Bitcoin: this is what a bubble looks like

Not if, but when, the bubble will burst.

This is what a bubble looks like:

That's the market capitalisation of Bitcoin, an innovative fiat currency which relies on some fancy cryptography to create a perfectly decentralised and unhackable store of value. The graph shows the total value of all bitcoins in circulation — and it's currently peaking at a little over half a billion dollars.

In a sense, Bitcoins are the ultimate fiat currency. There is absolutely nothing valuable about them except the extent to which others are prepared to take them as payment for goods and services. The willingness relies on a certain level of trust that the currency will stay a useful store of value, measure of exchange and unit of account in the near future; but whereas normal currencies derive the trust from the fact that they are backed up by respectable governments and independent central banks, Bitcoin derives it from a complex, and essentially permanent, set of rules which issue new bit coins at a steadily declining rate until the early 22nd century, when the total quantity of bitcoins in circulation will be fixed forever.

Currently, bitcoin is very useful for fringe-legal transactions, and as a digital-native currency, it has potential to be used in a wide array of web services. But that's not why the value of the total economy has more than tripled since January. For that, look to lessons we learned over four hundred years ago.

The South Sea bubble is one of the most famous boom-and-bust cycles in history. At the peak of the madness, famously, a huckster appeared public advertising stock in "a company for carrying out an undertaking of great advantage, but nobody to know what it is". Naturally, he disappeared soon after.

But looking back at contemporary sources reveals something else which is just as important: very few people caught up in the madness thought that they were buying something innately valuable. These weren't naïve investors spending exorbitant sums on stock which they thought would vest unrealistic rewards; instead, they knew full well the bubble they were buying into, but thought that they could sell out of it at profit before the whole thing came crashing down. Some did; but inevitably, many others failed.

Much the same seems to be at play in the Bitcoin ecosystem. It's not just people like Hugo Rifkind, who accidentally made £41 from his foray into bit coin investing; Timothy Lee, a writer for Ars Technica, holds nearly a tenth of his investment portfolio in bitcoin, having bought in last January and seen a ten-fold increase in value.

But while there's been a massive increase in bitcoin price, there's not been anywhere near an equivalent increase in the currency's use. A glance at blockchain.info, which displays all transactions, shows that the vast majority of bitcoin transactions—by number, if not by value—are made at the site SatoshiDICE, a gambling organisation. In fact, the ever-increasing value of bitcoins is like to act as to depress the bitcoin economy, as people decide to hold on to their money rather than exchange it for services, knowing that it will surely increase in value.

The crash will come. At the heady peaks it's at right now, only the slightest spark will be required to turn the trend negative. In 2011, the previous bubble burst when Mt Gox, then the most popular bureau d'exchange for the fledgeling currency, was disastrously hacked. This time, I doubt it would take that. The peaks are so high, and so many people have so much money "invested" in the currency, that the rush to be the first out of a bear market will be vicious to behold.

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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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

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