Pad up and get your eye in, because these codgers are on for a solid partnership.

Reg, lacking in the pants department but off the charts of the beer barometer.
Straight off the bat, his gaze is fixed firmly on old mate at right of screen who’s either hooking up a swivel or rolling a White Ox, all the while sporting his best impression of Tom Cruise’s getup in Risky Business.

Tighten your belt and keep an eye on your fly gentlemen, these codgettes are set to rustle your jimmies.

Presenting Sharon and Martha, both firmly planted in the third session of day 5 but far from ready to call stumps. Whilst the pair may initially seem a Y chromosome short of a codger, these amber angels more than fulfil the established piss pre-requisites, with an age that is measured by the score and a love for the liquid that is drunk by the schoon. With great maturity c...omes great wisdom, and as such these two beer birds have long since come to the conclusion that wine is just fortified Ribena and therefore only suitable for tuck shops and hung days. But you’d be sorely mistaken if you thought that meant they had to sacrifice class for comfort.

Call me a lamp and rub me silly, I'm about to make all of your wishes come true.

Introducing Wendell: 69 years young and insisting that he isn't moving from that mark anytime soon.

First off the bat, get a hold of that summer afternoon beer garden attire: a light blue singlet that screams 'Balinese streetcorner', a Panama hat straight out of Malcolm Turnbull's walk-in wardrobe, and a set of extra eyelids that would get Dizzy Gillespie riding his bat as if it were a Magic Mike... audition. Blimey Charlie, that's a more worrisome trifecta than Shane Watson, a fullish in-swinger and an available review.

Time to find your old library card, because this codger’s got some overdue returns.

Alan, 64 and completely transcendent from the mayhem ensuing around him. Forget everything you thought you knew about pub activities - this man is not about the trots, the slaps or the snooker table. For Alan, it’s a canonical text and a Crown Lager. Nothing more, nothing less. This is a codger who’s an absolute veteran when it comes to the Book of Bitters. He’s an expert in Lager Literacy. A ...Resch’s Reader. A Pilsner page-turner. An Ale Academic. A Pure Blonde Postgraduate. This is a codger you’ll only find in one of two places: at the book fair in your local school hall, or in the Library of Lion Breweries. Forget Harper Lee or Charles Dickens, this is William Shakesbeer reincarnate. Take a close reading of the crisp placement of the laminated bookmark, aligned perfectly parallel to the hardcover. A genuinely meticulous operator of the highest calibre.

Drop the knife and step away from the spreads because this codger is about to butter your crumpet.

Walter aka Wobbly, age irrelevant. Dual wielding two of the most blessed libations this side of the Last Supper, this codger is looking for a froth colleague to give his hands some airtime and I’ve not doubt there’d be a line bigger than your dad’s sneeze to park up and talk the froff off a fifty lashes or 5 with the oldie. Like Gen Y to their phones or Mark Howard to pedestrian... cricket commentary, this codger’s got a special affinity for Froth Whitlams - the day you see Wobbly without two safe hands on the frosted glass is the day a successful Australian batsman retires and doesn’t write an autobiography trashing his former teammates. He’s your archetypal partner in crime. The Robin to your Batman. The Milhouse to your Bart. The Sam Dastyari to your Chinese businessman.

Carnival season might be coming to an end, but blimey charlie is this not a boxed trifecta for the ages.

Daryl, Mal and Rupert. Three straight-shooting codgers who know more about getting on the horse than Damien Oliver. In the foreground we have Daryl, a humble old fella who's fashion sense seems like a rare cross-breed of Kerser and Ernest Shackleton. He's stirring the pot with a gently simmering Mal, who's on his seventh grog of the afternoon and seems ready to get properl...y Schapelle Corbeered. More stubborn than Rahul Dravid batting for a draw, Mal has the power, the passion and the slippery dome that would make Peter Garret finally find solace in this world. I mean, get a hold of that crisp goatee; I've seen prize-winning labradoodles that aren't groomed as neatly as that. But alas, the true treasure of this gathering sits to his right.

Buckle your helmets and avoid steep hills, because this codger’s breaks are disconnected.

