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The art of the political wager: how to make money betting on the general election

The only certainty about this year's election is that it will break all previous betting records. So who should you be placing your money on?

Photomontage by Dan Murrell

At the end of October 2008 I found myself in Las Vegas, as one does. I was not there for any of the customary purposes, though I might have played a few mindless late-night hands of blackjack for the sake of it. I was there to follow Barack Obama, then on the verge of the presidency, and campaigning in the swing state of Nevada.

Obama spoke to a large, zealous Saturday-afternoon crowd on a high-school football field. But the sight that really struck me came early that evening, in a suburban shopping mall. Nevada was one of the states that had embraced early voting, and already – ten days before polling day – the voting machines were in full cry, and easily mistakable for the one-armed bandits that are permanent fixtures in Las Vegas malls.

But Nevada has enough gambling oppor­tunities to go round. These machines attracted a long line, not of casino-goers, but of the people who attend to their needs. They were young, mainly female and non-white. And there was no need to be intrusively journalistic and ask the bleedin’ obvious: they were not queuing to pick John McCain, who had secured his Republican base by transforming himself from a thoughtful and original politician into a fat-headed curmudgeon.

At once it was clear to me not merely that Obama would win Nevada and thus the nation, but that in effect he had won already. I shared this thought with my newspaper readers, but there was something else I would normally have done: backed my judgement with money. Three things stopped me.

First, the notion of President Obama was no longer startling – he was now heavily odds-on, which is not my kind of betting. Second, I had (forgive the little swank) started putting money on Obama in the UK more than a year earlier, when it was generally assumed Hillary Clinton would be the Democratic nominee. Third, such a bet here was out of the question. Even in the gambling capital of the world, American squeamishness is overwhelming. Though nearly every state has a lottery, bookmaking is frowned on by polite society; and betting on politics is considered sinful. A nice man from the trade magazine Gaming Today explained the background to me: in 1980, when the TV soap Dallas was the talk of the planet, one casino, in addition to its normal prices on American sports, had issued prices for Who Shot JR?. The Nevada Gaming Control Board went apeshit and banned all bets on non-sporting subjects.

And to this day the vagaries of US law make the practice difficult and hazardous anywhere from Washington to Waikiki. It has become even tougher since the demise in 2013 of Intrade, an Irish-based “online prediction trading exchange”, which for a time successfully disguised political gambling in the garb of a stock market. There are still the Iowa Electronic Markets, run by a university business school, which, “for educational and research purposes”, are allowed to accept small bets – $500 absolute max over an entire four-year election cycle – to create a simulacrum of a real market. In Britain last year a Surrey businessman placed a total of £900,000 with William Hill on a No vote in the Scottish referendum (he won £193,000).

That is a little out of my own league, but on the whole I am pleased to live in a country that makes it harder to shoot random strangers than have a bet. My name is Matthew and I adore punting on politics. And I have no plans to give up – certainly not in the next three and a half months as we approach the most fascinating, multilayered and downright bettable general election in British history. Already odds are being offered about almost every imaginable contingency for polling day and after, including prices for every constituency from Aberavon to Yorkshire East. The two biggest bookmakers, William Hill and Ladbrokes, both had a turnover of more than £3m on the Scottish referendum, suggesting an industry total of £10m-£15m. There is perhaps only one certainty about the 2015 election: it is going to break all previous betting records.

The propensity to wager is an innate part of the human condition, and perhaps the divine condition, too: the Greek gods played dice to divvy up responsibility (Zeus won the skies, Poseidon the seas and Hades the underworld). More attestably, men were betting on political outcomes when sport was not organised or regular enough to offer an alternative. Stephen Alford, in his new biography, Edward VI, says that as the boy-king lay dying in 1553, merchants in Antwerp were betting on the disputed succession. In 1743, when George II made the nostalgic and quixotic decision to lead his own troops into battle against the French at Dettingen, it was said to be 4/1 in the London coffee shops against the silly fool getting himself killed. He survived.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries there was a sturdy betting market on presidential elections among Wall Street traders which was well regarded for its accuracy in predicting the result. There was similar activity in the City of London and West End clubs – and with UK bookmakers, whose odds until 1961 were legally available only to the minority able to bet on credit. In the US, bookmaking got itself associated with the Mob and became ever more taboo. In Britain it was legalised and democratised.

Once the bookies came out of the shadows and into the high streets, political odds became universally available, and publicised. The first great contest after the arrival of betting shops was for the Tory leadership in 1963, with Rab Butler the odds-on favourite who got turned over, as some shrewdies must have sensed, by the 5/1 shot Lord Home. The Guardian reported a stinging attack on the practice by the Labour politician Ian Mikardo. “A sad day for Britain,” he called it. “The Tories have dragged the premiership down to the level of the Donkey Derby.” This constituted the most glorious piece of chutzpah. Mikardo is remembered these days as a) a highly effective left-wing operator and b) the semi-official Commons bookmaker, taking his colleagues’ political bets for decades.

