It started with a grunt, not a greeting,
A nod in the rain, boots squelching, hearts beating.
No flowery words, no dramatic flair—
Just “shift over, mate,” and a soggy chair.

We’ve shared cold brews and colder nights,
Mocked each other through pointless fights.
You knew when to joke, when to shut it,
And when I cracked, you didn’t cut it.

You never needed medals or praise,
Just dry socks and fewer Mondays.
In a world full of civvy nonsense and spin,
You were the bloke who’d always dig in.

So, here’s to the laughs, the rants, the rage,
To growing older but never quite sage.
You’re proof that friendship’s not just for show—
It’s built in the trenches, and it bloody well grows.