In the quiet architecture of a casual Instagram post lies an elaborate commercial transaction — one that brands like Wild are wagering millions upon each year. As traditional advertising loses its grip on younger audiences, the human voice of the influencer has become the new storefront, blurring the boundary between genuine recommendation and paid performance. The question this economy quietly poses is an ancient one: when trust becomes a commodity, what happens to trust itself?
Celebrity influencers paid up to £1m to advertise deodorant on Instagram
People buy from people, and that old truth has become the new business model.
Mark
Why does a deodorant company need to spend ten million pounds a year on influencers? Couldn't they just make a good product and let it sell itself?
Mimi
Because a good product doesn't sell itself anymore—not to younger audiences, anyway. They've stopped watching traditional ads. They watch people they trust. If Emma Raducanu uses something, that carries weight her peers won't ignore. It's not about the product being bad; it's about attention being scarce.
Mark
But doesn't paying someone to say they like your product feel like the opposite of trust? How is that authentic?
Mimi
That's the tension at the heart of it. The brand argues it works only when the influencer genuinely believes in what they're promoting. Molly-Mae Hague was already using Wild's body wash before they even contacted her. That's the ideal—the endorsement comes after the actual use, not before the check clears.
Mark
So they're looking for influencers who would use the product anyway?
Mimi
Exactly. And they're willing to pay millions for that alignment. Stacey Solomon rejects 98 percent of brand pitches. That selectivity is what makes her endorsement valuable. If she said yes to everything, nobody would believe her.
Mark
Only 54 percent of people can tell an influencer ad is an ad. That seems like a problem.
Mimi
It is. The #ad hashtag is legally required but tells you almost nothing about the scale of the payment or the depth of the relationship. People know money changed hands, but they don't grasp that some posts are worth fifty thousand pounds. The disclosure exists, but it's informationally hollow.
Mark
Does it actually work? Do people buy the deodorant because of these posts?
Mimi
Sometimes dramatically. When Molly-Mae shared a discount code, sales spiked sharply—then vanished when the story disappeared. Other campaigns are slower, building brand awareness over time. The most successful ones run long enough for the influencer to actually explain why they like it, rather than just saying it once and moving on.
The Pulse
- Brands like Wild are pouring nearly £10 million a year into influencer partnerships, with budgets potentially doubling as the race for celebrity reach intensifies.
- A single Instagram post from a top-tier name can command £50,000, yet the transaction is designed to look like a friend's honest recommendation — and often succeeds.
- Only 54% of consumers can spot an influencer ad compared to 74% for traditional advertising, exposing a transparency gap that legal hashtags alone cannot close.
- Authenticity has become the industry's most prized and most fragile currency — top influencers like Stacey Solomon reject 98% of pitches precisely to protect the credibility that makes them worth millions.
- The most effective campaigns unfold over time, giving celebrities room to build a believable narrative rather than cramming a transaction into a single post.
In the quiet architecture of a casual Instagram post lies an elaborate commercial transaction — one that brands like Wild are wagering millions upon each year. As traditional advertising loses its grip on younger audiences, the human voice of the influencer has become the new storefront, blurring the boundary between genuine recommendation and paid performance. The question this economy quietly poses is an ancient one: when trust becomes a commodity, what happens to trust itself?
Behind the breezy Instagram post shot in natural light sits a contract, a strategy document, and often a very large cheque. Wild, the refillable deodorant brand now owned by Unilever, has built much of its growth on exactly this machinery. Co-founder Charlie Bowes-Lyon calls influencer marketing his "secret sauce" — and the numbers support him. Wild spends just under £10 million annually on partnerships with names like Emma Raducanu, Stacey Solomon, and Molly-Mae Hague, with that budget potentially doubling next year.
The economics vary sharply by tier. A single Instagram post might cost £100,000; a sustained celebrity partnership can run into the millions. With Raducanu, Wild has funded full-day shoots in New York, dozens of posts and stories, and even a collaborative scent — a relationship far deeper than a transactional endorsement. The logic, as influencer agency professional Hannah Campbell puts it, is simple: younger audiences have tuned out conventional media but remain closely connected to the people they follow. "People buy from people," she says — and that old truth has become a new business model.
Yet authenticity is the catch. Bowes-Lyon is candid: a gaming influencer promoting a flower shop will be seen through immediately. The fit must feel real. Stacey Solomon rejects roughly 98% of pitches she receives, which is precisely why her endorsements carry weight. Molly-Mae Hague came to Wild organically, using the body wash before the brand ever approached her — that kind of genuine prior use becomes the foundation of a credible campaign.
