In the beginning, there was an astonishing amount of infinitesimal but staggeringly complex physics. Quite a considerable amount of time later, on a small planet full of idiots, these physics were retroactively re-categorised as ‘God’. God – who was a metaphor, a fact she was totally unhappy about – made a man in her image. The image she was going for that day was one of a disheveled, 13th century Scottish crofter and lo: Murdani, a snarky teuchter bastard was arisen.

Murdani would fish, farm and hunt and complain. One day he said unto God, “Hows about a way tae get mair cash fer aw this spare barley God ya bawbag?”

And God said unto Murdani, “Take thee thy bushels in the months of winter and grind as thou wouldst for bread. Take thee the grist of thy labour and mix with waters both vigorous and sufficiently temperate that ariseth wild vapours. This wort shall ye ferment to an ale of potable qualities that ye might distill it through this metal of copper to a fine and clear make.”

“What bloody use is that?” said Murdani unto God

“Well ye can flog it tae English jessies doon south ya bam!” said God in an unconvincing Scottish accent.

“Aye alright, but whit’s all this aboot copper. There’s nae copper aboot here!” exclaimed Murdani to God in a fashion that suggested he was thick as mince and a wild bampot to boot.

“Get thee thy copper stills from Forsyths of Rothes.” said God unto Murdani. “Although twill surely taketh over two years so you’re best just getting a turnkey approach. Or thy might asketh Speyside Copper Works for a competitive quote.”

“What about wan o’ these Portuguese companies that dae these wee Shallot-shaped stills?” enquired Murdani unto God.

“Don’t be bothering with that shite!” boometh the lord. For she was enduring some cosmic PMS and not in the mood for Murdani’s dreadful patter. “Also, what’s all this about Shallots? Hast thou been shopping at Waitrose you swanky little gobshite?” so sayeth God unto Murdani.

And so Murdani carried out the word of God unto each holy letter. Although he did skip a few bits by getting cheap intermediate spirit receivers and and some dodgy heat exchangers from a geezer called ‘Funky Joe’ from the local boozer, but prevail he did. God looked upon Murdani’s creation and was pleased, for it was a fine size that might be approved without need of a major planning application from the local council and had suitable disabled visitor access.

God said unto Murdani, “Go forth with the life giving waters of the stream and maketh them truly the waters of life.”

And Murdani said, “Errr… stream?”

And God said, “Aye! Stream!”

And Murdani said, “Whit fucking stream?”

And God took a long weekend and returneth from her Spa treatment whereupon she said unto Murdani, “You’ve got to have water to make fucking whisky you smelly-fingered goat shagger!”

And Murdani said, “You can be really hurtful sometimes.”

And God said, “Oh fuck it I’ll do a magic borehole.”

And lo God produced from the very earth the soothing waters of a stream and all that came unto that place were amazed as the drilling company had managed to find water in the allocated time and within budget.

Now Murdani allowed the wisdom of God to guide his hand in the craft of whisky making. Although not too much as he quickly became mightily pished on wash. A substance he proclaimed to be “Nae snazzy like, but better than that White Lightening pish from the Co-Op!”

And so the clear nectar did runeth from the stills. A heartening and virtuous liquid that captured the harmonious essence of the Scottish sunlight which God had bestowed upon the Earth and all her creatures. A liquid which presently made big Shug from the Corner Shop go blind and try to picketh a battle with a flock of unsuitable pigs in the manner of a Tory Prime Minister.

So God said unto Murdani, “Stop you total numpty! Thy new make spirit is too greatly populous with deleterious matters that offend the hearts and minds and bowels of my faithful peoples! Especially the bowels!”

And Murdani said, “You’s are talking pish God! I’ve been at it all morning and I’m feeling pure frisky like!”

And God said unto Murdani, “I’m up here you total jobbie-brain! That’s a puddle you’re talking to!”

And Murdani said unto God, “Aye maybe it’s time for a sly Scooby Snack!”

