A little old lady by the name of Marigold Petuia Wattlebottom created God.
Accidentally. She knitted him, merely as a way of using up her rather bloated yarnstash and as a way of passing a Sunday afternoon while her husband, George, made his way swiftly towards the nineteenth hole.
Her grandson, a bright but rather untidy lad by the name of Sebastian, had left his chemistry set out during his weekly sleepover. Marigold, who had become a little short-sightee, but could still knit just fine thankyou, as her fingers had grown accustomed to the feel of the yarn and the rhythm of the needles, went to tidy it away and there was an unfortunate accident.
Marigold suffered no greater injury than the loss of both eyebrows but her recently knitted creation not only rose up and recited the entire history of the universe, backwards, but informed Marigold that he was in fact, and always had been, THE one.
Marigold has often wondered if George had slipped something in her Sanatogen, but with little evidence to back up this theory, we can only assume knitted God was telling the truth.
Ah, you say—but who created Marigold? Marigold of course grew from a seed, planted in a neat garden in the parish of Saint Brigid. Now, you may already know that Saint Brigid is the patron saint of hens. Indeed it was Brigid's chicken shit that fertilised the garden which gave birth to Marigold.
The chicken shit came from a hen by the name of Irene. Irene was born of an egg laid by Imelda. Imelda was ... ah but that's another story.