisbane?’

              ‘Not the sock drawer, Mickey!’

On this night in question, we’ve precisely one Elephant Beer each. Brewed by Carlsberg, these little bottles come in at a thermonuclear 7.2%. Medically, chemically, and socially, Elephant Beer is a dangerous concept for the entire planet, but especially us. Today, nobody was about to say, ‘Right, eight more of these and I’m done!’

However, ‘Eight more of these and I’m done’ is almost certainly what one or more of us said in the Kimba pub, back in the 1990’s, on a Friday night, after curfew and before a game of footy.

Youth is always ridiculous.

I recall thinking it curious that an isolated country hotel carried such an exotic European lager. It was among my first experiences of globalisation, and I liked the promise it seemed to make. The earth was opening up. Or at least it appeared to be at 10.45pm in the Kimba pub.

Nevertheless, at 5.18pm on this particular night, one Elephant was plenty. Probably more than.

But this was about friendship and laughter and a deep and affectionately shared history. The photo captures a lovely moment — an affirmation of the good things that come from these enduring bonds. I’m grateful that, despite decades of silliness, these people have always encouraged the best version of me.

I hope Bazz, Mozz, and Hen feel much the same.

Was that Elephant the best beer I ever had? No, but I’m sure the next one will be.