The Weird Brilliance of Bunnings' Sausage-Scented Brand Aura
I’m not saying Bunnings runs the most effective retail marketing in Australasia, but I’m not not saying it either. Here’s a brand that somehow built a gravitational field out of lawnmowers, MDF, and suspiciously cheap lithium batteries. That’s impressive. But what’s truly underrated? The ambient branding. The stuff you can’t shelf in Aisle 7 but ends up seared in your memory like the smell of grilled onions at 9:03 AM.
It’s not just the warehouse vibe or the lowest prices grandma’s ever seen. It’s the whole performance. You walk in on a Saturday and it’s summer, someone’s kid is crying in plumbing, there’s a two-stroke demo going off near the power tools, and there’s that unmistakable perfume of sausage sizzle. And none of that is by accident. What looks like chaos is an orchestration of sensory domination. It’s retail experience so immersive you forget you're being sold to.
Even their print catalogues (yes, those still exist) have a weird kind of cult following. Illustrated in cheerful gradients, they read like DIY gospel. No celebrities. No brand ambassadors. Just eternally competent Karens in polo shirts pointing at wheelbarrows like prophets of the patio. They’ve created a brand that’s not only recognisable, it’s almost involuntary. You think “hose connector” and your brain flashes Bunnings before Mitre 10 has a chance to open its mouth.
So while everyone fawns over rebrands, viral OOH stunts, and influencer marathons, maybe spare a thought for the humble Aussie/Kiwi juggernaut that sold us a dream of weekend projects and made queuing for sausages feel like personal growth. Branding, it turns out, doesn’t always need sparkle. Sometimes it just needs a $79 trestle table and a sizzle that won’t quit.
It’s not just the warehouse vibe or the lowest prices grandma’s ever seen. It’s the whole performance. You walk in on a Saturday and it’s summer, someone’s kid is crying in plumbing, there’s a two-stroke demo going off near the power tools, and there’s that unmistakable perfume of sausage sizzle. And none of that is by accident. What looks like chaos is an orchestration of sensory domination. It’s retail experience so immersive you forget you're being sold to.
Even their print catalogues (yes, those still exist) have a weird kind of cult following. Illustrated in cheerful gradients, they read like DIY gospel. No celebrities. No brand ambassadors. Just eternally competent Karens in polo shirts pointing at wheelbarrows like prophets of the patio. They’ve created a brand that’s not only recognisable, it’s almost involuntary. You think “hose connector” and your brain flashes Bunnings before Mitre 10 has a chance to open its mouth.
So while everyone fawns over rebrands, viral OOH stunts, and influencer marathons, maybe spare a thought for the humble Aussie/Kiwi juggernaut that sold us a dream of weekend projects and made queuing for sausages feel like personal growth. Branding, it turns out, doesn’t always need sparkle. Sometimes it just needs a $79 trestle table and a sizzle that won’t quit.