The disclosure problem, however, persists. Research from the Advertising Standards Authority found that only 54% of consumers could identify an influencer ad, compared with 74% for traditional advertising. The legally required #ad label tells audiences money changed hands, but says nothing of the scale or sophistication involved. As marketing director Katy Howell notes, most people vastly underestimate what they're looking at — not bedroom broadcasters, but polished media businesses with agents, managers, and legal teams.
As budgets climb and the line between recommendation and performance blurs further, the question facing both brands and audiences remains open: can an advertisement ever truly feel authentic, or does the presence of money fundamentally change what we are seeing?
Behind the casual Instagram post—the one that looks like a friend's genuine recommendation, shot in natural light, captioned with a breezy observation about how great the product is—sits a contract, a strategy document, and often a check with six or seven zeros on it.
Wild, a refillable natural deodorant brand now owned by Unilever, has built much of its business on exactly this machinery. The company's co-founder Charlie Bowes-Lyon calls influencer marketing his "secret sauce," and the numbers back him up. Wild spends just under £10 million annually on partnerships with high-profile names like Emma Raducanu, Stacey Solomon, and Molly-Mae Hague. Next year, Bowes-Lyon says, that budget may double as the brand chases even bigger celebrity ambassadors.
The price tag for a single influencer varies wildly depending on who you're hiring and what you want them to do. A one-off Instagram post might cost £100,000. A top-tier celebrity partnership can run into the millions. Some individual posts command £50,000 alone. With Raducanu, Wild has invested heavily enough to fund full-day shoots in New York, dozens of Instagram posts and stories, and even a collaborative scent creation. The tennis player has been the brand's ambassador for the past year, and the relationship goes far deeper than a transactional endorsement.
Why spend this much? Because, as Hannah Campbell of the influencer marketing agency One Twelve Agency explains, influencers actually move products in ways traditional advertising no longer does. Younger audiences have tuned out conventional media but remain glued to the people they follow. Those followers have built real communities and real trust. "People buy from people," Campbell says, and that old truth has become the new business model.
But authenticity is the catch. As audiences have grown savvy to paid partnerships, the pressure on both brands and influencers to make the endorsement feel genuine has intensified. Bowes-Lyon acknowledges this directly: if a gaming influencer suddenly starts promoting a flower shop, people will see through it. The partnership has to fit. Stacey Solomon, he notes, is selective by design—she rejects roughly 98 percent of the pitches that come her way, which is precisely why her endorsements carry weight. Molly-Mae Hague came to Wild organically, using the body wash in a video before the brand even approached her. That kind of genuine prior use becomes the foundation for a credible campaign.
Yet the disclosure problem persists. Recent research from the Advertising Standards Authority found that only 54 percent of consumers could identify an influencer advertisement as such, compared with 74 percent for traditional brand ads. The #ad hashtag is legally required but informationally thin—it tells you money changed hands without conveying the scale or complexity of the arrangement. Katy Howell, director at marketing agency Rethink Social, points out that many people understand influencers are paid but vastly underestimate the economics: these are no longer bedroom broadcasters but sophisticated media businesses with managers, agents, production teams, and legal infrastructure.
Wild's approach to measuring success varies by campaign. Some partnerships are designed purely for brand awareness, with impact showing up gradually in retail sales and wider recognition. Others are more tactical: when Molly-Mae shared a discount code with her followers, Wild saw a sharp spike in sales that disappeared within days once the Instagram story expired. The most effective campaigns, Bowes-Lyon argues, run over longer periods, allowing the celebrity to explain why they actually like the product rather than cramming everything into a single post. That narrative space is where authenticity lives—or at least where it has the best chance of taking root.
As influencer marketing budgets continue to climb and the line between genuine recommendation and paid performance blurs further, the question facing both brands and audiences remains unresolved: can an advertisement ever truly feel authentic, or does the mere presence of money fundamentally change what we're seeing?
Notable Quotes
Influencer marketing has been a huge part of the company's success and he calls it his 'secret sauce.'— Charlie Bowes-Lyon, co-founder of Wild
People buy from people, and younger audiences aren't engaging with traditional media but they do follow and engage with their favourite influencers daily.— Hannah Campbell, founder of One Twelve Agency
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