Dutton - Flipnosis

What if I were to tell you that a psychopathic arsonist might also be the person most likely to save you from a burning building ?

This book is about a special kind of persuasion: flipnosis . It has an incubation period of just seconds, and can instantly disarm even the most discerning mind. This is the kind of high-wire psychological espionage which, in the right hands, can dismantle any conflict but which in the wrong hands can kill. Flipnosis is black-belt mind control. It doesnt just turn the tables, it kicks them over.

From the malign but fascinating powers of psychopaths, serial killers and con men to the political genius of Winston Churchill via the grandmasters of martial arts, Buddhist monks, magicians, advertisers, salesmen, CEOs and frogs that mug each other Kevin Duttons brilliantly original and revelatory book explores what cutting-edge science can teach us about the techniques of persuasion.

Fascinating, provocative, and ultimately inspiring, Flipnosis reveals, for the first time, the psychological DNA of instant influence and how each of us can learn to be that little bit more persuasive.

The Art of Split-Second Persuasion

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Epub ISBN 9781446440995

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by William Heinemann 2010

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Copyright Kevin Dutton, 2010

Kevin Dutton has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First published in Great Britain in 2010 by
William Heinemann
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA

www.rbooks.co.uk

Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780434016914

Dr Kevin Dutton was born in London in 1967, and is a leading expert on the science of social influence. He is a research fellow at the Faraday Institute of Science and Religion, St Edmunds College, University of Cambridge, and at the University of Western Australia, in Perth.

For legal (and sometimes personal) reasons, the names and identifying details of certain people featured in this book have been changed. In the case of one of these, con man Keith Barrett, attributes from several real-life individuals were combined in order to avoid cramming an inordinate number of these colourful characters into 90,000 words. Nothing was exaggerated, and all factual details are based on the authors first-hand knowledge and empirical research.

The author is also delighted to take sole responsibility for the grammatical turbulence you will occasionally run into in this book overuse of dashes, split infinitives. And beginning sentences with and.

Flipnosis / flipnsis / n.1 incisive,

inch-perfect influence. the practice of this.

DERIVATIVES flipnotist n. flipnotic adj.

origin unknown

One evening, at the close of a lavish state banquet for Commonwealth dignitaries in London, Winston Churchill spots a fellow guest about to steal a priceless silver salt-cellar from the table. The gentleman in question slips the precious artefact inside his dinner jacket, then quietly makes for the door .

What is Churchill to do?

Caught between loyalty to his host and an equal and opposite desire to avoid an undignified contretemps, he suddenly has an idea. With no time to lose, he quickly picks up the matching silver pepper-pot and slips it inside his own jacket pocket. Then, approaching his partner in crime, he reluctantly produces the condimentary contraband and sets it down in front of him .

I think theyve seen us, he whispers. Wed better put them back ...

Air Hostess: Please fasten your seatbelt before take-off .

Muhammad Ali: Im Superman. Superman dont need no seatbelt!

Air Hostess: Superman dont need no aeroplane!

Its six oclock on a dead December evening in North London. Two men stand drinking in a bar in Camden Town. They finish their pints, set them back down on the counter, and look at one other. Same again? Sure, why not? Though they do not know it yet, these two men are about to be late for a dinner engagement. In an Indian restaurant far across town, another man sits waiting for them. Some casual, low-grade Parkinsons loosens the wires in his flickering right hand, and hes tired. He is wearing a brightly coloured new tie which he has bought specially for the occasion, and which took him half an hour to do up. It has teddy bears on it.

It is Sunday. The man in the restaurant watches the rain gust darkly against the low-lit windows. Today is his sons birthday. In the bar in Camden Town the other men watch, too, as the rain strobes amber in the desolate glow of the street lamps, and glazes the liquid pavements with a slick of neon gold. Time to head off, they say. To the train. To the restaurant. To the man who is sitting there waiting. And so they leave.

They arrive late, by almost three-quarters of an hour. Somehow, they find this amusing. They have misjudged, in hindsight by quite some considerable margin, the length of time required to consume four pints of beer and then negotiate the outer reaches of the Piccadilly and Northern lines. Instead of setting aside a couple of hours for the venture, they have allowed something in the region of ten minutes. To make matters worse, they are drunk. On their arrival at the restaurant, things do not go well.

Late again ? the man who has been waiting for them enquires sarcastically. Youll never learn, will you?

The response is as vehement as it is instant a million age-old grievances all rolled into a single defining moment. One of the newcomers, the smaller of the two by quite some way, turns around and walks straight back out of the restaurant. Its the son. But not before he has uttered a few well-chosen words of his own.

And so there he is, the little man. A couple of minutes earlier, rattling down a tube line heading west, he had been looking forward to a simple birthday dinner with his father and his best friend. Now he is alone under derelict December skies, hurtling along the pavement in the direction of the tube station. Freezing cold and soaking wet because hes forgotten to pick up his coat. Funny how quickly things can change.

When the little man arrives at the station, he is seething. He stands for a few moments at the ticket barrier trying to locate his pass, and thinks to himself that wild horses wouldnt be able to drag him back to that restaurant. The station concourse is flooded and there is no one around. But then he hears something coming from the street: the sound of approaching footsteps. Suddenly, out of nowhere, theres the big man. Having legged it from the restaurant to the station, he slumps against a pillar by the entrance. The little man moves away.