There is not much to making whisky. Four ingredients. Bright, shining fanny-tickling simplicity. Water, barley, yeast and wooden barrels. Or so the intro to any whisky guide will tell you. And that’s when the skin-headed, tattooed thug in the corner stands up, the bell rings and the announcer sing-songs “And now introducing the defending champ of over 6 millennia, 36 000 bouts and 36 000 first-round knockouts. Ladies and gents, put your hands together forrrrrrrrrrr - Magic!!” The brute (picture Tom Hardy towards the back end of "Bronson") turns his scarred face and spits into an aging bucket. His aim is perfect, hitting a handful of discoloured teeth that lie there as testament to his experience. He steps slowly, light on his feet for such a juggernaut. He looks into the naïve eyes of Simplicity and a small, cruel smile nestles into his weathered face.
After two hours of a gory, blood-spattered slug-fest in which Magic unleashes meaty blows into the gut and ribs of Simplicity, you have whisky. So, yes, it is simple. But it is not easy. And you can take a long walk off a short fucking plank if you think there’s no need for magic.
In fact, according to me, whisky is such a beautiful creature entirely because of its trouser-tenting mystery. Sure, you need a quality supply of fresh water. But, hard or soft? And the barley should be of finest quality, but peat-smoked or floor-malted, or both, or neither? And if you think that yeast is yeast is yeast, you best go and find aforementioned plank. And for every drop of blood that Simplicity oozed at the hands of Magic, so there is another choice to be made: the height and breadth of the stills (each ding and dent in the stills is significant, you fucktard), where the foreshot finishes and the feint begins, whether the sea crashes against the distillery walls, whether the oak is ex-Oloroso Sherry or ex-Bourbon the size of Hogsheads or Quarter Casks. And the list goes on and on.... and on....... oh yes, and fucking on.
So on a quiet evening when you press those sensitive cheeks into the worn cushions of your armchair and you take a deep whiff of your favourite dram, pretend you’re wearing a motherfucking wizard’s hat. Because, my friend, whisky is motherfucking magic.