The only source of knowledge is experience. Albert Einstein.

If you’ve read our blog before, or if you’ve been rooting around for the first time you will maybe have spotted that we’re great believers in the importance and value of experience.

OK, we would say that given that none of us have had the words Young Turks, whippersnappers or green used in recent descriptions of us.

Doth we protest too much? Doth we use it as a smokescreen behind which we wail and gnash teeth praying for the return of that great man, Johannes Gutenberg? Doth we tremble in corners as electronic equipment flashes around the room and young men with stubble and strangely sculpted beardery mumble coded words?

No, of course we dothn’t.

Sure, we may not have adopted Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3 or Assassin’s Creed: Revelations as our evening hobby of choice.? We may not knock back Jagerbombs faster than you can say “Watch out! Doodlebug!” (Eh, actually, you do – Ed). We may not even like TOWIE.

But, and it’s a big but, we’ve learned a few things along the way.

And we’re not yet lining up to join that fine organisation The Colostomy Association.

So, what’s so great about being old?

Well, for a start, we’re not old; we’re experienced and as Jimi Hendrix so succinctly put it:

I know, I know you probably scream and cry
That your little world won’t let you go
But who in your measly little world
Are you trying to prove that
You’re made out of gold and, eh, can’t be sold

Enjoy it here in full and in context…

Sure, it’s a drug fuelled route to Nirvana but it’s a mind opening trip and hey, we’ve been on a few trips of our own over the years; not, of course that any of them were taken in a form of illegal intoxication you understand.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger they say? And it’s true.

The day the hired Ferrari bashed into the hired super-powerboat on an Italian quayside taught us never again to attempt pinpoint braking manoeuvres on Italian quaysides using hired equipment and Italian stuntmen in commercials again.

Wearing faux sealskin tight fitting trousers in a hot London studio immediately became a lifelong no no.

Calling a client a twat behind his back and pressing reply instead of forward was a lesson to be hung onto forever.

500 movies, 100 plays, 300 exhibitions, 1,000 books, 3 video games, 1,652 TV series, 2,000 albums, 10 houses, 1,000 holidays, 30 frescos , 60 murals, 182 altars, 182 knaves, 20 temples, 65 graveyards, 50 wakes, 200 weddings, 37 christenings, 1 near death experience, 6 broken bones, a broken heart (or two): all of these shaped us into a team that can take a brief and apply a bit of life to the solution.

Colour, light and shade, mood and tone? They all come from experience.

Mike Yarwood, God love him, Alistair McGown, Steve Cooogan even; they didn’t just turn into great impersonators overnight.

They listened, crafted and practiced. They drew on experience.

Many bands’ first albums are brilliant. But that’s because they, usually, have been honing and shaping their sound in obscurity, touring their asses off, getting better and better.

Album number two? Crap.

Rushed out, unformed ideas, badly executed. And then, a sabbatical, while they learn from their experiences; the early ones good, the latter disappointing. Quite often album number three (that difficult third album) comes out more mature, better crafted, more considered than their first two. Either that or they disappear without trace because they only ever had one good album in them.

Us? We’re long past that difficult third album.

Think of us more like Paul Weller. Constantly trying our best to engage new ideas, find new stimuli, create new looks.

But please, don’t ever think of us as The Style Council.

R.I.P. Steve Jobs: 24 February 1955 to 5 October 2011

The TV commercial embedded below was pitched by one of Jobs few role models, Lee Clow of TBWA/Chiat/Day in 1997.

It made Jobs cry.

But lots of things made Jobs cry.

Jobs was a cryer.

So Walter Isaacson says in his biography of Jobs, simply entitled Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson. Jobs demanded that Isaacson be his biographer despite the writer’s protestations. Isaacson had previously written biographies of Albert Einstein and Benjamin Franklin and I fancy Jobs wanted to be considered in the same breath. Like much in the world’s greatest control freak’s life, he got his way on that.

Genius was one of Jobs’ favourite concepts. He surrounded himself with it; at least most of the time he did. He considered Isaacson something of a genius too and in truth he didn’t get it far wrong because this 600 page map of Jobs’ life and innermost thoughts tells us more about his beliefs and habits than most authorised biographies could ever do. It’s as honest as the day is long. Jobs’ didn’t want his life airbrushed, and it’s the product development manual of the century.

You’ll learn more in this book about the importance of design, of attention to detail, of focus, of commitment, of passion, of non-compromise as you will in a lifetime of sports books. Jobs was the Stephen Redgrave of the business world, pushing himself physically and intellectually beyond what most normal human beings could tolerate.

And it killed him.

The typefaces used, the white inner dustjacket cover. The photographs in the book. All were chosen (changed) by Jobs. No doubt the first iteration was described as “shit” and the poor book designer described as an “asshole”, because that was Jobs’ modus operandi.