Perhaps Mikardo resented the competition. But he was not the only one expressing doubts. Hills and Ladbrokes were already emerging as the Big Two betting firms in the new era, vying for the title World’s Biggest Bookmaker. The Ladbrokes boss Cyril Stein enthusiastically embraced politics as a business opportunity. The eponymous William Hill, still firmly in charge of his own firm, had moral qualms: “If this became a fever and millions of people went for it, I think it could affect the ballot box,” he said in a radio debate with Stein before the 1966 election. “And electing a government is a very serious business.”

Hill’s biographer Graham Sharpe admits his man lost that argument hands down, especially as he had by then already given in and started offering prices. No one else shared his view that anyone might vote primarily to support their bet. And Stein made clear in the debate there was no question of stepping across the real ethical divide:

“Would you be prepared to bet on anything?” the interviewer asked Stein.

“Anything living, yes.”

“. . . The number of people killed in the Vietnam war during a certain period, or dying during a cholera epidemic?”

“No, I said that we bet on anything living.”

The principle was thus established and has been very rarely breached since: no Battle of Dettingen-type odds. And what Stein had grasped was that taking bets on events beyond sport had a remarkable spin-off: it got the company name into parts of the media it would never otherwise reach. This was not about simple, calculable profit and loss: embracing events beyond the sports pages offered fantastic PR.

Deep down, Hill knew that, too. Two years earlier, in 1964, his firm had taken a £10 bet from a young man in Preston, David Threlfall, at 1,000/1 against a human landing on the moon by the end of the decade; the strict calculus suggests that the odds were crazed, as President John F Kennedy had set the goal before his death. In 1969 Hills had to pay Threlfall £10,000 (about £145,000 now, by the most conservative reckoning). It made the bookies cautious for a while, yet the impression was created that these are not legalised mafiosi but sometimes naive good sports, and it has paid massive dividends for them.

And so, the bookmakers still pursue this kind of business, from customised novelty (will a newborn son play cricket for England?) to reality TV (who will be next to be evicted from Big Brother?), with an eye focused far more on the headline than the bottom line. But no sane bookmaker now accepts serious money on this stuff, or indeed anything where there is a risk of insider trading (this includes betting on the next archbishop of Canterbury). On a general election, however, there is both huge interest and a level playing field: the PM hardly knows more than the rest of us. So it’s a win double for the bookies: acres of column inches and big turnover, too.

And the strange thing about political betting is that the punters can also have objectives over and above the customary chance of winning money. It is possible to identify at least four completely different types of bet never seen on a racecourse:

The insurance bet: This was particularly prevalent up to the 1970s, when a Labour government might have a serious effect on a rich man’s wallet. It existed even before betting shops: there were reports of large credit bets before the 1951 election and in the 1960s steel magnates were thought to have backed Labour heavily to get a consolation prize in case of nationalisation.

The momentum bet: When Clement Freud stood as Liberal candidate in the Isle of Ely by-election in 1973, he began as a 33/1 outsider. He then placed several £300 bets, enough to send the odds plummeting. “The clever money seems to be going on Freud,” said the Daily Telegraph. As the candidate later put it: “Actually, it was the Freud money going on Freud.” But it created the sense of impetus that has always been crucial to by-election upsets. Freud won and held the seat for 14 years. (When the Tories won it back, Freud was 5/1 on.) There were also persistent rumours, never confirmed, that Chris Huhne’s campaign team had hefty bets on their man before he lost narrowly in Lib Dem leadership campaigns to both Ming Campbell and Nick Clegg.

The heart-not-head bet: Though the big money in the Scottish referendum was for No, nearly all the small bets were for Yes, apparently coming from shiny-faced pro-independence voters anxious to back their hopes, not their fears.

The grandstanding bet: At the Rochester by-election last November Michael Gove publicly placed a £50 bet on the doomed Tory candidate. This had no purpose except to draw attention to Gove’s continued existence and ambition.

The original purpose of both sides – trying to make a profit on the transaction – is certainly not absent. Indeed, in recent years it has become more central. At the heart of this phenomenon is a new class somewhat different from the blokes who hang round the betting shops. Their bible is a somewhat clunky blog-cum-website, PoliticalBetting.com, founded ten years ago by an ex-journalist, university fundraiser and Liberal Democrat candidate called Mike Smithson, who lost his political betting virginity as a teenager in the 1963 Tory leadership shemozzle.

