Clash of the tartans: English cider at the Highland games in Tomintoul, north-east Scotland. Photo: Martin Parr/Magnum Photos
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How Scotland got crafty with beer and fooled the English with gin

It's not all about whisky north of the border.

Everyone south of the border appears to be terribly worried about the Scots – which makes a nice change – and about their oil, which we prefer to call our oil. Yet that is not, you will be surprised to discover, the northern liquid that interests me. Oh, it’s great stuff, terribly useful, but there’s no getting around this: you can’t drink it, although there are probably a couple of North Sea oilmen who have tried.

New figures show deaths from drinking in Scotland have declined sharply in the past decade, but they’re still ahead of those for England (although these are rising, so watch this space). The Scots have long been champion drinkers: like any sensible country with delicious water and terrible weather, they found creative ways to keep the latter from freezing the former. The best known is uisge beatha, the water of life, pronounced “ooskebay” or, more usually, whisky.

This wonderful stuff has been a combustible matter since at least 1713, when the first campaign to separate Scotland from England – a mere six years after the Act of Union – was provoked by attempts to tax malt equally north and south of the border. Furious Scottish peers pointed out that this tax was intended to pay for the English war of the Spanish succession, which had just ended, and which the act exempted Scotland from subsidising. The Scots stayed largely because of a secret agreement not to apply the tax.

So, a precedent was set: England would make rules and Scotland, with a contemptuous flick of its skirts, would jig round them. The differences between the countries have worked in Scotland’s favour more often than you might think, sometimes for very peculiar reasons. Anomalies – such as stricter rules on drinking – would somehow wind up ensuring longer licensing hours in Scotland and a more relaxed attitude to café drinking.

But then Scotland is a land of anomalies – of shipyards (now rusting) and crags, of rebellious lefties and rigid Presbyterians. They may make bad commercial blends – but they also create wondrous single malts, where cold, bright river water has been softened and warmed with malted barley and oak ageing into a lightly peaty or deeply spicy liquor, as aromatic as it is alcoholic – and it is plenty alcoholic.

Lagavulin and Talisker, my nectars of choice, are both definitely worth seceding over. And yes, Tennent’s Lager is Scottish – but so is BrewDog, the high-alcohol craft beer company that has so successfully repurposed the trademarked Scottish qualities of orneriness and hard drinking that it is overtaking trendy parts of London with wittily named and fiendishly alcoholic brews such as Hello My Name is Sonja (8 per cent), Clown King (12 per cent) and Tactical Nuclear Penguin (32 per cent. Yes, really). The Scots have always been good wordsmiths and marketeers, despite a reputation for taciturnity, which probably arose only because no one south of the border could understand the clever things they were saying. But that’s England’s problem: there are nearly 800,000 Scots elsewhere in the UK and we wouldn’t manage too well without them.

Yes, sorry, folks; it isn’t the Scots who are dependent. We whip out the tonic or the bitters and water our superiority complex with London dry gins such as Tanqueray or Gordon’s, or trendy boutique gins such as Hendrick’s – but the latter is Scottish (its cocktail recipes include a Separatist Gimlet) while both of the former are made by Diageo in Fife: London dry gin is a style, not a location.

Historically, the Scots have had plenty of reasons to drink (if bare knees in a Highland winter isn’t excuse enough to rip the seal on a bottle of strong liquor, I don’t know what is) but surely the best one of all was being colonised by a race of obfuscating drunks.

Next week: Felicity Cloake on food

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 26 February 2014 issue of the New Statesman, Scotland: a special issue

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Battle of the banners: how the disputes of football took to the skies

Across the top of the screen floated a banner, pulled by a little aeroplane: IN ARSENE WE TRUST.

Last weekend, during the West Brom-Arsenal game, I began to think my hearing was playing up again. I’ve been given hearing aids but don’t wear them. No, not vanity, it’s just a faff to put the things in and the quality of my life, which is excellent, is not being impaired. Anyway, as I live on my own, if the sound on the telly is too low, I put it up. No one knows or cares.

When I’m out entertaining lady friends at my local bistro, I always get a quiet table in the corner and sit facing them, all rapt attention, totally focused on them, so they think. It’s really just to help my hearing.

On the TV screen, I suddenly heard an aeroplane, which was weird, as there was no sign of it, but then hearing problems are weird. Children talking sounds deafening. Some consonants disappear. Could it be a helicopter on the Heath, taking some injured person to the Royal Free? At our Lakeland house, I often heard helicopters: the mountain rescue team, picking up someone who had collapsed on Grasmoor. So I do know what they sound like. But this sounded like Biggles.

Then across the top of the screen floated a banner, pulled by a little aeroplane: IN ARSENE WE TRUST. The score at the time was 1-1, Arsenal having just equalised. They eventually got beaten 3-1. Oh, the shame and irony.

Apparently, earlier in the game, according to newspaper reports the next day, there had been an anti-Wenger aeroplane banner: NO CONTRACT, WENGER OUT. I didn’t see it – or Sky TV didn’t show it.

Where do the fans or supporter groups get all the money? And how do they organise it? There is a theory that IN ARSENE WE TRUST was paid for by Arsène himself. Another, more amusing theory is that it was a group of Spurs supporters, desperate for Arsène to stay on at Arsenal and continue getting stuffed.

There have been a few similar aeroplane banners at football matches in recent years. There was one at Newcastle, when they were playing Sunderland, which read 5 IN A ROW 5UNDERLAND. Sunderland won, so it came true. Sent the Geordie fans potty.

Everton fans flew one in 2015 which read KENWRIGHT & CO TIME TO GO. He is still chairman, so it didn’t work.

Millwall fans did an awfully complicated one in 2011 at Wigan, during the Wigan-West Ham game, which resulted in West Ham going down. They hired a plane to fly overhead with the banner AVRAM GRANT – MILLWALL LEGEND. Now you have to know that Grant was the West Ham manager and Millwall are their rivals. And that they couldn’t fly it at West Ham itself, which could have caused most fury to West Ham fans. There’s a no-fly zone in London, which stops rival fans hiring planes to take the piss out of Chelsea, Arsenal and West Ham. The Millwall supporters who organised it later revealed that it had only cost them £650. Quite cheap, for a good laugh.

There’s presumably some light aeroplane firm that specialises in flying banners over football grounds.

I do remember a few years ago, at White Hart Lane and Highbury, walking to the grounds and looking out for blimps flying overhead – small, balloon-like airships mainly used for promotional purposes, such as Goodyear tyres or Sky’s aerial camera. The results were pretty useless, showing little. I haven’t seen any recently, so presumably blimps aren’t allowed over central London either.

I am surprised drones have not been used, illegally, of course, to display obscene messages during games. They could drag a few pithy words while on the way to drop drugs at Pentonville Prison.

The history of aeroplane advertising goes back a long way. Before the Second World War, Littlewoods and Vernons football pools were fighting it out for dominance, just as the online betting firms are doing today. In 1935, Littlewoods sent planes over London pulling banners that proclaimed LITTLEWOODS ABOVE ALL. Jolly witty, huh. 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution