Sarah Harte: Bragging used to be a faux pas — these days it seems to be a necessity
Alan Partridge, Steve Coogan's infamously self-important radio DJc character. Picture: Brian Ritchie/BBC
Donald Trump boasted over the weekend that he had his highest numbers ever, even as some surveys show his approval ratings at a record second-term low.
Trump has legitimised puffery as an art form and made it the governing philosophy of the United States. The shift, however, preceded him. We live in an age of braggadocio. And this tendency to brag and bullshit has damaged credibility and truth.
I’ve met my disproportionate share of status-seeking braggarts. (Perhaps this says something about me). Some brag about actual achievements, others inflate those achievements, and another cohort are mesmerising bullshitters with zero concern for the truth, with major capacity for harm.
Some braggarts are infamous for name-dropping, a la Alan Partridge, Steve Coogan's infamously self-important radio DJ. “Of course, we’re very, very close.” This is code for “This is the company I keep; therefore, I am great too.”
They turn every conversation into a personal tribute and require an audience of listeners ready to pay homage. They are always at the centre of their tribe, better than you in every conceivable way.
There has been a cultural change. When I was growing up, you were told not to boast, not to count your chickens before they were hatched, and never to say what you were going to do before you did it. Even after you had done it, best to keep it on the down-low.
In our parents' generation, there was always the odd blowhard who was quick to speak of little Johnny or Mary’s achievements.
It was not for nothing that there was that joke about the Cork mother crying: “Help, help, my son the engineer is drowning!” And there was always the holiday braggart, boasting about trips abroad when the rest of us had to make do with a damp caravan somewhere in the rainy West.
But bragging was generally considered a faux pas. I first noticed bragging in a professional environment in the late 90s when people began to bookend a brag with the phrase "for my sins". For example, “I’m now on that committee, for my sins”.
“You must be very proud” became my standard response to this sort of guff, always delivered with a straight face.
Stress bragging was also huge. “I worked 500 hours on the trot”, and in case you missed that, I sent an email to the entire office in the early hours about something trivial.
But thanks to Photoshopped, Insta-perfect life bragging, it’s now a commonplace form of communication. Truth often takes a backseat to image.
I spent much of last week in a hotel, away working. Eating my breakfast alone, I watched a man bestride the hotel dining room like a titan. I did a mental search, wondering where I knew him from, but I couldn’t place him.
Another man jumped out of his seat, delighted to meet this character, and performed an eye-catching back-clapping, shoulder-punching routine you might expect from young males, complete with a high-volume conversation.
Our leading man then sat down. There was no need to eavesdrop because his relentless stream of boasts was broadcast to the room. I eventually figured out who this person was because of a reference he made. In any flawed schema of Irish celebrity (an oxymoron), he is a minnow. Still, hilariously, I overheard him speak about the problem of fame and how his anonymity was destroyed by appearing on a particular television show. His companions commiserated about how hard it must be to be beset by a fawning public.
Chewing my toast, I enjoyed listening to him, wondering how far he would take it. He spoke about owning a country house. A home in Dublin. He talked about his children. Naturally, all were brilliant academically, talented sportspeople, and ultra-hardworking.
The two men, trapped at his breakfast table, enabled and indulged him, treating him like the Oracle of Delphi. Deep down, I suspected their feelings were more complicated. Maybe they just wanted to feel adjacent to someone who has been on the telly, reaping the illusory benefits of prestige by association. I have noticed that television really rings people’s bells, seeming to confer a disproportionate sense of standing.
I watched them laughing like donkeys (that slightly nervy group laughter that betrays a far deeper exchange is going on based on perceived standing and power). They couldn’t look away, like many of Donald Trump’s acolytes. Remember that footage of JD Vance jumping to his feet at every utterance of Trump’s, beating his hands together like wings?
Of course, Donald Trump is a wildly more successful person than the hotel guy.
He is a master of exaggeration. In his book, , Trump wrote: “People want to believe that something is the biggest and the greatest and the most spectacular. I call it truthful hyperbole. It’s an innocent form of exaggeration, and a very effective form of promotion.”
Some people definitely seem to buy it.
The American philosopher Harry Frankfurt posited that the bullshitter is more malevolent and damaging than the straight-up liar because his complete detachment from the truth and disregard for the facts make him a more problematic figure.
In fairness, Trump has been called both. And he is definitely a braggart.
Why people brag, whether it's Trump or the hotel guy, is the question.
To a greater or lesser extent, as human beings, we are hardwired to seek external validation. Some studies suggest that bragging is neurologically rewarding. Narcissism is often in the mix. It can also be compensatory defensive behaviour, indicating low self-esteem and insecurity via a relentless need to broadcast social status and plug some hole or assert authority.
You see the small boy trapped inside Trump, and you wonder about his parental relationships. Ditto Elon Musk. May as well throw Putin in there, too. And JD Vance. Funny, and frightening, to consider that these serial braggers and their probable attachment issues have an outsized impact on how we all lead our lives.
There are various types of self-promotion, and some may be practically necessary. A friend of mine teased me about posting my column on LinkedIn. I tartly pointed out that if I am to keep my job, I need people to read it. Happily for him, he’s not in a line of work that requires him to do this.
The theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking was once asked what his IQ was. He replied: “I have no idea. People who boast about their IQ are losers.” (Trump makes frequent references to his allegedly high IQ).
A study from Pepperdine University suggests that intellectual humility and the acquisition of knowledge are natural bedfellows. The theory goes that an awareness of one’s intellectual fallibility liberates people from egotistical concerns about their intellectual limitations, thereby freeing them to explore new ideas and learn from others. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.
Maybe out of empathy for the obvious lack of hugs in their childhoods, we should be more tolerant of braggarts. Shameless boasting can be amusing, unless of course the braggart is occupying the Oval Office, proving their prowess in supposedly image-boosting decisions that impact on all of us.
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