But look what we got:

Game changing computers (The Apple 2 – not the Macintosh because it wasn’t very good – The iMac, the G3,4,5, the Powerbook, The Macbook Air, the OS in its many forms).

A new model for the animation industry – no Jobs = no Pixar, no Pixar = no Disney.

A new model for the music industry – first the iPod then iTunes and then the iStore.

A new model for the book industry – better than Amazon’s.

A new model for the telecommunications industry – the iPhone.

The iPad – despite its detractors it changed everything.

We read in detail (but not too much) about each and every one of these developments.

We also read about his failures; The Macintosh, Apple itself (Mark 1), NeXT computers, his early relationships, his diet, his health, his first daughter.

His idiosyncrasies are shared for all to enjoy – many an enemy will no doubt love to see these spelt out; the long walks, the diets, the body odour issues, the Zen Buddhism, his tantrums, his fall outs, his crying in meetings.

His obsession with design and minimalism and the way that was tamed and harnessed by Jonny Ives.

It’s all there.

Every page a turner.

Every development a fascination.

It’s a must read book for anyone interested in any way in how to do really great things. But, if good enough is good enough for you, skip it and buy yourself the latest Android phone or top of the range PC.

They should be good enough.

Alexander Payne burst onto the movie scene in 1999 with the darkly humorous Election for which he garnered an Oscar nomination for the screenplay that he co-wrote. He quickly followed that up with About Schmidt in which Kathy Bates and Jack Nicholson grabbed Oscar nominations for best actor and actress. In 2004, he picked up a further 5 nominations for Sideways (including best director and best movie)and his first award (again for best writing).

It’s been a seven year wait for his fourth outing (in between times he’s mainly done TV) and guess what, he’s done it again. Another 5 nominations, mostly for the biggies (writing – yet again – director, movie, actor and editing). Unless you hadn’t gathered from this Alexander Payne is one of the most consistent and reliable writers, directors and moviemakers in Hollywood today and The Descendents is his best yet. It also confirms George Clooney as undeniably the heir to De Niro’s throne as Hollywood’s best current actor (De Niro long ago having cashed in with a string of junk that defames his previously unblemished career).

Each of Payne’s films is different but similar. All have dark storylines at their centre and deal with big issues; ageing, sex, popularity, death. Each are hilariously funny (in fact you’d call Election, About Schmidt and Sideways comedies) but The Descendents ups the ante.

The Descendants is an, at times, deeply moving story about trust, love and despair. It casts Clooney as the wronged husband and father; a career lawyer who’s lost touch with his wife so that she embarks on an affair that sews together a plot that touches on greed, deceit and family values.

Apart from the opening 10 seconds , Clooney’s wife spends the entire movie in a coma thereby forcing him to make proper emotional contact with his two daughters; ten year old princess in the making, Scottie (played really well by Amara Miller) and 17 year old school boarder and problem child, Alexandra (an oversight by the Academy for Best Supporting Actress) played by Shailene Woodley – better known for US hit TV series the Secret Life of the American Teenager. Woodley smokes throughout!

What sets The Descendents apart and makes it a real live contender for best movie is its brilliant writing and acting and its ability to turn on a dime from humour to pathos. In this respect Clooney does indeed pull out all the stops (in as unexaggerated a style as only Clooney can do when pulling stops out) in his role which sees him on screen throughout.? His despair is muted but tangible and the final scene pretty much breaks your heart.

This is a very fine movie indeed and may yet surprise the bookmakers come February 26^th. Here’s hoping because from where I sit it was 2011’s best nominated movie (Drive being ludicrously overlooked by the Academy).

Imagine the scene.

Scotland are playing England at Crosby, near Southport. The English team consists of Antony Gormley’s men, resolute and immovable.

Kick off. Hamilton receives, feeds Cusiter who passes to Parks who kicks into the open arms of the rock-like Foden. Kellock passes to Jacobsen – knocks on. Ball loose, Ford picks up, passes to Cross who runs into Gray – accidental offside. 45 mins in and England haven’t moved. It flows well through the Scottish line however. The ball’s out, Blair to Parks, Parks to Lamont, Lamont to De Luca, De Luca to Evans, De Luca on the loop, Evans to de Luca and De Luca threads a pass straight into touch. England very threatening now but Scotland manage to win it back. Rennie on the charge, three men outside him and only a static, solitary Foden in front. The try is on – there for the taking. Blair and Strokosch screaming for the ball but Rennie delays his pass too long and runs into Gormley’s unmoving full back.

Ball loose.

Chance gone.

Full time.

Game over.

Scotland trudge off. England, the indomitable winners, remain stationary on the park.

