To Hamish Smith, nothing falls flatter than the patter of a celebrity selling a brand. If there is endorsement, let it be from bartenders, he says.

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Ron Jeremy was uniquely terrible at marketing rum. His sole qualification for partnering with the brand was that his name is Ron (Spanish for rum), and that, in his own words: “Ronald Reagan was dead and Ronald McDonald was making hamburgers”.

But you cannot deny that his brand did help sell another. For a while, anyway. My interview with him in 2013 was before the now-disgraced Jeremy plunged from cult star to convicted criminal. I won’t say I predicted any of this, but even then putting your brand in the hands of an ageing porn star felt like a ticking time bomb. Of course, when Jeremy blew, the brand did too – Ron de Jeremy was subsequently and defiantly renamed Come Hell or High Water. It was a stark reminder to all brands out there that they should choose their bed partners wisely.

Celebrity partnerships, of course, are nothing new, but they have certainly multiplied over the past decade. One thing that hasn’t changed is that they mostly work but when things get messy, reputations aren’t easily laundered. As was felt by the owners of Proper No. Twelve, Proximo Spirits, most recently, who faced a backlash after its former partner Connor McGregor was found guilty of sexual assault. It was no longer involved with the MMA star, but some buyers found it hard to untangle the two.

Diageo’s deal with Diddy (Sean Combs) was one of the first of the modern high-profile wave, with the success of the 2007 partnership with Cîroc eventually leading to the co-founded DeLeón tequila in 2013. The sexual assault allegations against Combs that have been widely reported in recent months were followed by a dissolution of the partnership this year, with Diageo taking full control of the brands. They’ll need some reputational rehabilitation. Other brands to have emerged from the music world might too – there is much talk now about hiphop’s #metoo moment.

If the circumstances weren’t so serious, it’d be tempting to conclude that brand owners getting burnt trying to be hot is karma of the most spiritual kind. Certainly though, for every deal that goes south, there are many more that soar. Look no further than George Clooney, Rande Gerber and Mike Meldman’s with Casamigos – the $1bn checkmate to any argument to the contrary and the reason rapacious American celebrities far and wide are grasping at the burgeoning agave spirits market. And though it feels ill-advised now, it can’t go unsaid that Diageo’s partnership with Combs brought in nearly $1bn in revenues.

But let’s just for a very twee moment indulge the idea that money isn’t everything; that right and wrong, good and bad, aren’t decided by what sells. Let me be plain about it: to me, a celebrity endorsed product – particularly when the celebrity has no hand in the making – really is the lowest form of marketing. It pulls on the most nauseating of human habits: the adoration people have for others they’ve never met. There’s a certain cynicism to leveraging that.

The bartender filter

One of the things I love most about the bar trade is that, generally speaking, it enthusiastically rejects celebrity endorsed products. Sure, if the liquid is good and it’s not coming in at an inflated price point, a brand can find its place in the back bar, but it’s a rare thing. Usually, the celebrity’s cut is priced in. So, if you’re in a bar repping a celeb gin at £40 a bottle, you’re probably in the wrong place. Bartenders won’t swallow the bullshit and pay for the privilege. 

I also like to indulge the idea that there is a part of the spirits market whose reaction to these products and partnerships goes beyond indifference. That actually there might be a net loss to some of these ventures. You see, a brand might win over the less discriminating with the plastic smile of a paid-for personality, but they may too alienate a more selective audience who values expertise over arbitrary endorsement. I mean if, like me you enjoy Glenmorangie, did seeing Harrison Ford in his tartans make you want to buy it less or more?

There’s also the reputational creep that venues consider. A big part of a bar’s brand is the products it chooses to sell. Why risk having to drop or boycott products for fear of inheriting damage? Even at the more benevolent end of celebrity spirits, credible bars are unlikely to see the value in the association. Sir Davis is by all accounts a good liquid, but the fact that it is owned by Beyoncé suggests that is the selling point, not the quality of the whiskey. As a paying customer, if a bartender informed me I was drinking Cliff Richard’s wine, I’d carry on drinking it (I’m not an animal) but I’d probably think less of the establishment. 

And what if – as the bold promise of the press release sometimes says – the celebrity backer has actually had a hand in making the product? Well, that’s as reassuring as telling us a Deliveroo driver took over the stills one evening. Or my blood pressure pills were a collab with a boy band. It’s all the same argument. Long live expertise.

Ultimately this a question of taste. Both kinds. If consumers want to get all weak at the knees because their favourite celeb is peddling products, they will. But bartenders have a greater role to play – to be a trusted filter, a voice of knowledge and reason. The person who lionises the spirit’s creator, not its salesperson.

So, if there is to be an endorsement of a product that is marketed to consumers, let it be qualified, authentic and independent – let it be the voice of bartenders.