Remember that time I waxed all lyrical about whisky? It was one of those posts that just came out fully formed – maybe because the subject was close to my heart and had been the subject of much in-depth thought.

But given the need for fiscal discipline in the life of an unemployed freelance writer – particularly one given to the impulse purchase of 20-year-old German 4×4 vehicles – there hasn’t been much of the amber nectar in Corner Cottage of late. There may also be a tiny element of snobbery creeping in: having been reacquainted with the seductive nuances of Lagavulin that night we bumped into Leo Sayer (pardon the shameless namedropping), lately the lesser brands just didn’t seem to cut it anymore.

So today, having found my way by diverse means into a bottle store in Bungendore, I was standing in front of the cabinet containing all the single malts, trying to find the one that delivered Lagavulin smoothness for Corio money, when my questing eye fell upon the distinctive lines of a bottle of Ned.

A little voice said, “why not?” After all, it’s always been a fruitful policy to drink the local beer in whatever country around the world I find myself in, so why not try the local malt? Readers, I bought it.

Let’s defer our verdict on this elixir for another time, because we’re having a look at Ned himself – Ned Kelly, Aussie folk hero, hipster beard-wearer, murderer and thief. His claim to fame is at least partly based on his home-made suit of armour that rendered him – at least in part – bulletproof. But there’s an interesting factoid about Ned which perhaps underlies the naming of the spirit currently eyeing me from across the room – he hoped to use the ill-gotten gains from his life of crime to start a whisky still.

Anyway, it’s hard to underestimate the power of the Kelly myth here in Aus: he’s regarded as a sort of misunderstood Robin Hood figure, standing up to the injustices meted out by corrupt police and limiting his violent acts to the agents of a violent system. He was certainly a complex bloke, but people like to think he represents the values of independence, loyalty and straight-dealing that may or may not run through Aussie society like stripes through toothpaste.

Despite Mick Jagger’s tenure in Braidwood pretending to be Ned, Kelly really belongs to Victoria; the equivalent around these parts are the Clarke brothers, Thomas and John, who rose to fame and glory in the 1860s goldfields by robbing gold shipments and murdering policemen – four in one go, which proved their downfall. The graves of these poor coppers are right here in the Braidwood cemetery. Having been arrested in 1867, the brothers were imprisoned, right here in Braidwood again, before being moved to Sydney for trial and execution.

Although the Clarkes don’t have a reputation for altruism, in subsequent years they and other bushrangers seem to have come to represent the romance of the freewheeling gold-rush era. Local historians have published carefully-researched books about them and have even staged re-enactments of their depredations. The poverty, grime and violence seem to have been burnished to a rosy hue by time and a kind of naïve nostalgia.

Being at one time a resident of London’s gritty East End, I’m strongly reminded of attitudes to the criminal element that thrived thereabouts in the ‘60s – particularly the Krays: twins Ronnie and Reggie and their older brother Charlie. When Reggie, the straight one, died in 2000, thousands turned out to line the Bethnal Green Road and watch his funeral cortege go by.

These celebrity crooks were venerated in the neighbourhood because they’d become successful from humble origins: in those swinging ‘60s they ran glamorous nightclubs and hob-nobbed with such glitterati as ‘Carry On’ starlet Barbara Windsor, Shirley Bassey, Frank Sinatra, and Cliff Richard. They were even photographed by posh snapper David Bailey.

But the Krays were seriously bad people – their business was built on violence: they ran protection rackets, carried out armed robberies, committed arson, and progressed by degrees to murder. In possible mitigation, Ronnie turned out to be paranoid schizophrenic. Their cachet in the East End was based on the ideas that “they never preyed on their own” – other working-class people – and that they “always looked after their mum.”

As one who has spent some time in the dubious world of public relations, I think it’s a neat trick on behalf of the Krays and Kelly to represent themselves as basically good guys forced into criminality by forces beyond their control (the Clarkes just seem to have been straight-out mean and unfazed by this fact). Sure the early cops on the goldfields fell short of Elliot Ness standards of incorruptibility, but not everyone turned to violent crime to redress the balance.

By this point you’re probably wondering, “what’s all this got to do with whisky?” Well, it’s about why you’d name your product Ned, I suppose. The label says, “Australia deserves a whisky that respects its people. One with an unmistakable character that speaks for itself.” Not unlike Ned, presumably. But what does it say? Presumably not that under certain circumstances, it’s OK to pick up a pistol and take up a life of crime. Even if someone someday names a grain-based fermented tipple after you.