Smithson uses the slogan: “The view from OUTSIDE the Westminster bubble” (Bedford, actually), which for political betting purposes is definitely the place to be. No one can make money from the bookmakers by following conventional wisdom. And Smithson and his small team of contributors are particularly good at getting beyond that.

But of the two words in the site’s title, the first is more significant. This is a wonkish site first and foremost. I am not sure whether knowing that the Conservatives retained a seat on Rother District Council by winning the Darwell by-election adds to the sophistication of my political analysis, especially when I am not sure where either Rother or Darwell might be. But it certainly makes me feel clued up. As does the rigour Smithson brings to the study of polling data.

The site’s small profit, however, comes from the betting firms paying commission on click-throughs that generate custom, although the companies are just a bit wary of this new business. “I know who some of these people are,” says Matthew Shaddick, head of political betting at Ladbrokes. “A lot of them are political obsessives: activists, poll-watchers, or they work in political HQs. Real anoraky stats people, or political scientists with their own models.” In other words, not necessarily the mug punters the bookies traditionally love.

Shaddick is the embodiment of the industry’s response. He is 45, and took a degree in politics and modern history at Manchester before becoming a Ladbrokes lifer. A few years back, the firm was looking for someone in the office to look after the politics bets. “I put my hand up on the basis that it would take a couple of hours a week,” said Shaddick. Now it’s his full-time job.

Over at William Hill, political betting is largely overseen by the founder’s biographer, Graham Sharpe, who has been at the firm since 1972 and is now its media relations director. Sharpe is a long-standing master of the showbiz aspects of the operation. In particular, he arranged sponsorship to keep Screaming Lord Sutch in business as a national treasure through the 1980s and 1990s. Sutch was the indifferent pop singer and magnificent self-publicist who stood in 41 elections, passing 1,000 votes just once. (He added greatly to the national merriment, if not to his own, and committed suicide in 1999, aged 58.)

Sharpe took what is thought to be the longest-odds bet in history: £10 from Sutch that he would become prime minister at 15 million/1. It was understood that Sharpe would have been compensated for the inevitable loss of his job at Hills with a place in His Lordship’s cabinet.

Though their background and perspectives are very different, both Sharpe and Shaddick see politics as a major growth area. Excluding the skill-free but profitable internet casinos and one-armed bandits in the shops, the bookmakers’ core betting business is now split evenly three ways: one-third football, which is rising; one-third racing, which is falling; one-third everything else including politics – which Shaddick reckons is the fastest-growing area of all.

They also agree it is very different from other betting, and that there is little overlap between political punters and other clients until the final days of the campaign. Suspected political know-alls are treated with the same respect as a big-time racing insider. It is both a nuisance and a badge of honour to try to place a carefully worked-out wager and be told by a huge and allegedly fearless multinational that it will only accept a sum that would not even shake the toytown Iowa Electronic Markets, because the computer knows who you are.

This is especially likely if you are betting not on the next prime minister, or most seats, but on something obscure: perhaps supporting an outsider in a constituency the bookmakers had not even thought in play. It is possible to finesse that by tramping round the shops and forking out a large number of small sums, but even that way head office gets wind eventually. This is a complicated battle of wits.

There will be NS readers who no doubt regard this entire article with horror, who share not just the original William Hill’s disdain for gambling on politics but a detestation for betting of all kinds. Some of them will be members of parliament. However, they are the real gamblers. Most of us would be terrified by the notion of subjecting our career and livelihood to continual monstering by the press and Twittersphere, interspersed with periodic revalidation by public whim.

Of course gambling can ruin the lives of those without the capacity for moderation, just as drinking can. But it is different for genuine punters. By that I don’t mean Lottery players, but people who aspire to make rational predictions about future outcomes, be it a horse race or a three-way marginal, and who back their judgement with affordable sums of money – and understand that betting is about honourable defeats as well as victories because it is a search for value, not certainties. For them it is a constant source of intellectual challenge and occasional delight. A hobby to help ward off boredom and dementia: more lasting than Candy Crush and FreeCell; more piquant than a crossword; and cheaper than golf.

The idea that the bookmakers must inevitably win has in fact never been less true. The days of the 10 per cent tax on every bet have gone; the internet provides instant price comparison sites; and hot competition from new entrants, especially the betting exchanges, has forced the companies to slim their once-obese profit margins.

And political betting has a particular appeal because the relevant data is so transparent. True, I would have saved myself some money if I had got inside Alan Johnson’s head and realised he appeared to be serious about not wanting to become leader of the Labour Party. But most of the time the information is out there and just needs to be collected, processed and understood. In racing, no student of form knows what a trainer might be up to; and no trainer knows for sure how his horse really feels. No football expert can accurately predict the day when Manchester City might just screw up against Burnley.