Bill, 60 and unsure if he’s got better handlebars on his Harley or his top lip.
This is a codger you’ll only find doing one of two things: sending it down the freeway at a mile a minute, or sending ‘em down the hatch at the exact same speed. By the look of that stare of intent, Bill’s planning to ride deep into the catacombs of Cave Carlton one way or another. This Chopper Read lookali...ke’s got an engine to rev, rubber to burn and schooners to sink. Judging by the stance more solid than the aeroplane brace position, this codger’ll keep it parked at the Bendidos clubhouse until he knocks over each and every member of the Hells Alegels that he finds in front of him. With Betoota Bitter on tap and the entirety of his beer budget laid out in front of him, you can bet your last buck that Bill’s staying for at least a few more Beverand Lovejoys before the day’s done.

Call me Roald Dahl and hand me a paper and pen, because we’ve found the real Big Friendly Giant.

Joey, 63 and more balanced than Mark Ochilupo.

Watch as he gently nestles the Milton Mango into his trusted beer blanket, like a newborn son into his father’s arms. With this process lovingly completed, the XXXX Tindy Lauper will find its home in the big fella’s left hand, and the iced Bundy n coke on the bar will take refuge in his right. A combo almost as classy as Thurston-Bow...en in the mid 2000’s, forming a ying and yang of blissful hydration for this deserving drink-dual-wielder. And with a set of hands almost as safe as JT’s himself, you know Joey will do it justice - this is a handler that can fly full swing into a Peter Garret Midnight Oil dance rendition without spilling a drop from either vessel.

Get QANTAS on the phone and tell them to raise their baggage limits coz this blokes got some carry on.

Bert “The Bullet” Brown, celebrating his 70th with a schooner for every pub he's singlehandedly saved from bankruptcy. Judging by the smorgasbord of Harold Malts balanced gingerly atop that kashmir willow, this draught deleter is settling in for his bi-weekly consultation with Dr Ink, no doubt starring down the barrel of another decade long prescription of piss penicillin an...d ale antibiotics. Bert’s a firm believer that variety is the spice of life, choosing to swap between beer breed more often than Australia swaps prime ministers. Forget Oprah’s anti-ageing cream, if sampling a beer from every gradient of the colour scheme twice a week since birth has managed to retain Bert’s youthful beauty thus far, why stop now?

Holy Dooley, God's waiting room doesn't get much better than this.

Phillip, Marshall and Scott. All of them a couple over par but by no means are they stuck in the bunker. While their wives might be off playing bridge together, the only cards these silver foxes will be flashing today will be their Golf Club memberships, claiming that crucial thirty cent discount for every Reece Witherschoon they put away.

Where to start? You've got old mate on the left, who's wearing so much... khaki you'd think Russel Crowe is only seconds away from snaking his way in for a tune. Then, up the guts of this wolf pack you've either got the estranged father of Ron Jeremy or the brother of that head honcho in Hardcore Pawn. Regardless, you've got a rare old bastard who insists on copping his piss-porridge in a Headmaster so the boys know that his Dublin breakky isn't just being eaten for its high protein count. And then on the right flank you have none other than humble Scott, rocking a vintage vest that'd make Montgomery Burns shiver, and a twenty year old, first edition, digital wristy that has both an inbuilt stopwatch and paging capacities. That's all Scotty boy needs: a sharp attention for when he's spent longer than 23 minutes on one Milton Mango, and the obligatory check in with the doc on a Fridee arvo to ensure him that he's only drinking mid strength this weekend. This is it gents, this is peak human performance. Whacking on your finest torso tickler, settling in to the familiar grooves of a designated seat overlooking the 18th, and getting absolutely Adam Gilpissed with your fellow stalwarts. Keep kickin, and god bless Ready, Steady, Cook.

Install that software update fellas, because this bloke’s on a whole new operating system.

