In 2002, Mike and I began realizing that we had a remarkably good thing going.going. Our partnership was producing results for ad agencies.ad agencies. And their clients were asking us why we weren\'t shining shoes.selling hot dogs.hunting pterosauri.working for ourselves.ourselves. So we took the plunge.bait.kool-aid they offered so kindly and quaffed it in a single gulp.gulp. In an age of funky verbverb (Zag)(Zag) or objectobject (YellowCab) agency brand namesnames, we chose to be boringlazyourselves:ourselves: Barrett and Welsh.Welsh.
Next, we needed a drink.new hairdo.logo.logo. Mike fiddled while Rome burned.hemmed kilts.hemmed and hawed.doodled away.away. I suspect among the early prototypes there may have been a haggis vindaloovindaloo or a pint with a chilli pepper in it.it. Thank god, he pursued more cerebral routes.routes. Many years latermoons laterdays laterlater, he produced a pint of ice-cold Stella.the tartan turban.turban. He presented it with his customary flourish.flourish — both self-deprecating and involuntarily proud.proud. I knew what it was right away. It was a golden egg.sticky toffee pudding drenched in single malt.nubile bollywood starlet accompanied by the blandishments of butter chicken.bloody great idea.idea. It was our first bloody great idea as a company.company. But like many people still do, I asked, \"Can I have some?\"\"Are we out of beer?\"\"What is it?\"it?\" \"It\'s a tartan turban.\" he said, appending the word \"you lemonhead.\" to his sentence, silently.silently. \"Ah?\" \"It\'s my family tartan.\"tartan.\"
\"I didn\'t know there was a Welsh tartan,\" I said, taking refuge in a pun, as I often do when under pressure.pressure. \"It\'s Scottish, Gavin\" said Mike, with uncharacteristic patience.patience, adding the extremely unpronounceable \"*%@#\" to his sentence, silently.silently. \"The Clan Welsh tartan.\" I said, full of wonderment.wonderment. \"Well, actually it\'s the Cunningham tartan.\"tartan.\" \"I see.\" I said, unseeingly.unseeingly. \"And the turban?\" I asked.asked.
\"That\'s you.\" said Mike, saving his most deadly thrust for last.last. \"But I don\'t wear a turban.\" I said, like so many better people after me.me. \"Yes, but you\'re a bloody Indian.\" said Mike. The \"bloody\" of course, is silent.silent. And so the tartan turban was born.born, with a dram and a beating of drums.bang and a dishum.
by Barrett and Welsh