Foreign exchange platform puts the brakes on high-frequency traders

EBS has changed its rules to discourage algobots.

EBS, a major interbank trading platform in in the foreign exchange market, is considering imposing a major change in the way it runs its market in order to discourage high-frequency trading from taking place.

EBS currently runs on the principle of "first in, first out" trading, where trades are dealt with in the exact order they are made. That is the way most people expect the market to work – but it also gives an advantage to those who can get their trades in quickest. That leads to the arms race that high-frequency trading has seen in the last few years, where traders pay to place their servers close to the exchange, to whittle off those last few microseconds.

Instead of this model, EBS is considering bundling together incoming trades and dealing with them in a random order. That way, every trade that came in in (for example) the tenth of a second between 12:00:00.0 and 12:00:00.1 would be grouped together and dealt in a random order, removing the advantage that the trader who got in at 12:00:00.01 would normally have.

Speaking to the FT, the chief executive of EBS explained why the company has made the decision:

The first twenty years of algorithmic trading have added great transparency and led to the compression of spreads – all great things. But there is a line beyond which marginal speed and smaller trade sizes add no value and actually harm the markets. At some point we, the public markets across asset classes, crossed that line.

The ‘first in, first out’ model sounds fair and plausible, but in modern public markets it implies ‘winner takes all’.

The classic example of how high(er)-frequency trading can have positive effects comes from the fact that the desire to shave seconds off the response time to financial information is the reason why the undersea cables linking London to New York are so high quality. Without that motivation to profit, the cables might not have been laid for decades after, and certainly wouldn't be as fast as they are now. (In fact, the USD/GBP exchange rate is still known as "cable" now, after the first transatlantic cable laid in 1858).

But as the speed of trades has increased ever higher, the side-benefits are shrinking. The difference in liquidity between a market where a tenth of a second and a thousandth of a second matters is minuscule; even if spreads might be a tiny bit tighter than they otherwise would be, no normal trader is helped by that "improvement".

So EBS's speed limit is a welcome step. By dealing with trades in a semi-random order, it removes the incentive to spend millions on shaving off the smallest fractions of time. Ironically, the companies which will benefit most in the short term are the high-frequency traders themselves, who already have the technology to trade speedily, and now don't need to worry about investing more on ever-diminishing returns. But eventually, more and more traders will match that capability, until the market becomes a level playing field again.

The other reason why traders – even high-speed ones – ought to thank EBS is that if the exchanges get HFT under control, then there's one less reason for governments to step in. Discouraging high-frequency trades is one of the strongest reasons for introducing a financial transaction tax. That hits everyone, not just the speedy traders.

A new data-centre in Manhattan. 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 Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad