THE ANGEL'S' SHARE by GAVIN D SMITH It all began with an apostrophe. Or at least with a discussion about the placing of that apostrophe. The people who labour tirelessly to bring you the finest whiskies at LFW have an equally passionate commitment to fine English when it comes to this Review [oh yeah?-Ed]. Hence a late night conversation about where the apostrophe should go in the expression angel’s share. Or is it angels’ share? Does each distillery have one angel, we mused, or are there several hovering above every pagoda. The only way to rest easy, it seemed, was to dispatch a close-knit, dedicated team from Inveraray to Speyside, where there would, we reasoned, be ample opportunities to discover the truth about the role of the angels in whisky-making. On reflection, perhaps the expense account was a foolish move, if one motivated by characteristic but misplaced generosity. It would be nice to be able to report some conclusive findings from the team, but after a week around Dufftown, Rothes, Elgin and Keith, two members of the squad came back physically unable to write and could give only the haziest verbal recollections of what had transpired. The third and final member of the team has yet to return, and was last seen at the top of the Clocktower in Dufftown, insisting that if his new friends could fly then so could he. The bar bill from the Quaich Bar at the Craigellachie Hotel alone came to just short of £1,000. That must have been quite a lunchtime. The following, then, is the best we could come up with… Firstly, it seems, forget all those notions of cherubic faces you got from classical paintings. Scotland’s distillery angels aren’t like that. Think more of Father Jack Hackett from the television series Father Ted. Some of them really are angels with dirty faces (and quite a lot of red ones too). And they don’t have names like Gabriel and Michael, either. One of Macallan’s angels is known as Big Erchie while Glen Grant has a Wee Eck. And another thing. You know all that black mould you see on distillery warehouses and even on paths and trees nearby? Well, the scientists will tell you it’s Aspergillus niger, Trichoderma lignorum, or even Mucor racemosus. Not a bit of it. There’s not a distillery angel in Scotland who doesn’t smoke 40 a day. That’s what blackens the warehouses. The smell of whisky doesn’t come from the casks themselves, either, but from the angels having a good morning cough after a hard night’s imbibing. It’s just as well they can fly down to the shop for their fags and Daily Record, for there’s not one of them would pass a breathalyser before lunchtime. Despite their often dishevelled appearance and questionable personal habits, being a distillery angel is one of the top celestial jobs on offer. Mostly they are either Seraphim or Cherubim, the very highest orders of angels, and those who don’t make it through the selection process tend to end up looking after grain spirit warehouses in the Central Belt. Each distillery has its pecking order among the angels, with those trainees on ‘Celestial Skills’ courses taking care of the outlying warehouses while the senior, (or Heid) angel oversees things from a central position above the pagoda or still house. There are opportunities for promotion between distilleries too, it seems, with competition for places at the likes of Macallan and Glenfarclas very fierce. Many’s the angel who started at Banff or Littlemill and worked his way up the ladder—metaphorically, of course; why climb when you have wings—to a top rank distillery. Then there are the exchange visits. Next spring, Fat Norrie from Glen Moray is off to Cognac for a month, though what his fellow angels around Elgin will make of his temporary Gallic replacement remains to be seen. Warehouse talk is the boffins at Glenmorangie plc are already working to discover whether whisky matured in Gitanes smoke can be marketed as a single-cask limited edition. It’s reckoned that the angels put away about 100 million litres of spirit each year in Scotland. What actually happens is that the evaporating spirit condenses back into liquid form when it cools at a certain height, and the trainees collect the cratur in galvanized buckets, ready to serve to the senior angels, before it begins to fall back towards earth and vaporises once more. What many people fail to realise is that it’s not just drinking. These angels perform a vital environmental function, because if all that 100 million litres of spirit escaped as vapour, the damage to the ozone layer would be incalculable. Global warming could be speeded up, too, with a consequent rise in river and sea levels. Scientists say that within a hundred years, many Speyside distilleries could be beneath the waters of the very river that gives them their worldwide prestige. Not surprisingly, if there’s to be an angelic ceilidh, there’s always a bit of extra added anticipation if the venue is Balvenie or Mortlach, or somewhere similar where the spirit is universally well-regarded. Tales are told on Speyside of distillery angels keeping entire villages awake with their renditions of Robbie Williams’ hits, sliding down the pagoda roofs, and throwing up over the distillery cat. Sometimes, in the early hours, even their wings can’t save them hence the whisky industry expression ‘fallen angels’. The top angels must always be on their guard, however, for any sign of weakness has the eager youngsters looking for ways to muscle in, to enhance their own prospects. Many’s the fist fight that has developed when one of the older characters has decided that liberties were being taken. Think of it as being a bit like office politics, but without the opportunities to photocopy your private parts. Why, you might ask, are distillery angels so, well, unangelic? How did they even get to Heaven in the first place? The answer to that is simple. There’s a job to be done protecting the environment and it’s not a job you could do without a lifetime’s training. There wouldn’t be much point in appointing someone whose idea of alcoholic excess is a second sweet sherry on Christmas Day, would there? They’d only last a matter of days. What’s required is committed, hardened drinkers, people who start the day by gargling with Laphroaig (and swallowing). So all the usual criteria for getting into heaven are set aside and celestial talent scouts scour the bars of the world, looking for likely recruits. I hope it will give you a warm, seasonal glow when I tell you that so far all the successful applicants have been Scottish. Gavin D. Smith is the author of many whisky books, most recently Whisky, Wit & Wisdom published by—interestingly enough—The Angel’s Share.