Words: Kinga Kusyk (she/her)
Purity, in the cultural sense, always has a hierarchy: clean bodies over dirty ones; disciplined citizens over undisciplined ones; ‘good’ drinkers over ‘problem’ drinkers
In vodka, we want purity. A clear spirit, a clean burn, and a guarantee that what you’re drinking is what it claims to be.
It is not, after all, the cocktail hour drinker who is lured into risk: it is the person reaching, again and again, for the harshly functional bottle of Glen’s rather than Grey Goose. After all, it is the cheapest legal comfort available. The small act of reaching for the bottom shelf tells a much bigger story about who modern alcohol policy is really aimed at, and who becomes vulnerable to the next layer of extraction. Counterfeit alcohol does not target refined palates – it targets pinched ones. It does not counterfeit taste. It counterfeits necessity.
Over the years, in corner shops across Scotland, more than 230 bottles of counterfeit vodka have been confiscated after customers reported an alarming ‘varnish remover’ smell. Bottles were found to contain a poisonous chemical called isopropyl: a clear, flammable liquid commonly used as a disinfectant, and as an antiseptic in pharmaceuticals for dissolving oils and killing germ, not as something to be swallowed. In a statement, Food Standards Scotland said: ‘If you believe you may have consumed alcohol that has a strong smell and a very different taste to normal and are showing any of the symptoms described, please contact the NHS 24 on 111 immediately. If you have severe symptoms, call 999.’ Symptoms of isopropyl alcohol poisoning include stomach pain, vomiting, dizziness, a sore head, confusion, and slow breathing. The impact of fake vodka isn’t just economic deception: it is bodily violence disguised as a bargain.
Minimum Unit Pricing (MUP) came into force in May 2018, set at 50p per unit, meaning the stronger the drink, the higher the price. This was recently increased to 65p in September 2024, right around the time counterfeit Glens started being spotted in corner shops. The rise of the minimum legal price particularly affects cheap, value vodka – an affordable alternative is suddenly inaccessible. MUP doesn’t simply reduce consumption: it deliberately intervenes in the cheapest end of the alcohol market, precisely because that is where high-strength products favoured by heavy drinkers are concentrated. This is a segment dominated not by casual drinkers but by people who drink heavily and routinely, often those experiencing dependency and financial hardship, for whom purchasing alcohol is habitual rather than occasional. The demand for value vodka is inelastic. Many customers remain loyal to the bottom shelf, making it more likely that they will pick up that tainted bottle of Glens.
In Scotland, consumers have not merely been ‘encouraged’ to drink less – they have been steadily engineered into doing so through government pricing mechanisms introduced explicitly to make the strongest, cheapest alcohol less attainable. This isn’t interpretation; it is the policy’s stated mechanism, which is ‘specifically aimed at having the greatest impact on the heaviest daily drinkers.’ On the surface, reducing harmful alcohol consumption is not an objectionable goal. Lower levels of drinking are clearly associated with better health outcomes, fewer alcohol-related deaths, and reduced pressure on public services. However, the way this reduction is pursued reveals deeper social consequences. By targeting the cheapest forms of alcohol, the policy disproportionately affects those with the least financial flexibility. Alcohol consumption may be nudged downward in some cases, but the social conditions that produce high levels of harm persist.
Speaking on the recent appearances of counterfeit vodka, Ron McNaughton, head of the Scottish Food Crime Unit, said, ‘That [counterfeit alcohol would emerge as an issue] has always been a concern. When minimum pricing for alcohol was introduced, there was always a concern that people in certain demographic groups might look for places where they could get cheap alcohol, including cheap vodka.’ This issue was always foreseen by the government, but this is just the first time it has come to light. It could be said that policy unintentionally amplified this vulnerability, even if it didn’t single-handedly create the counterfeit trade. The policy intent is health. But the lived reality is that it created an opportunity. Counterfeit alcohol is not merely a product of criminal ingenuity, but a kind of shadow policy outcome: it is the black-market echo of a society that punishes the poor through price, and then acts surprised when predation blooms in the spaces it has squeezed open.
Conversations with several corner shop owners in Glasgow’s West End produced a consistent response when asked whether counterfeit alcohol had reached Hillhead: ‘Not here.’ Despite wider reports of illicit spirits circulating in lower-cost retail spaces, local retailers described their area as largely unaffected. This perception sits alongside drinking data showing that around 21% of adults in Glasgow report consuming more than the recommended 14 units of alcohol per week. High, but slightly below the Scottish average of 24%. Shopkeepers readily acknowledge the area’s strong student drinking culture, but they tend to characterise it as social and episodic rather than chronic. Nights out in the West End are associated with pub crawls orbiting the Clockwork Orange, leaky craft beer bars, and dimly lit venues with DJ decks and £5 cocktail deals. These are not the same consumers who slip a half-bottle of vodka into a jacket pocket to drink alone or on the move. At their worst, students may sneak a BuzzBall into a ticket queue.
When the state curbs affordability at the bottom of the market, it produces a moral chromatography by splitting drinkers into two classes. Those who can absorb rising prices remain in legitimate, regulated consumption. Those who cannot are funnelled down into whatever remains cheapest and available. Trust starts to thin, and the counterfeit trade, always opportunistic, moves into the vacuum. Purity, in the cultural sense, always has a hierarchy: clean bodies over dirty ones; disciplined citizens over undisciplined ones; ‘good’ drinkers over ‘problem’ drinkers. The counterfeit vodka example in Scotland is just one obscene literalisation of that hierarchy.
The liquid looks pure, but the system behind it is not.
