Alright, let’s start with a bit of dreary statistics before I get to why I actually sat down to write this post. According to the Swedish Public Health Agency, the total alcohol consumption in Sweden reached 8.4 litres of pure alcohol per person over 15 in 2024 – a clear drop from the 2004 peak of 10.6 litres (Folkhälsomyndigheten). The trend’s been heading downwards ever since, though not evenly across generations.
Among young adults (16–29) the change is most striking. The share of young men with risky drinking habits has fallen from around 43% in 2004 to about 20% in 2024, according to Aftonbladet and the Public Health Agency (Folkhälsomyndigheten, Rubinen). Most of that decline is driven by younger age groups and men, while older adults haven’t cut back as much – some even drink a bit more these days.
The same pattern shows up internationally. A World Health Organization study found that alcohol use among 15–16-year-olds has dropped sharply across much of Europe since the mid-1990s. And in the US, 47.5% of 18–25-year-olds reported drinking in the last month in 2024 — still a high figure, but one that’s slowly going down. (Aftonbladet, niaaa.nih.gov, EUDA)
So yes, the general picture seems clear: risky drinking and bingeing are on the decline among young adults, in Sweden and in much of the Western world. But what does that have to do with us whisky lovers?
And why, you may ask, am I spending a perfectly good Sunday evening writing a blog post about boring old stats? Well, last week I had the great pleasure of spending a few days in beautiful Fiskebäckskil, surrounded by whisky enthusiasts from the drinks and hospitality industries — and a handful of other misfits (the category I proudly belong to). As always, I ended up in fascinating conversations about the whisky world, and one in particular stuck with me.
It was with a sharp-minded marketing manager for a spirits importer, and — surprise, surprise — we ended up talking about inclusion. As you probably know, I’m passionate about making whisky more accessible to people who are, consciously or not, often excluded by the industry’s marketing and social norms. I was in full rant mode when he quietly asked: But why?
I was floored. Isn’t it obvious? Everyone should be welcome. Everyone should get to play. But what he meant was this: if alcohol consumption is going down — and other drinks categories are growing — why invest time, energy and money in trying to get uninterested people interested? Why not just go with the flow, follow the trend, and put our efforts where the wind is blowing?
Less focus on whisky. Less focus on women or people outside the “middle-aged Swedish bloke” demographic. More focus on no-alcohol options for the young, and more wine and bubbly for the ladies (his words were much more polite than mine, to be clear).
So what do I think? Well, I get his point. Businesses run on profit, and if there’s no money in inclusion, it’s not going to happen. That’s why it’s up to people like you and me to keep inviting, welcoming, and inviting again.
The problem is, most whisky club members would rather bring along their mates than do diversity work — and our mates tend to be just like us. That’s one reason why so many whisky clubs are happy to have a long waiting list, without realising that nearly everyone on it is over 60, with maybe 20 good years of dramming left. Recruiting people in their 20s or 30s has its advantages, but it does take effort — and the easy way out is to say, “I’ll ask my son-in-law,” (never the daughter-in-law, sadly).
So what do I want? I’m an incurable optimist. If we could convince half the world’s women that they needed to shave their armpits to be what they already were, there’s hope for whisky too. The hairless ideal was a marketing invention, born purely from someone’s desire to sell more razors — and look how that turned out.
If we can sell that, surely we can get overlooked groups interested in whisky? Maybe that’s what could turn the tide.
Worst-case scenario? I’m wrong, and in thirty years I’ll be sitting alone on a metaphorical hill of glass, drinking ancient whisky no one wants anymore, dreaming of the days when whisky clubs, festivals, and fans still existed.
Best case? I’ll have to sharpen my elbows to fight through crowds of women, young people, non-binary folks and anyone who isn’t ghost-pale — just to grab a dram before it sells out. Because if the demand is there, whether driven by profit-hungry companies or socially conscious consumers, there’s money to be made. And if there’s money to be made, maybe — just maybe — the distillery owners will finally wake up.
