Bill Onions was only six when he got a taste for beer. His mother, 1930's socialite and Pad maker, Norah Onions, slipped her little lad a sly half which he much enjoyed.
Since then, Bill, now nearly 90, has been a daily "regular" at The Pack Horse in Loughborough, Leicestershire.
At precisely 10 to 10 tonight, the great grandfather will take his wife and cirrhosed liver to his local and order a pint of Theakston's Old Peculiar just in time to settle down to a game of dominoes.
After serving the British Army with distinction in North Africa, Bill returned to Loughborough with Maria, an Italian, in 1945. He has lived there ever since. Pub staff can set their watches by his arrival. He always stays until just before midnight because he says with a cheeky grin,
"I should not like to turn into a Pumpkin."
Landlord Dave Pritchard, 49, said,
"Bill is as sharp today as he was the first time I met him nearly 20 years ago. He's very active. He still does his own building work at home. In fact only last month he knocked down the wall separating his kitchen from his dining room. It was a supporting wall and he stubbornly refused to put up an RSJ. He's a character, he really is."
Talking from his home Bill confirmed, "It's true, I didn't use a lintel . My house is now structurally unsound and I realise the ceiling could fall down at any minute. But I have always been a sensation seeker, it's how I have lived so long. Do you know I went throughout the second World War without changing my underpants!"
At this point a rather intoxicated Mr Onions was threatening to get his Lad out. Fearing he might be implicated in some kind of Octogenarian sex fest our reporter made his excuses and left.
We would like to confirm to any worried readers that although his wife Maria refused to comment, she was wearing goggles and Hard Hat.