Snack-Sized Fame: Why Celebrities are Grabbing Hold of Everyday Brands

Image credit: Cob Foods.

Remember the time when celebrity endorsements felt like magic? 

When Keira swished through billows of perfume in Paris, and Charlize emerged from a golden lake? When Becks glid broodingly around in a Maserati and Daniel Craig smirked (and, lets be honest, acted like a bit of a prat) in his Bentley-pimping Champs Elysees ad for Belvedere Vodka?

Glossy, cinematic, high-ticket glamour. But look around now and the A-list are doing something very different.

They’re flogging crisps…

And fizzy drinks…

And deodorant? (I’m looking at you Jason Momoa)

Ben Stiller now grins toothily while holding a can of his eponymously-named, Stiller’s Soda. Novak Djokovic poses awkwardly holding a packet of Cob Foods, his new sorghum-based snack brand. 

Actors, athletes, musicians, models—all now suddenly attaching themselves to tiny D2C brands selling everyday essentials that sit, quite literally, in the back of your cupboard.

So what the bloody hell is going on? Because let’s be honest: these people absolutely 100% do not need the money. So the motivation must be something else entirely.

I wonder if it’s because fame isn’t enough anymore.

We’re in a strange cultural moment where fame… leaks. 

It doesn’t hold its shape like it used to. Your visibility evaporates the second you’re off-screen. So now actors compete with TikTok teens; athletes with podcasters and musicians with pretty-much anyone armed with a ring light and a laptop.

The traditional fame ladder has collapsed. Everyone’s a creator. Attention is splintered. And celebrity status—the shiny, Hollywood-wattage, capital-C kind—decays faster than ever.

So what do you do when your core asset (your visibility) is no longer guaranteed?

You find new ways to stay ambient. Present. Everyday. You pivot your celebrity and become a brand in itself. And a consumer brand no less! 

A film or album gives a celebrity a spike of relevance. A short burst of cultural presence. But a consumer brand? That builds drip exposure.

Take George Clooney. Many films (arguably good and bad) under his belt, then—only 4 years after setting up his Casamigos Tequila brand—he sells to Diageo for $1B. Tidy. 

A soda in someone’s fridge is a micro-touchpoint. A packet of popped ancient grain in someone else’s is another. A bottle of tequila in your drinks cabinet one more. These tiny, repeatable, informal appearances create more consistent presence than a two-year film cycle ever could.

This isn’t endorsement anymore: this is consummate distribution of self.

Celebrities are embedding themselves into domestic life—lunch breaks, gym bags, office fridges. They’re not aiming for blockbuster moments anymore. They’re aiming for constant, incidental relevance… and at scale.

They’re aiming for ambient fame.

And everyday D2C brands are perfect vehicles for it.

But of course… there are also the economics. And the monies are eye-watering.

A celebrity can get a couple of million for a traditional ad campaign. Nice. But take a 5–10% stake in a fast-scaling consumer brand—especially one with a rabid community and strong margins—and (like Clooney) you’re playing a different game, and laughing all the way to the bank...

Sponsors used to rent celebrity image. Now celebrities want to own part of the platform.

This is why you're seeing stars (Ryan Reynolds with Wrexham AFC, Mint Mobile and Aviation American Gin among others is a perfect example) partnering with smaller, scrappier, cooler D2C brands instead of megacorps. The little guys offer equity. Creative control. Founder fantasy. And most importantly: a sense that they’re building something, not just fronting it.

Because in 2026 you could argue that the founder has become a more culturally powerful archetype than the celebrity.

Celebrities aren’t endorsing brands anymore—they’re cosplaying as founders. And the rise of tiny, everyday-essentials startups backed by A-listers isn’t about money. It’s about relevance, reach, and rewriting their own mythology.

A quick look at the marketing language around all these partnerships speaks volumes. It’s not “X endorses Y.” It’s “X believes in Y.” “X invests in Y.” “X is part of the mission.” Founders are the new rockstars. And celebrities want in on that halo.

Even if they’ve never written a business plan (or intend to) in their lives.

This isn’t shade—it’s actually rather smart. The modern audience doesn’t want closeted, untouchable icons who hang out on Rodeo Drive. They want builders. Hustlers. People with taste and conviction. 

So celebrities are reinventing themselves as taste-makers, investors and co-builders of culture.

Even if the culture in question… is a probiotic fizzy drink.

But what I find particularly fascinating is how ordinary these product categories are.

Pamela Anderson’s ‘Sonsie’ moisturisers. Patrick Schwarzenegger’s ‘Mosh’ protein bars. Kourtney Kardashian’s ‘Lemme’ gummies. And who could forget, er, Enrique Iglesias’ delightful range of "extra small" condoms, launched after publicly declaring his own size concerns (although to be fair to Kiki this was a few years ago).

This is the absolute opposite of the old model—the era when celebrities only touched high-gloss, high-price, high-fantasy products. Luxury was the default. Distance was the aesthetic. Now, ordinary is the new aspirational.

Celebrities are chasing relatability. Accessibility. Humanness. The new power move isn’t “I’m drinking Cristal on a fuckin’ yacht in Cannes.” It’s “I also snack like you.”

It’s the humbling of celebrity. And I’d argue that it’s working.

There’s also a memetic quality to these products that luxury ads never could unlock. Try meme-ing a fragrance shot in slow-mo Parisian light. Now try meme-ing a bag of crisps held by a retired tennis coach with a cult following.

One of those travels, and I think we can both agree on which one.

D2C brands live natively on social. They’re playful, colourful, irreverent. They give celebrities something they’ve never had before: a format that thrives on humour and self-awareness.

And humour is rocket fuel for relevance.

Seth Rogan’s range of sardonic weed-related products ‘Houseplant’, for example, oozes nudge-and-wink humour with killer art direction and can be seen as an extension of himself (or the comedic character he usually plays, that’s anyone’s guess). Regardless, the brand feels genuinely authentic to Rogan… and has a cool 900K followers on Instagram and 1.3M likes on TikTok.

For designers, strategists, and advertisers like us, this shift is huge. So what should we expect?

Firstly, everyday categories are now celebrity-friendly battlegrounds—so there will be more competition, more noise, more money and definitely more weirdness. Which personally I find quite exciting…

As well as this, brand design now isn’t just about packaging anymore—it’s a personality proxy. A soda can is now a canvas for someone else’s identity. So think about how to make it memetic.

In 2026, a trend I see emerging with force is that narrative will be doing a lot of heavy lifting. The story isn’t “why this product exists.” It’s “why this celebrity cares.” So lean into that.

Adjacent to this is that founders (real or cosplaying) are now the centre of gravity. Brands without a strong figurehead may find themselves eclipsed. Think about “the face”.

Finally, I believe humility is selling better than luxury right now. Consumers are gravitating towards different value sets: being “relatable” is now aspirational. Being “human” is now heroic. Being “everyday” is arguably the new elite.

We’re witnessing a reshaping of how fame works, and a de-luxification of celebrity influence—shifting from the exceptional to the everyday. Stars are seeing the opportunity in moving from static endorsements to narrative participation.

So ordinary is the new aspirational—and the supermarket aisle is the new silver screen.

The era of Daniel Craig pissed in Paris is over. I’ll raise a Casamigos tequila shot to that.