whiskey

Och, here we gae, another tale aboot that bletherin’ eejit Kevin, but this time it’s aboot his daft pal Lance. Lance, a bawheid if ever there wis one, thought himsel’ a right clever clogs. But, truth be told, he wis as thick as mince.

Ane day, Lance decided he’d try his hand at brewin’ his ain whisky. “How hard can it be?” he thought, wi’ his heid up his arse. So, he gathered a pile o’ barley, some water, an’ auld Mrs. McGregor’s secret recipe he nicked frae her cupboard. He set up a still in his shed, thinkin’ he’d be the toast o’ the village by nightfall.

As he started distillin’, the shed filled wi’ steam an’ the smell o’ burnin’ barley. Lance, oblivious tae the disaster brewin’ roond him, took a swig o’ his first batch. It tasted like pure shite, but he kept at it, determined tae get it right.

Meanwhile, Kevin, the muppet, wandered by an’ smelled the disaster. He poked his heid intae the shed an’ burst oot laughin’. “Lance, ye daft bawbag! Ye’ve managed tae make the shittiest whisky in a’ o’ Scotland!”

Lance, feelin’ a wee bit miffed, shouted back, “Ach, bugger aff, Kevin! Ye wouldnae ken good whisky if it bit ye on the arse!”

But before they could start their usual slingin’ o’ insults, the still started tae hiss an’ bubble. “Whit the hell is that?” Kevin asked, his eyes widenin’ in panic.

“Shite! It’s gonnae blow!” Lance cried, realizin’ his cock-up too late. They barely made it oot the shed afore the still exploded, sendin’ bits o’ burnt barley an’ shite whisky flyin’ everywhere. The shed wis a smolderin’ ruin, an’ Lance wis covered in soot an’ reekin’ o’ burnt piss.

The villagers gathered roond, laughin’ their arses off at the sight. “Lance, ye daft bastard!” they shouted. “Whit kind o’ eejit tries tae blow up his ain shed?”

Lance, humiliated but nae quite broken, vowed tae stick tae buyin’ his whisky frae the pub. An’ so, the tale o’ Lance’s shite-brewin’ escapade wis told in every tavern an’ alehouse frae Glenfinnan tae Inverness. An’ if ye ever hear someone talkin’ big aboot brewin’ their ain whisky, jist tell them aboot Lance, the thick-heided numpty who blew up his shed an’ stank o’ shite fer a fortnight.