Scotland – the least dangerous team in the world with ball in hand.

From our New Zealand correspondent:

It had all been going so well. We were into the third week of our NZ odyssey, having developed the carefree kiwi sense of ‘she’ll be right’, and were heading south on a day’s drive from Nelson to Hokitika.

We’d been told to expect views of high mountains and deep gorges, fantastic bush scenery and “look out for the great West-coast kiwis – that’s men, not the bird.

Started well enough with blue skies and white scudding clouds soon turned grey and dark and the rains hammered down (truth be told, high in the mountains it had been hammering down for 12 hours).

Undaunted we cruised down Highway 6 on our way to the fabled Buller Gorge and were slightly miffed when we were refused entry on the road to the aforementioned gorge. “Sorry mate. Road closed. Big floods” said the burly west-coast kiwi. “Head down to Springs Junction and take the road to Reefton.” he duly advised.

We did.

Got to Reefton, no probs and kept heading south. We reached Ikamatua (great name) and came to a dead stop. “Big floods ahead, road closed, we’ll get it sorted.”

2.5 hours later they said it was sorted and we were off on a 50km diversion through Nelson Creek which took us all of 10 km closer to our destination – and then it started to go wrong. Road closed signs started appearing on the left of us … then on the right of us, and finally, bang in front of us. We were only 4kms from the bridge at Greymouth but that was a bridge too far. Massive rains from the mountains and the incoming high tide meant we were stranded. It was now 8.00 in the evening, darkness was descending fast and we were, to all intents and purposes up the proverbial creek without the paddle.

No place to stay – uh, oh.

To us the village of Taylorville (village makes it sound big) was a depressing place, a delapidated collection of timber homes and a pub that looked as inviting as a cup of cold sick.

I pushed the door of the pub open and looked around – at first glance it was like a scene from Deliverance. All eyes stared at me, I was the focus (did I hear the first few notes of Classical Gas or was I imagining things?).

They (four locals and two bar staff) waited for me to speak. Explaining our plight I asked about a B&B and suddenly the tavern broke into chatter. They started weighing up who they could send us too as there was no room at the inn as they had already had two French and two Dutch strays. “Go down the the Old Schoolhouse John and Rachel may have a room” they decided.

And yes they did – as long as we didn’t mind us sharing with the family. Mind? Of course we didn’t mind. “Just go back to the pub, get something to eat and come back afterwards – we’ll make a room up for you,” Rachel ordered.

And so we went back to the pub and were welcomed, fed, watered and entertained by West? coast Kiwis. They were fabulous company and when the village heard of ‘the action’ in the pub more of them came down to join in the fun in the Buck’s Head Tavern, Taylorville. The best pub I have ever been in for hospitality, warmth, entertainment and sheer joie de vivre. It was a five star experience.

Trip Advisor – you have no idea.

And if any of you, dear readers, are ever stranded in Taylorville then stay with John and Rachel Tennant at 717 Taylorville Road, Taylorville .

You’ll have the time of your life.

A lot of advertising water has passed under the cultural bridge since the wonderful VW press advertising by Doyle, Dane, Bernbach first appeared in the early 60′s. So it’s easy to forget what a profound impact and influence this campaign had on the advertising business worldwide.

Of course, the campaign had its knockers, too. Many of them the big, bad, old style Madison Avenue ad agencies who were either too dim to figure out what was happening or too slow to sniff the winds of change and adapt.

It was for these companies and the people that ran them, as well as the clients that kept them fed and very well watered, that a young creative director called Fred Manley from a San Francisco agency BBDO wrote a tongue in cheek article entitled, “Nine Ways to Improve an Ad”.

Oh how the old timers must have nodded as they read the opening two paragraphs:

“I’m sure you’ve seen a certain ad for the Volkswagen car, and heard it praised, and watched it pick up prizes the length and breadth of the land.

I’d like to nominate this ad as one of the most inept, most ineffectual, most misguided efforts of recent years.”

Fred then went on to outline 9 rules for effective advertising:

• Show your product as large as possible
• Include the product name in the headline
• Add in some “news” about your product
• Never use negative words in headlines
• Show people enjoying the product
• Make the logo as big as possible
• Add snazzy copy, bullets, and sales points
• Always localize ads, eg. make it American

Using rough layouts to make his point, Fred quickly transformed the original ‘Think small’ ad shown above into what he described as “an honest, hard-hitting, two-fisted ad that really sells.”

And here it is.

Those of you who’d like to read the original article in all it’s bitingly satirical glory, can find it here.

Whether you work agency or client side, you’ll find it as entertaining, thought provoking and enlightening as when it was first written.

According to Wikipedia, K.I.S.S. is a design acronym for Keep It Short & Simple, or, as we prefer it, Keep It Simple, Stupid!

