If you believe in personal branding, even the coffee cup on your desk says a lot about you. Are you a Blank Street girl or McCafé guy? Have you invested in an insulated Stanley AeroLight? Or, like me, are you drinking from a borrowed Little Miss Sunshine mug, one I grab out of the office kitchen cupboard quite often?
Partly, I choose this mug for practicality. It’s a good size and has a satisfying handle. It’s clean and white and feels fine in the mouth.
But partly, it tells a brand story about me. A semiotic clue to who I am. It says, “Sure, I’m an older white cis male, but I’m not hyper-fixated on gender stereotypes.” At the same time, it says, “And actually I don’t take myself nearly as seriously as that last sentence might suggest, because look – Little Miss Sunshine!”
I get that you could see that as a tad try-hard. A bit “Greetings, fellow kids” or “whacky socks guy”. But also, remember, it’s not my mug. I’m not overcommitting to “Sunshine” as my personal TOV. Maybe it’s not in deliberate alignment with my brand architecture at all. Maybe it was all I could find in the cupboard this morning.
Anyway, overthinking about what brands say about us is my job.
It’s why I felt sympathy for the environmental consultant who turned up at our agency in a Tesla with an oversized “I bought this before Elon went crazy” sticker. Our visitor had invested at least 40 grand on his commitment to a more carbon-conscious lifestyle and ended up driving a “swasticar” after one of Musk’s many meltdowns.
But I guess it’s the risk you take if you hitch your own personality to a corporate brand or product. Corporate brands can let you down. And you’re always open to how other people perceive that brand rather than how you think they should.
A case in point: I live about 25 minutes’ walk from the train station. On the occasions that I need to travel into London, my wife takes our car for the day, and I make my own way to the station. And these days, I do this on an e-scooter.
Partly, I choose this route for practicality. I can pick up a rental scooter at the end of my road, whizz to the station along quiet cycle paths and drop it off at the station, all inside eight minutes. I track down, unlock and pay for the e-scooter via an app. It’s just a couple of quid to get to my train. Cheaper than an Uber, and no need to make taxi driver conversation.
But partly, it tells a story about me. In my mind, an e-scooter is about micro-mobility. It is future-facing public transport. For me, riding one is a bit nerdy and urbanist, European and freewheeling. Choosing an e-scooter feels like choosing a heat pump or the vegan option.
And, yes, that obviously marks me down as a bit of a type.
If you saw me on the e-scooter, you might very much suspect I was a creative agency hotshot – but that’s an honest brand position I am willing to own.
Unfortunately, that personal brand position is not completely under my control. The legal status of e-scooters in the UK is complicated. The kind of rental e-scooter I use is licensed by certain local authorities in an ongoing trial. These Lime, Zipp, Dott or Zwings machines are speed-limited to 12.5 miles an hour and geo-limited to slow to a crawl through pedestrianised areas.
But most UK e-scooters are not that. Most e-scooters you see are, to all intents and purposes, illegal. It’s perfectly OK to own one, but no one should ride one on a public road or pavement. They are classified as motor vehicles but uninsurable as motor vehicles. And they can be hacked to deliver unbelievable speeds.
And so the public e-scooter narrative is centred more on balaclavaed youths causing chaos. It’s about phone thieves and drug dealers. It’s about terrorising pedestrians and hassling car drivers.
The public aren’t seeing me as a micro-mobility pioneer or even a creative agency cliché. They just see a dangerous lawbreaker who is old enough to know better. I am trying to be public-spirited, but I am judged to be a public menace.
This is when I wish I’d brought my coffee cup with me. I’m not a monster! I’m Little Miss Sunshine!
Where do you stand in the great create debate? Maria Ottewell runs a 230-person strong creative agency without a single creative bone in her body. And that, she says, is fine.
