Advertising According to Flashman: Or, How Good Advertising Might Get You Laid

After reading a couple of serious books, I told a friend of mine that I could really go for a dose of some intelligent silliness. He seemed to know what that meant and suggested I try the Flashman series by George MacDonald Fraser. In the past, my friend had expressed good taste; he also mentioned that those books were a secret pleasure of Christopher Hitchens. Perfect.

The opening book was hysterical. Harry Flashman is a cad, a rogue, a scoundrel, a British soldier in 1839 who lies and steals and whores his way to Afghanistan and somehow returns to England a hero of the realm. We sympathize and find ourselves rooting for Flashy, because, for one thing, Flashman is no idiot. He cuts to the quick of a situation and, whenever his life is in danger, Flashman seeks what is best for Flashman, knowing that if he sticks to the straight and narrow for the sake of queen and country, it usually means obeying the orders of a bunch of dunderheads. And, you know, he kind of has a point.

At the end of the first book, everybody wants to know about Flashy’s gallantry and glory and Flashy doesn’t mind indulging them – especially when his audience includes a scrumptious tart or two. He reflects about how to effectively trumpet one’s successes, offering the reader some valuable insight:

It calls for nice judgement, this art of bragging: you 
must be plain, but not too plain, and you must smile
only rarely. Letting them guess more than you say
is the kernel of it, and looking uncomfortable when 
they compliment you.

This is good advice for advertisers, who essentially have to brag without appearing like blowhards.

I took “It calls for nice judgement” to mean that the product satisfies a very real need. This applies to how we demonstrate the product, as well. Is it simple? Is it logical? Our thinking has to come off clear-headed and our actions intentional. 

“…you must be plain, but not too plain” means, I think, that we must speak to the consumer honestly and directly and yet still manage to  position ourselves as an expert. We don’t want to pander; we don’t want to condescend.

“…you must smile only rarely” recommends that we not enjoy talking about ourselves too much. Bragging is, let’s face it, self-serving, so the trick is to seem considerate.

“…letting them guess more than you say” goes to the art of our communication, which is as much about what we incorporate into the story as it is about what we leave out. If we tell it artfully, we will conjure the consumer’s imagination and perhaps even inspire.

Finally, “looking uncomfortable when they compliment you” is about showing some humility, about the character of the advertiser, not seeming overly desperate and pushy or confident and presumptuous.

Yes, Flashman is a smart guy. And reading this book as a mature-ish guy, I couldn’t help wishing I had read his memoirs long ago, when I was single and carousing the clubs and could have applied some of its inspiration, when being a scoundrel could have been excused by my immaturity.

As soon as he spins his tales and feeds the golden opinions of him, Flashy reaps the rewards:

                That night was memorable for one thing – I had my 
                first woman for months, for Avitabile (an Italian 
               guard and fellow rascal) had in a couple of lively Afghan 
               wenches, and we made splendid beasts of ourselves.

Flashman got results.