We know what we think about brands. But what do brands think of us? Jeremy Bullmore speculates
I’ve written about this before and it continues to intrigue. We spend a great deal of time and money trying to find out what people think about brands. But at least as fascinating is trying to deduce, from a careful study of their Special Offers and their Creative Approaches, what brands clearly think about us.
They think I’ll buy a PC that I’ve never wanted because it now costs less. So they think I’m stupid. They think I’ll pay for a Titanium Credit Card because it will impress head waiters and upset my golfing partner. So they think I’m petty and socially insecure.
They think I’ll be tempted to spend an expensive weekend in a remote and draughty mansion because it has real log fires and once belonged to a person with a title. So they think I’m a snob.
But what, I asked myself recently, do the purveyors of Christmas Premiums think of their prospective recipients? Or to make it even more deliciously complicated: what do the purveyors of Christmas Premiums think that those who buy their Christmas Premiums think of the people they plan to give them to?
Having spent far too long looking though a catalogue of branded seasonal gifts and gewgaws, the answer’s obvious. The entire collection is designed to appeal to David Brent; either to appeal to him personally or as a means of humiliating others.
His interests include eating, drinking, bullying and showing off. How many people do you know who use swizzle sticks? Fifty years ago I knew someone who kept a gold swizzle stick in a weskit pocket, moored by a slim gold chain. Today, you can buy David a packet of ten branded swizzle sticks for as little as 10p.
Or you could send him a Christmas card (bit of a snorter, this) that triples in size when released from its envelope. He’ll really enjoy putting it back in its envelope and then pulling it out again in Jessica’s face: just look at her expression!
Mugs are always welcome but here’s a twist: The AntiBug mug. It’s a small but mighty mug that kills on contact as many as 50 different bugs including MRSA and E.coli. On reflection, David would probably prefer to give one rather than get one: preferably to his rival down the road with a witty note attached.
But there’s a pair of printing stamps he’d really appreciate (at only £9.99). They save time and painful thought when responding to written suggestions from apprehensive juniors. One has a thumbs-up sign and says LIKE! And the other has a thumbs-down sign and says DISLIKE! That’s the one that David prefers. He can dismiss ten conscientiously considered ideas in as many seconds; and thumping the stamp with his fist give him an adrenaline charge of naked power. He’s always admired Lord Sugar.
Only £14.95 buys you three Personalised Golf Balls. You can have your client’s face printed on them in full colour and he’ll be thrilled. And David can hug himself and go on about it in the pub at the thought of his client doing to himself exactly what David had always wanted to do to him: and that’s hit him viciously out of sight. Oh my.
Wi-fi Bathroom Scales cost £149.99 – but for the right senior colleague, they’re well worth it. If he’s podgy, he’ll get your point right away. (Even wittier for women!) Wi-fi Bathroom Scales monitor just about everything about you, including Fat Mass – and transfers it wirelessly to an iPad or computer! Enlist the help of your IT department: and your boss’s Body Mass Index, and how far it departs from the recommended norm, could be displayed on every desktop on the management floor. Better than karaoke for the office party! (And don’t forget the Bacon and Absinthe Range of Christmas Smellies; the girls will really appreciate the Bacon Lip Balm.)
Here’s one that David would love. Dave pretends to despise celebrities – or Slebs, as he wittily calls them. Secretly, of course, Dave loves Slebs and could win any pub quiz on the subject comfortably. So why not give Dave A VIP Night Out?
Give them enough money, and make-believe bodyguards and make-believe paparazzi will pretend that Dave is a VIP; snapping away with elevated cameras and manhandling him and his gang though the make-believe surging crowd and round the end of the velvet rope into some unappealing basement. And with pictures later to prove it all happened.
But if you can afford it, give Dave a Villain Chair. As its caption tells us: ‘Recipients of this imposing chair can act out their Sir Alan fantasies.’ At £4,500, it’s not a snip. It’s worth giving only if its recipient will be reasonably certain that you’re mocking him rotten but not so certain that he’ll feel able to challenge you. Instead – and oh, the joy of it – he’ll have to say thank you. And you, demurely, will be able to say truthfully: ‘The moment I saw it, Brendan, I thought of you.’