Walt, 62, but with the technological prowess of his 16 year-old grandson. Forget the Sunday morning crossword with a cuppa Bushells, Walt’s only worried about the Satdee arvo Candy Crush with a Coopers Red. He’ll sit here happily on his Pat Malone needing nothing more than an iTunes library filled with schooies of Draught Punk. Now you might take Walt here as a real ‘size matters’ type ...operator: the big old size 13 ortho-hiking boots, the XXL jumper that doubles as supporter wear when Origin rolls around, and most importantly, the iPad Pro. However, let Walt be the first to tell you that it’s not about the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog. There’s not a chance on God’s green earth that he bought the extra-large iPad to show photos of his grandkids in high resolution, or for the slight tactical advantage it provides in Clash of Clans. Walt’s only intended function of the 10.5 inch screen is as a schooner safety net: waiting at the ready to catch any rogue droplets of the liquid loaf that might make the fall from grace somewhere between departing the amber chalice and arriving at the gleaming silver lip rug. And trust us when we say they’ll be hoovered up off the touchscreen before you can say ‘Hi Siri’.

Head west and cover your tracks folks because this detective is hot on your heels.

Sherlock, old enough to use a magnifying glass for anything but frying ants. This codger has taken time out of being the head honcho in an Agatha Christie novel to lock in like the proverbial Flynn and solve the real mysteries of 21st century Australia; what are Andrew O’Keefe’s journalistic credentials, why are we looking for Wally, and when are we going to talk about Jeff’s crippling narcolep...sy? Whilst this codger might not be the slimmest arrow in the quiver, by jove does he fly straight. Boasting more dramatic flair than a Phil Gould origin pump up and greater investigative prowess in one pinky than the entire Buzzfeed writing team, this codger is a living time capsule of a better time when the lager was darker, the women were faster and milk just tasted like real milk.

Someone call Shia LaBeouf, this codger has transformed me.

Bernard, 73. A humble old froth-fiend who’s put more shrapnel into the local’s tip jar over the last twenty years than the U.S. has pumped into the Middle East. This is probably the 150th date to the post-office-turned-pub that Bernie has taken his wife of 46 years, but that doesn’t phase this codger couple. These days, finding a waterhole that sells a Tin Bailey for less than four bones is harder than putting on a ti...ght beanie with one hand, so Bern and his soul-mate aren’t exactly hunting for a new Valentine’s Day spot. However, don’t let these creatures of habit fool you into thinking that they forsake class for convenience. While nothing is going to stop Bern from getting on the Johnny Lash in his weathered pair of Dunlop Volleys, he’ll make sure that he drinks every drop of his malt-medicine through the same slightly chilled wine glass from which his better half sips her Chardy. If that’s not true love then I’ll give it away: a connoisseur codger and his sommelier spouse copping eight standards to the head before trundling home to find out who’s getting grilled by Leigh Sales on that night’s 7.30 Report.

Feed this one into your irrigation scheme:

Ashley, 60 but with a head of hair not a day over 20.

This fella’s got a mop that’d make Warwick Capper jealous. It’s got the sort of quality thickness you’d see from Shane Warne’s Advanced Hair solution, and the sort of finesse you’d see from his googly. But don’t be fooled by the vibrant youth emanating from the luscious crop up top, this certainly isn’t Ashley’s first Taco Tuesday. He’s been drip-drying draught off that ‘tache s...ince Margot Robbie was just Donna Freedman of Ramsay Street. He’s a man who knows you don’t change a winning team, and you know you’ll find him parked up at the tavern every other day with clear eyes, a full heart, and a better footy-watching posture than your mum could ever dream of seeing you achieve. And Ashley’s in no hurry either, he’ll sit on that Phillip Seymour Frothman about as patiently as the Dog sits on the Tuckerbox. That is, of course, until the last 5 minutes of happy hour, and then you know it’ll be full-pelt, flat-stick, crouch-touch-pause-engage until he’s through to the semis without dropping a set.

Whoever said shoes are for feet was clearly a few bananas short of a bunch.

Hank, 69 and fully aware that this is the next most significant age after 21. This workhorse is a firm believer in the Nutri-Grain wisdom that you only get out what you put in and judging by the state of that monstrous vessel Hank’s going to be sweating amber beads and pissing pale ale. It doesn’t take a detective to piece together the background for this walking brewery. Still rocking the fluro green... wristband from his week at Blues Fest, Hank is handling the hung sweats by exposing the most amount of skin possible, pulling those shorts right up and doing those buttons right down. A seasoned veteran of the Bendjamin Franklin and staunch advocate that the best detox is retox. With all limbs fastly secured and a couple of the more reliable keg companions in tandem this codger is not moving until he’s had a fair suck of the sauce bottle and this establishment has clearly laid the setting for a romper. Heavily cushioned, the sun beating down and a perennial happy hour, this snapshot of yewtopia begs the question, where the bloody hell are ya? So the next time you’re heading to your local for an afternoon slow roast be sure to pack a spare pair of gumboots to pay tribute to this premium brand of codger the only way he’d have wanted it - with a shoey.

