If all international trade was done through eBay, the world would be 30 per cent richer

Frictionless trade is closer than ever before online, according to a new paper.

If all trade was as frictionless as it is on eBay, the world's real income could be almost 30 per cent higher, according to a new research paper from the European Trade Study Group, in a phenomenon known as the "death of distance".

The study looks at a dataset of cross-border transactions performed over eBay, modified to only include sales from businesses which were concluded with a fixed price; in other words, no auctions, and no customer-to-customer sales. While this removes the majority of transactions from their dataset, the modification is necessary to make eBay sales more accurately represent offline trade.

They find that, unsurprisingly, the effect of distance on trade volume is lessened online. Controlling for standard trade costs "such as the absence of a common language, a common legal system, a border, a colonial history, or a free-trade agreement", the distance effect is 65 per cent smaller online than offline.

That effect may be due to a mixture of three different frictions on trade: shipping costs, information frictions (you can, after all, only export to a country if you know someone there who wants to buy from you), or trust frictions.

Shipping costs appear to have little to do with the death of distance online – partially, it appears, because they have little correlation with distance. For instance, the average shipping cost, as a proportion of the cost of the item, is less from the USA to Iceland than it is for shipping from the USA to Canada or Mexico:

Instead, the real reduction in friction comes from the provision of both trust and information; as a result, "the distance-effect reduction is largest for exporting countries with high levels of corruption and which are relatively unknown to consumers, as measured by Google search results."

Worldwide, the increase in real income achieved by the reductions in distance effects is equal to 29 per cent, but that increase is spread very unevenly. At one end of the extreme, Brazil would see an increase in real income of 80 per cent, if only it could conduct all its trade with the rest of the world as efficiently as it does when that trade is on eBay.

At the other end, Belgium would actually lose out. It currently gains from information frictions, and would lose 0.9 per cent of its real income from trade if those frictions were abolished. It is the only country in the dataset which would lose out in such a way, though, and Britain would be up by over 40 per cent.

Of course, the study doesn't address every aspect of the online world. One of the reasons why eBay is so frictionless is that the company takes a (rather large) cut of the transaction in order to keep that infrastructure maintained. If all the world's trade was carried out on eBay, its annual revenue from international transactions alone would be in the order of $400bn, a significant increase on the $12bn it's earned in the last year. And let's not even talk about the Paypal fees.

Still, the paper strikes a blow in favour of those of us who think there are still significant gains to be made from the online economy.

eBay. 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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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism