Who was the smokingest bloke in your unit? I'm not on about your 60 a day lads or even people who could go through a couple of lighters a week. To be the smokingest bloke in your unit, you had to be capable of "Smoking beyond predictable human consumption" The one at our place was called Gilly and he used to smoke all the fcuking time. The lads reckoned he could work his way through a duty free 200 box in less than two days. Whenever we were on a course and the instructor knocked us off for a fag break, he would be sparking up as the bloke was saying "Right, lads. If you want to take a quick 5 minutes." He'd be putting his third out on the sole of his boot as the guy started talking again. This was all as nothing compared to his night time routine though. I had the misfortune of sharing a room with him for a year, and I used to marvel at his consumption levels. He'd puff away all night, only stopping to hockle up the occasional bit of black cauliflower cheese. He'd have his last 'post thrap tab' at about 11 and then get his noodle down. Being a studious sort of chap, i'd often stay up late with just my side light on, cracking on with some book or other. This pastime often presented the treat of watching Gilly wake up, on the dot, at 1am to spark up what he called his 'ulcer tamer.' He'd have his fag and then go straight back to sleep. I'd nodded off one night and woke up to see him sat in the window, having his tamer. It was an incredible sight. Backlit by the moon, the wisps of smoke rising from his fingers, he looked like something out of a French black and white film. The effect was only spoiled by the sight of his left spud hanging out the bottom of his Johnny Fartpants boxer shorts. I always used to get up before him and considered it a great treat to be in position when his alarm clock went off. I'd sit on the end of my bed and hear him groan, before his sh-itly tattooed arm would emerge weakly from under his duvet and rummage around on his side locker. Once the Benny Hedgehogs and lighter were located, his arm would disappear beneath his quilt again and he'd get his burn going. Freshly lit up, his head would then emerge and he'd wink at me and say "Best fcuking cig of the day, mate." He'd then fcuk off, in the bollocky bufters towards the ablutions. His ability to shave and smoke simultaneously was a vision in coordination. His justification for smoking so much was two-fold. One it kept his ulcers down to a gentle throb and two, it stopped him putting on weight. He used his Grandad as an example of the second benefit. Without a touch of irony, he used to say to me. "Aa'll tell thee convoy. Me grandad smoked 80 a day for 67 years and it always kept him skinny. He only weighed 4 stone 3 lbs when they buried him." "What did he die of?" "Cancer" "Of what?" "The fcuking lot" Gilly, I salute you.