Over the weekend, a few of the boys and I decided to do something simple: a “lads night” out. No plan. No itinerary. No rules — just food, fire, a few too many beers, and no phone reception.

We joked and called it “men’s mental health,” but truthfully, it might’ve been the most effective therapy session any of us have had in years.

We packed the cars the morning of, sorted food an hour before (as blokes do), and kicked off the arvo with a fire by the creek. Steaks on bread — 500g each — proper fuel. No salads. No nonsense. Just how it should be.

Then came the shooting.
One can in a tree. One log up the hill.
It was target practice for the soul, really. Bring down a few walls while knocking down a few cans.

Nothing about the night went to plan. But everything about it was exactly what we needed.
Beers. Banter. Byron defending Lando Norris like it was his full-time job.
And in between the laughter?
Real conversations — about life, stress, work, family, and what we might need help with.

Then… we got stuck.

And by “stuck,” I mean my car buried itself deeper than a cheat meal during comp prep.
Three hours of winching, a nap on the ground, and then another round of winching to finish the job in the morning. Honestly? It was perfect.