And God said unto Murdani, “Do thou as I commanded thee in the first place and runneth thy stills at a temperate pace without haste or fury. Draweth off only the purest heart of the liquid and shove it in yonder wooden barrel.”

And Murdani replied, “I bathe my hairy heiland sister from Drumnadrochit in yonder barrel. Art thou sure God? That sounds like a pure reekin’ idea…”

And God said unto Murdani, “Aye! Maybe use the other barrel!”

And so it was on the finest of God’s fine mornings that a wooden cask was filled with the purest nectar. It was both viscus and oily and had a notable old style quality about it for it was centuries before some total git came along and invented M strain Distiller’s yeast and ruined everything.

Presently Murdani said unto God, “Should we take a sample to yon laboratory for analysis?”

To which almighty God replied, “Have thee not faith in the fine articles of thy spirit Murdani?”

Unto which Murdani said, “Aye, but we burned a lot of peat in the malting process and we’ll struggle to get our product into the US market and Canada if our Nitrosamine levels are too high.”

Unto which a mighty and wrathful God hollered unto Murdani, “Shut it cock-face! I’m God! You know I hate that science shit!”

Murdani’s heart was presently filled with sorrows and his faculties reduced in muster for he was badly looking forward to getting pished in New York City on expenses with his brand rep somewhere down the line. “Oh almighty God!” Murdani did presently call out to the heavens above, “Why art though such a ballbreaker?!”

“Oh shut it!” replied our great and holy lord while eating a fish supper. “Just wait three years and we shall have made the most wondrous and legal whisky thy might imagine.”

And Murdani exclaimed unto God, “Three fucking years! You mean I have tae drink some pishy wine for three whole bloody years!?”

And God said unto Murdani, “Get thee to thy local Brewdog bar if thou art so consumed with spurious desires Murdani.”

Unto which Murdani replied, “Naw. Cannae be daein’ wie that fizzy, yankee ripoff juice.”

Unto which Murdani added, “How come we huv tae wait three whole bloody years God?”

And God did answer unto Murdani, “Speak to the SWA about it not me!”

A lo that is the history of whisky. A mighty tale of mighty God and mighty Whisky and considerably less mighty Murdani…

Although Murdani did presently interrupt the end of this holy blog post to pronounce the following question: “How is this the history of Whisky God? Whit aboot yon Chinese fireworks and Persian fake slap that both requireth they fancy pants distillation stuff? And isn’t there aw that patter about crusades and monks and beer and some King and his bushels?”

And God said unto Murdani, “Tis really just to do with word count Murdani, here! Taketh thee a loan of my personal copy of ‘Blogging For Dummies’ that thy might be illuminated by its wisdom and surprisingly easy to navigate contents page.”

And God did enquire unto Murdani, “One last thing God. Did you create the heavens?”

“Yes.”

“And all of space and time and all the stars and planets and all the people including Morag from the post office who I sort of fancy?”

“Where are you going with this?”

“Well, who created you?”

“Oh shut it. That’s got nothing to do with International Whisky Day?”

“What’s International Whisky Day?”

“It’s a global celebration of Whisky. Whisky’s official big ‘day’. Everything has a day now. In fact I’m pretty sure that most things share ‘days’ with other things now because I messed up the potency of your local celestial object and its habitable zone. I should have made it so that years were longer but I can’t be responsible for everything!”

“Do you mean the ‘International Whisky Day’ that’s run by the small child with the beard who sells hoovers and water?”

“No no no! That’s the other one!”

“So what’s this one then?”

“This is the one that celebrates Michael Jackson’s birthday and just whisky in general.”

“Right, who is Michael Jackson?”

And lo God got really fed up with Murdani’s incessant questioning and did presently squash him with a flying cow and introduce him to Michael Jackson in the afterlife who happened to be having a jovial arm wrestle with David Bowie after a few too many jeroboams of Chimay Blue. Michael told Murdani his whisky “Had potential.”

Merry International Whisky Day from thy kindly Whiskysponge.

Slante!