Whichever version you plump for, it fits very nicely with this latest job for CKD Galbraith.

Hot on the heels of the brand, spanking new Cottages & Castles 2012 brochure we unveiled in September, a call from the lovely Sue Bourne, our C & C client, was received at 60 Watt towers.

“I’m loving the brochure, guys,” she said, “Now, can you do a colour press campaign that captures the same look and feel, and is just as affordable as our holiday properties?”

“Something like this?” we said.

“Spot on” she said. “Take the rest of the week off.”

You’ll be seeing these ads in the Scotsman and SoS mags, as well as various other Scottish and English publications.

The impatient amongst you can just click? here.

It is almost nine years since Joe Strummer died. I was unsure how I would feel about hearing Clash songs played live without his charismatic presence and his intense, snarling delivery. But I needn’t have worried.? Glasgow loved the Clash then – and they loved Mick Jones being back onstage thrashing out those songs again now.

But this is not your average come-back tour – this is Mick singing Clash songs with a collective of like-minded musicians to raise awareness and funds for the families of the ninety six people who died at Hillsborough on 15 April 1989. I remember the events of that day well – but I had no idea about how misreported it was at the time nor of how one particular paper had published blatant lies about the cause of the disaster.?Nor about how those lies have left the families of those who died in limbo for over 20 years.

So this gig has a purpose – the fight for justice. And that would have been right up Joe’s street. And I guess I should know, I was lucky enough to work with him and Mick and Paul back in the day.

The Farm take to the stage and play well enough but the crowd are saving their energy for the main event. Pete Wylie and Mick Jones arrive on stage and kick things off with some fine Wah! tunes that build the atmosphere nicely.

And then Mick, dapper in pinstripe suit and crisp white shirt turns to Wylie and grins – the entire collective launches into Train In Vain. This was the song that broke the Clash in America and launched them on their way to being the biggest band in the world. The crowd go wild. The band move into Stay Free and then White Man at the Hammersmith Palais with Peter Hooton of The Farm taking on lead vocal – he does not pretend to be Joe but infuses the song with his own drive and passion. And the Glasgow crowd are singing every word right back – the energy is electric. Onstage there is no sense of rock elitism – Mick moves among the other musicians, exchanging broad grins, working with them, mood shifting from intense concentration one moment to obvious sheer enjoyment the next.

This is the last date on the mini-tour and there is an easy camaraderie onstage, plenty of jamming, switching licks, riffing off one another. Glasvegas guest for Bankrobber – James Allen looking uncannily like a young Joe at the centre mic – before the collective launch into Clampdown, Should I stay or Should I Go and London Calling. Mick is phenomenal, the crowd are ecstatic, the floor is bouncing. The encores – yelled for, well deserved – are Altogether Now and the iconic Janie Jones.

Joe was with us in spirit on Saturday night – the whole room could feel it, Mick felt it, I felt it.

This was not about the perfect polish of so many manufactured acts today.

This was raw, emotional, extraordinary.

This was rock and roll as it should be.

Within hours, it seemed, of the severe storm which hit 60 Watt and most of Scotland last Thursday, Hurricane Friedhelm, a.k.a. Bawbag already had an article in Wikipedia.

The rather tasteless photo mockup above had appeared in the Huffington Post.

And the somewhat unusual name (the dull formal name bestowed by the Free University of Berlin having been unceremoniously dumped) became a top trending Twitter hashtag worldwide.

We’re sure you’ve seen them already, but here’s 60 Watt’s favourite Tweets from that memorable day:

“American hurricane namers are lazy. They pick easy ones like “George” and “Kate”. Only in Scotland could they come up with #HurricaneBawbag” pazpaz

“BREAKING: Bawbag is rated as “awfally blowie” on the Wee Wifie scale. The WW scale runs from “huffin” tae “haud oantae ma breeks” coilleduine

“Hurricane names must alternate between male and female so I recommend calling the next one Hurricane Fannybaws”  greghemphill69

And here’s the top tweet of the day:

“. . . Dear Embra, Here huv aw oor discarded crisp pokes. Yours as ayeways, Glasgow” ScotsRon

Despite the fact the Scottish economy suffered an estimated £100 million in losses, schools were closed everywhere and 70,000 homes were still without electricity two days later, it was nice to see our fellow Scots getting their priorities right.

The ASA hotline has melted, quite rightly in our opinion, since Littlewoods took it upon themselves to tell the world that Santa doesn’t exist and that it’s Mum that buys all the pressies.

Of course Dads don’t even get a look in.

Thanks Littlewoods.

(Dad’s gone to Iceland and we hope Mum has too after this crass explosion of the Santa fantasy.)