A trusted maxim of modern business is never to underestimate the consumer's gullibility. Image is everything, and substance nothing. Not surprisingly, given the remodelling of Ireland as a satellite state for multinationals, this philosophy is gaining currency here.
Witness the unnecessary rebranding of telecommunications companies, the costly redesign of corporate logos, and the ever more desperate attempts by firms to get us to wear, carry or otherwise display their brands - and, better still, to get us to pay for the privilege.
For a perfect expression of this corporate disdain for the customer, look no further than one of our newest and most-hyped tourist attractions, which bills itself as "the high point of any trip to Dublin". I'm talking about the Guinness Storehouse.
Rooftop bar
The restored brewery building, of which the main selling point is a trip to the rooftop Gravity bar with its panoramic views of the capital, takes insulting the customer's intelligence literally to new heights.
Get this: it costs £9 to get in. Nine pounds. IX lbs. A remarkable sum no matter how you put it. And what do you get in return?
First, you're presented with a "souvenir" guide and "souvenir" ticket (the term makes it clear that part of your entrance fee is funding these throwaway items). Then you're directed to a pre-show video in which - wait for it - "you'll hear questions about Guinness that people have been asking themselves for years". What follows is a rather pedestrian (you have to do a lot of walking) and somewhat confusing (there are arrows directing you all over the place) guide to the brewing process. In between are displays on transport, cask-making and Irish pubs; a video about old Arthur; and an advertising exhibition.
The latter probably attracted most interest from visitors. You can view Guinness ads from the 1950s to the present day and read a little on the various gimmicks used to promote the drink.
It was hard to escape the irony of the situation, however. Here were people who had paid £9 in to do what? To watch Guinness ads.
The entire Storehouse "experience", indeed, has the feeling of one big sales pitch. Take the "Life" display, a selection which purports to show how Guinness is part and parcel of everyday life. This is done by decking a room out with television sets broadcasting snippets of comedy, sport and so on, with the odd pint of Guinness thrown in.
Winning penalty
One such vignette which I found deeply troubling was the TV commentary of Dave O'Leary's winning penalty kick in the 1990 World Cup match against Romania. Leaving aside the ethics of linking alcohol products to sport, I was left wondering whether Guinness was somehow trying to take retrospective credit for Ireland's footballing success, or perhaps the happy memories which surrounded it.
Speaking as someone who well remembers Italia '90 and who happened to be drinking Guinness in a pub while witnessing that penalty, I can safely say I no more associate the occasion with the famed St James's Gate brew than I do with the brand of jeans I happened to be wearing at the time.
Where does Guinness get off, colonising our national heritage like that? The whole thing smacks of a corporation that believes its own hype. Global branding requires exaggerated claims and, better still, mystique, and there's that in abundance at the Storehouse, with all its talk of the "magic" and "soul" and "mystery" of the black stuff.
Interestingly, the visitor travels through the centre unaccompanied. After you leave the ticket desk, the next staff member you will encounter will be in the bar, and after that the merchandise shop. The idea seems to be to create a distance between the punter and the product in an effort to further heighten its mystique.
And what of the bar? You get a free pint thrust into your hand and a view of the city - which, let's face it, is no oilpainting wherever you're standing.
The most disturbing aspect of the Storehouse, however, is the way it encourages children to participate in the "experience". Children under six are admitted free; six- to 12-yearolds pay £2; and 14- to 18year-olds £4. A valid question is whether people below legal drinking age should be allowed in at all, since the "experience" is just one big drinks commercial.
Comments from visitors
The extent to which teenagers get caught up in the hype is reflected in a noticeboard in the "Home" area which invites general comments from visitors. Not a single comment I read appeared to have been written by an adult, a typical entry being something like "Guinness is deadly", accompanied by an adolescent doodle.
Even more troubling was a visual display in the advertising section in which a cluster of television sets - showing a selection of Guinness ads - was set into a wall of mirrors. The display attracted little attention from adults but the under-sixes loved it. Its front was low enough to allow the smallest children to watch the kaleidoscope of Guinness images without craning their necks. There was even a sort of railing around the edge to help them lean into the display to get the best view.
A more cynical marketing device would be hard to find. Indeed, the whole experience left such a bad taste in my mouth that I - a Guinness drinker all my adult life - am tempted to turn to Beamish.