Sound the alarm and let off the extinguisher, this codger's packing some heat.

Morgan. 67 years young and impatient as ever to dollop that schnoz into his $4 draught on a fine Sundee afternoon. While the low-key sunnies + earring combo makes him look a little like Elton John doing the crocodile rock, Morgan assures us that the only backdoor he's aware of is Benny Elias. Sporting a fresh pair of Rivers-issued slacks and a couple of exam-invigilator slippers, this codger knows ...how to dress for his environment, and the shortened winter days won't prevent Mister Morgs from downing a dozen Sherbert Hoovers and playing up like a second hand lawn mower. With a frosty close and an ashtray closer, Morgan epitomises the notion that the hungry dog hunts the hardest, and by christ this codger is starving for some empty carbs and wholesome yarns. So put on your lumber jacket and get down to your local beer garden. A legend like Morgan is waiting there, ready to tell you that if you aren't sending a bimonthly email excusing yourself from a Monday shift, you're obviously still waiting for nbn to reach your suburb. Keep living the life Morgs, and god bless chicken twisties.

Put down that knife and step away from the cheeseboard, because this Panther’s sleeves are sharp enough to slice even the finest camembert in IGA's deli section.

Arguably Australia's most elusive cat, Bruce Jenkins, 56.

Orders his 150 lashes shaken, not stirred. Amongst his prized possessions is the entire collection of James Bond films, his favourite being Casino Royale… The 1967 version, because Daniel Craig’s got about as much charm as Matt Dunning's loincloth. After str...iking it lucky at a gold panning expedition at Broken Hill in 1975, Jenkins left his umpiring career in the dust. He welded a bronze cast of Ned Kelly's death mask to the bull-bar of his decommissioned Land Rover, and set off for the boundless undulating plains of The Territory. His mission, now declassified, was to challenge Australia's toughest codgers, hardened by Brimstone and Tooheys Old, to a battle on the bowling green. To this day he remains undefeated. Jenkins returned to Randwick Bowlo in 2015, but only having cracks at the virtual horse racing because he reckons he once tamed a brumby a couple of years back. Even after his daily dose of 4 Schoonduggery Pleasants, The Randwick Panther remains as nimble as a blue healer with a bit of dingo bred in him.

Lock your doors and bar your windows ladies and gentlemen because this codger is about to make you an offer you can’t refuse.

Tadashi Takahiro AKA the Grogfather, old enough to remember which pub he was in when the shogun fell in 1868. This former Yakuza mob boss knows that the only dish better served cold than revenge is a Brews Lee. And just look at the way this codg is cradling that final golden swallow - I’d count myself lucky if I got that kind of affection from my mum. ...This lager father knows exactly what he’s about and doesn’t give two pins if you’re not on board with it. Rocking that 3-piece pin striped suit, the tweed cap straight out of Peaky Blinders, and the sheepskin handled cattle-prod between his stilts, Tadashi is more out of place at the lawn bowls than Sonia Kruger in a Mitre 10. But that doesn’t phase the Grogfather. For him, home is wherever serves Hammer n Tongs on tap and tunes into Channel 10s midday reruns of M.A.S.H.

Buckle up whippersnappers, this codger comes from an age well before air bags.

Mad Dog Macca, born sometime between the Eureka Stockade and the day babies stopped coming out of the womb with mutton chops. With a medical record more comprehensive than Sharon Strzelecki's, old mate has become notorious for discharging himself from ER and self-prescribing a dozen painkillers straight from the Alfred Hotel's taps. Born in God's very own Newcastle, this draught-drainer grew up on ...Wanderers footy on Saturdays and recovery surfs on Sundays. Five decades on and you wouldn't catch this fella wearing matching socks to his over-85s driving test let alone a Colts semi-final. As for those lazy Sabbaths on the Malibu? This codger finds it hard enough riding the third wave of feminism.