I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Piccadilly Gardens in Manchester. I have.
Despite what besticked choc-ice purveyors Magnum want you to think, you’d only lie on Piccadilly Gardens if you’ve overdosed on spice or have been dragged out of your usual sleeping spot and stamped on by a jobsworth copper.
That ad probably looked brilliant in the London offices of whichever agency spaffed it out into the world. They probably had loads of localised versions. “Enjoy a Magnum while dangling your feet in the sea on Wigan Pier,” or “Don’t forget your Magnum when you’re petting the cows at the Birmingham Bull Ring.” That sort of shite.
It’s fake, forced bonhomie and people can see right through it. Like when you claim that your venue is on the wrong side of a nebulous divide that only means anything to people who live in a four street radius1.
If you can get that sort of angry response from my friend Sam, you’ve done fucked up with your fake authenticity.
But that doesn’t stop brands from trying to say they’re one of us time and time again, before instantly demonstrating that they’re not. Magnum’s marketing team have never seen Piccadilly Gardens. Instead of everyone in Greater Manchester thinking they’re part of the tribe, they were shunned in favour of Boddingtons with a flake.
It might seem like a cheap and easy way to win over a crowd, like a band screaming that they really love it playing here in Milton Keynes, but if you can’t back your authenticity with genuine knowledge or affection, it’s just going to rile people up.
If you want to be authentic, then just stick to what you know, what you care about.
Otherwise, you’ll end up looking like this.
Something mint - this obit.
Sometimes I’ve got to unpack why an ad is brilliant. This organ donation spot speaks for itself.
And huge credit to the ad’s creator Robin Stam for having the cojones to stick his own name in there. This time, we can let someone off for not being authentic…
The part of Salford I’m from is called “Swinton and Pendlebury.” Nobody can tell you where Swinton begins and Pendlebury ends, hut we all know whether we’re from one or the other and get very angry if we’re mislabelled. Nearly as angry as if you call us M*ncs.