The brief.

There are projects that feel polished. Clean.

And then there are projects that feel like fake tan melting down your back in a Wetherspoons toilet at 11:57pm while you shout “I’M FINEEEE GEMMA!!” at your best friend.

This was the second one.

The job: write flirty, fast, and funny one-liners for a primetime TV ad promoting Magic Mike’s Last Dance, but make it sound like it’s been sunburnt in Mallorca and just pulled on the first night.

The ad would air during Love Island UK, so the tone had to feel like a fit boy just walked in, and every viewer was ready to have their head turned. The copy needed to match the islanders’ slang, build excitement for the movie, and cheekily wink at the chaos, chemistry, and choreography to come.

The research and context.

Audience insights:

Love Island viewers are not dumb. They’re hyper-literate in pop culture, emotionally fluent, and unafraid of duality. We’re aiming for part horniness, part reinvention, power shifts, emotional spectacle, tension, and that very specific Love Island flavour of denial, delusion, overanalysis and groupchat therapy.

They understand:

• Social performance vs. private desire

• Friendship dynamics > romantic plotlines

• Power, intimacy, and projection

• That the real fantasy isn’t just the body, it’s being seen

What they want from Magic Mike:

• A chance to scream with their friends, not explain themselves

• Safe sexual chaos that makes them feel alive, not judged

• Real theatre. Real tension. Real release

• A man who rehearses

• A moment of collective catharsis disguised as fun

Tone goal:

Beautifully unhinged, deeply observed, emotionally intelligent thirst. Not “ha-ha” funny. Not “sex sells” lazy. Think: if Sally Rooney wrote a hen do.

Copy that feels like it’s just had its bikini strap pinged by a man who moisturises.

It had to land during Love Island, mid-confessional, mid painting your toenails white.

I wrote for:

• Girls who scream at trailers like they’re trauma flashbacks.

• Women who believe in choreography as love language.

• Anyone who’s ever said “I just like a man with a presence” while internally combusting over forearms.

These are not women who need things explained to them.
They just need permission to spiral publicly.

What TV ad copy needs to do in this context:

• Be instantly clear about what's happening

• Trigger curiosity + desire in one sentence

• Use cultural shorthand to speak to Love Island viewers without over-explaining

• Include visual rhythm: short phrases, pacing, space to breathe

• End with a call to action or emotional payoff

• Never sound like it’s trying to go viral

• Short sentences, cinematic rhythm

• Written to be read aloud (voiceover or on-screen titles)

• Minimal word count per line

• Paced to match the edit and score

• Emotion over explanation: Don’t describe the plot. Sell the feeling

It’s voice-first, not prose. And every line has to carry emotional or dramatic weight

The copy:

Our favourites were the culturally fluent, effortlessly meta ones that spoke to social viewing culture, denial, and desire in one line, but still had that sexy Love Island DNA. I wanted drama-loving viewers feel seen and to give them permission to spiral.

• The girls are going. The boys are worried.

• Watch it with mates. Lie about why.

• It’s not a thirst trap if it’s on a massive screen.

• You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll Google local dance classes.

• It’s not cheating if it’s in a cinema.

• You’ll be in the Uber home whispering, “I just didn’t know men could do that.”

• Leave with no voice and no regrets.

• His last dance. Your loudest scream.

• You’ll be screaming, “he was my type on paper!” in the car park.

• One last chance to be completely unwell in a cinema.

• You’ll laugh. You’ll scream. You’ll stare at your boyfriend like, “can you do that?”

• He’s not your type. And yet you’re sweating in row G.

• She’s in charge. He’s in linen. And that’s how it should be.

• He’s following directions. And you’re following him on Instagram.

• This time, the woman holds the clipboard.

• One last time. For the plot.

• You’ve survived recouplings. You will not survive this show.

• The curtain went up. So did your heart rate.

• From Tampa to Tottenham Court Road. You aren’t ready.

• This isn’t Shakespeare. But you will be emotionally destroyed.

• Not your type on paper, but now you’re sweating in Dolby Atmos.

• One dance and your head’s gone.

• Sometimes the stage is the only place you can be honest.

• You know when they say “he’s changed”? This time he actually has.

• You’ve had banter. You’ve had chemistry. This is different.

• He doesn't graft. He performs.

• Bring your girls. Bring a fan. Bring a lie for your boyfriend

• This is how we say goodbye now.

• You’ll need tissues. And not for tears.

• Watch it with the girls. Lie to your boyfriend.

• You’ll leave the cinema needing a minute. And a lie-down. And maybe a solicitor.

• Watch it once. Feel it forever.

• You’ll walk in upright. You’ll leave… altered.

• If you've ever screamed in a cinema, this one's for you.

• You’ll be screaming “he was my type on paper!” in the car park

• You’ll leave with no voice and no regrets.

• The group chat is already booked in.

• It’s not a thirst trap if it’s on a massive screen.

• The girls are going. The boys are nervous.

• This is his final dance. Don’t blink.

• One last chance to be completely unwell in a cinema.

• If this is goodbye, we want eye contact.

• Nothing bonds a friendship like shared arousal.

• You’ll laugh. You’ll sweat. You might text your ex.

• Every girl in the villa just got pied.

• Your type on every screen.

• We came for the abs. Stayed for the routine.

• The only thing he’s mugging off is your expectations.

• You’ll laugh. You’ll fan yourself. You’ll reevaluate some choices.

• Everyone's saying "it’s just dancing" until they see that scene.

• This isn’t about plot. It’s about pleasure.

• He’s not available. But the tickets are.

• The quiet bit in the car home? That’s normal.

• Just girls being girls. In surround sound.

• You’ll need a minute after the credits.

• Not your type on paper. But your type on screen.

• If you don’t leave a little breathless, you didn’t watch it right.

• This is for the group chat. And your own private thoughts.

• Bring popcorn. And spare underwear.

• Sexy. Fun. Loud. Like a hen do with better lighting.

• The only thing getting objectified tonight is your jaw on the floor.

• This is not a film. This is a service.

• Go for the story. Lie about why.

• Got a text: Magic Mike’s back, and he’s moving mad.

• You know what’s hotter than a topless man? A topless man who listens.

• Technically, it’s research.

• Nothing brings women together like a standing ovation.

Each line was designed to work as a standalone moment, with the rhythm and slang of Love Island but the thirst and spectacle of Magic Mike. Punchy. Flirty. No dead air.

The result

The ad aired during peak Love Island slots across ITV, with copy that caught viewers mid-scroll and mid-sip. Mid-mugging off. Mid-casa chaos. Mid-breakdown over breakfast.

While exact metrics weren't public, Warner Bros. saw sustained interest from younger female audiences in the lead-up to release, and the cheeky tone made the campaign feel like it was in on it, not selling to it.

Why it worked

• Culture fluency: The copy wasn’t just referencing Love Island, it spoke the language like a day one bombshell.

• Audience mirroring: It used the viewer’s own slang to tease desire and curiosity, making it feel like a friend, not a brand.

• Movie matchmaking: The lines matched the movie’s energy: cheeky, confident, and up for a dance. No cringe. Just chemistry.

• Maximum meaning, minimal time: Every word had to earn its place. These were 3-second reads built to flirt, not explain.

• Permission to spiral: We gave the audience exactly what they wanted: a chance to be dramatic together. To text the group chat, to lose composure publicly, and to call it cinema.