Kevin Dutton - Split-Second Persuasion: The Ancient Art and New Science of Changing Minds

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.

Copyright 2010 Kevin Dutton

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisheror in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, license from the Canadian Copyright Licensing agencyis an infringement of the copyright law.

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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Dutton, Kevin
Split-second persuasion : the ancient art and new science of
changing minds / Kevin Dutton.

eISBN: 978-0-307-37461-5

1. Persuasion (Psychology). 2. Influence (Psychology). 3. Change
(Psychology).

I. Title.
BF637.P4D883 2010 153.852 C2010-902536-9

Published in Canada by Doubleday Canada,
a division of Random House of Canada Limited

Visit Random House of Canada Limiteds website:

www.randomhouse.ca

v3.1

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.

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.

Wait! says the big man, when hes finally got his breath back.

The little man isnt interested.

Dont even think about it, he says, raising his hand an inch, maybe two inches above his head. Ive had it up to here with his snide remarks!

But wait! says the big man again.

The little man is getting angrier by the second.

Look, he says, youre wasting your time. Just go back to him. Go back to the restaurant. Go wherever you like. Just get out of my face!

The big man is worried that the little man is going to hit him.

OK, he says. OK. But before I go, will you just let me say one thing?

Silence. The rain turns crimson as some traffic-lights change at the crossing by the station entrance.

Just to get rid of him, the little man relents.

Go on then, he says. What is it?

Theres a moment of truth as the two of them look at each other the big man and the little man across the barrier. The little man notices that a couple of buttons have fallen off the big mans overcoat, and that his woollen bobble-hat is lying on the ground in a puddle some distance away. Mustve been quite a dash, the little man thinks to himself. From the restaurant to the station. And then he remembers something. Something the big man had told him once. About how his mother had knitted him that hat, one Christmas.