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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Quiz: Can you identify fake news?

The furore around "fake" news shows no sign of abating. Can you spot what's real and what's not?

Hillary Clinton has spoken out today to warn about the fake news epidemic sweeping the world. Clinton went as far as to say that "lives are at risk" from fake news, the day after Pope Francis compared reading fake news to eating poop. (Side note: with real news like that, who needs the fake stuff?)

The sweeping distrust in fake news has caused some confusion, however, as many are unsure about how to actually tell the reals and the fakes apart. Short from seeing whether the logo will scratch off and asking the man from the market where he got it from, how can you really identify fake news? Take our test to see whether you have all the answers.

 

 

In all seriousness, many claim that identifying fake news is a simple matter of checking the source and disbelieving anything "too good to be true". Unfortunately, however, fake news outlets post real stories too, and real news outlets often slip up and publish the fakes. Use fact-checking websites like Snopes to really get to the bottom of a story, and always do a quick Google before you share anything. 

Amelia Tait is a technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman.