If you've got lucky, it's easy to convince people you're a sage

"Expert" predictions only need a few lucky guesses, then everyone believes them.

LSE's Nattavudh Powdthavee and Nanyang University's Yohanes E. Riyanto presented a paper last month titled Why Do People Pay for Useless Advice? (pdf) The authors demonstrate that people are prepared to pay for investment advice which they know cannot possibly be based on any real evidence – provided the advisor has got things right in the past.

Participants in the experiment were told to bet on five consecutive rounds of coin flips (they could pick the stake, provided it was higher than a minimum level and wouldn't make them lose all their money before the last round). Since they were using a fair coin, the chance of heads or tails coming up each time was 50-50, and the chance of someone calling the correct flips in all five rounds is one in thirty two. More importantly, no amount of expertise can help one predict the outcome of a sequence of coin tosses.

So when the participants were offered the chance to buy "predictions", you would expect them to ignore them. And most of them did, at least for round one (although even then, around 15 per cent of them did pay). But after the first round of tosses, everyone got to see their predictions, even those who hadn't paid. And for half the participants, those predictions were correct. Still, it's obviously just chance, right?

Apparently not so obvious. Those who got a correct "prediction" in round one were three times more likely to pay for one in round two than those who'd got an incorrect one. And by the time a subset of the group had got four correct predictions in a row, the possibility that they would buy a prediction for the fifth round had risen from 15 to 40 per cent.

In other words, just a few lucky guesses are all it takes to get people to pay for what the authors call "transparently useless advice". As they conclude:

Our experiment accurately describes how the real "false" experts typically operate in the information market, and the findings of this paper help to highlight how easy it is for an average person to form a belief in an expert when none may actually exist. 

Something worth bearing in mind next time you are looking at horse tips, stock pickers, or hedge funds, maybe.

George Bush tosses a coin. Is he an expert? Photograph: Getty Images

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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What David Hockney has to tell us about football

Why the sudden glut of blond footballers? A conversation I had with the artist back in 1966 gave me a clue. . .

In 1966, I went to interview David Hockney at a rather run-down flat in Bayswater, central London. He was 28 and had just won a gold medal at the Royal College of Art.

In his lavatory, I noticed a cut-out photograph from a newspaper of Denis Law scoring a goal. I asked if he was a football fan. He said no, he just liked Denis Law’s thighs.

The sub-editors cut that remark out of the story, to save any gossip or legal problems. In 1966 homosexual activity could still be an offence.

Hockney and a friend had recently been in the United States and had been watching an advert on TV that said “Blondes have more fun”. At two o’clock in the morning, slightly drunk, they both went out, bought some hair dye and became blond. Hockney decided to remain blond from then on, though he has naturally dark hair.

Is it true that blonds have more fun? Lionel Messi presumably thinks so, otherwise why has he greeted this brand-new season with that weird blond hair? We look at his face, his figure, his posture and we know it’s him – then we blink, thinking what the heck, does he realise some joker has been pouring stuff on his head?

He has always been such a staid, old-fashioned-looking lad, never messing around with his hair till now. Neymar, beside him, has gone even blonder, but somehow we expect it of him. He had foony hair even before he left Brazil.

Over here, blonds are popping up all over the shop. Most teams now have a born-again blondie. It must take a fortune for Marouane Fellaini of Man United to brighten up his hair, as he has so much. But it’s already fading. Cheapskate.

Mesut Özil of Arsenal held back, not going the full head, just bits of it, which I suspect is a clue to his wavering, hesitant personality. His colleague Aaron Ramsey has almost the full blond monty. Paul Pogba of Man United has a sort of blond streak, more like a marker pen than a makeover. His colleague Phil Jones has appeared blond, but he seems to have disappeared from the team sheet. Samir Nasri of Man City went startlingly blond, but is on loan to Seville, so we’re not able to enjoy his locks. And Didier Ndong of Sunderland is a striking blond, thanks to gallons of bleach.

Remember the Romanians in the 1998 World Cup? They suddenly appeared blond, every one of them. God, that was brilliant. One of my all-time best World Cup moments, and I was at Wembley in 1966.

So, why do they do it? Well, Hockney was right, in a sense. Not to have more fun – meaning more sex – because top footballers are more than well supplied, but because their normal working lives are on the whole devoid of fun.

They can’t stuff their faces with fast food, drink themselves stupid, stay up all night, take a few silly pills – which is what many of our healthy 25-year-old lads consider a reasonably fun evening. Nor can they spend all their millions on fun hols, such as skiing in the winter, a safari in the spring, or hang-gliding at the weekend. Prem players have to be so boringly sensible these days, or their foreign managers will be screaming at them in their funny foreign accents.

While not on the pitch, or training, which takes up only a few hours a day, the boredom is appalling, endlessly on planes or coaches or in some hotel that could be anywhere.

The only bright spot in the long days is to look in the mirror and think: “Hmm, I wonder what highlights would look like? I’ve done the beard and the tattoos. Now let’s go for blond. Wow, gorgeous.”

They influence each other, being simple souls, so when one dyes his hair, depending on where he is in the macho pecking order, others follow. They put in the day by looking at themselves. Harmless fun. Bless ’em.

But I expect all the faux blonds to have gone by Christmas. Along with Mourinho. I said that to myself the moment he arrived in Manchester, smirking away. Pep will see him off. OK then, let’s say Easter at the latest . . . 

Hunter Davies is a journalist, broadcaster and profilic author perhaps best known for writing about the Beatles. He is an ardent Tottenham fan and writes a regular column on football for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times