We aficionados all have our failures, heaven knows. But we can smile about our past triumphs, as over some long-ago night of passion. I was a fairly early Obama backer but Mike Smithson spotted him long before I did and backed him to be president at 50/1. My own moment of glory came in 1990, when I divined that Michael Heseltine would indeed topple Margaret Thatcher but then get punished by being deprived of the prize himself; therefore I knew – just knew – that the answer to the question simply had to be John Major, at 10/1. And I kept betting until Hills told me to get knotted.

I am relishing the 2015 election first and foremost because I care about my country and want it to be run by politicians who share my vision of its future; second because, for a journalist, it will be fascinating to write about; and third, because I hope that I might just have another moment of blinding insight to match the one I had 25 years ago. Which may be lucrative in a medium-sized way – and gloriously satisfying.

Matthew Engel is a columnist for the Financial Times and the occasional political betting columnist for the Racing Post. His latest book is “Engel’s England” (Profile)

This article first appeared in the 23 January 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Christianity in the Middle East

NEAL FOX FOR NEW STATESMAN
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They know where you live

Imagine your house being raided by armed police. That’s what happened to Mumsnet’s Justine Roberts after she fell victim to an internet hoaxer.

At around midnight on Tuesday 11 August 2015, a man dialled 999 to report a murder. A woman had been killed in her London home, he said, before hanging up without offering his name. A second call followed. This time, the man claimed to be the killer. He told the operator that he had now taken the woman’s children hostage at the Islington address. They were locked with him inside a room in the house, he said. The police responded with reassuring speed. Fifteen minutes later, eight officers, five of them armed with automatic weapons, accompanied by saliva-flecked dogs, arrived at the scene and took up position in neighbouring front gardens. When one officer banged on the front door of the house, the team was greeted, moments later, not by a masked murderer but by a blinking and bewildered au pair.

Justine Roberts, the woman whom the caller claimed to have killed, was in fact nearly 2,000 kilometres away – in Italy, holidaying with her husband and children. After explaining this to the police, the au pair called Roberts, who assumed that the incident was an unfortunate misunderstanding, one that could be unpicked after the vacation. It was no mistake. Roberts had been the victim of “swatting”, the term given to a false emergency call designed to bait an armed unit of police officers to storm someone’s home. It wasn’t until a few days later, as the family was preparing to return to London, that Roberts discovered that she had been the target of a planned and sustained attack, not only on her household, but also on her business.

Roberts is the founder of Mumsnet, the popular British internet discussion forum on which parents share advice and information. A few days before the swatting incident, members of 8chan, a chat room that prides itself on being an open, anonymous platform for free speech, no matter how distasteful, had registered accounts on Mums­net with the aim of trolling people there. When legitimate Mumsnet users identified and then ridiculed the trolls, some retreated to 8chan to plot more serious vengeance in a thread that the police later discovered. Roberts wasn’t involved in the online skirmish but, as the public face of the site, she was chosen as the first target.

After the initial armed response, Roberts’s perception was that the police were unconcerned about the swatting attack. “We were told that there was no victim, so there was not much that could be done,” she told me. The hoax caller, however, was not finished. In the days after the incident, there was chatter on Mumsnet and Twitter about what had happened. A Mumsnet user whom I will call Jo Scott – she requested anonymity for her own safety – exchanged heated messages with a hacker who claimed responsibility for the 999 call.

“It descended into jokes and silliness, like many things do,” Scott said. “I didn’t take it seriously when the hacker said he had big surprises in store.” She doesn’t believe that what happened next was personal. “I think I was just easy to find.”

A few days after police were called to Roberts’s home, Scott was in her bedroom while her husband was sitting downstairs playing video games. At 11pm, she heard a noise outside. “I looked out of the window and saw blue flashing lights in the street,” she recalled. “I could hear shouting but I didn’t pay it much notice.” Then she heard her husband open the front door. Police rushed into the house. An armed officer shouted upstairs, asking Scott if she was hurt. When she replied that she was fine, he told her to fetch her two young children: he needed to see them. Scott shook her sons awake, explaining, so as not to alarm them, that the police had come to show the boys their cars. As the three of them went downstairs, the officers swept up through the house, repeatedly asking if there were any weapons on the property.

“I was beyond confused by this point,” Scott said. “Everyone was carrying a gun. They had little cutaway bits so you could see the bullets. My eldest asked one of the officers if he could have a go on his gun and went to touch it.”

As Scott sat with an officer downstairs, she asked what had happened to her husband. “I later found out that the noises I’d heard were the police calling for him to come outside,” she said. “He dropped the PlayStation controller as he left the room. It was only later that we realised it’s a good job he did: in the dark, the controller might have looked like a weapon.”

Outside, Scott’s husband had been surrounded and arrested. Other police ­officers were on the lookout in the front gardens of nearby properties, having warned the couple’s neighbours to stay indoors, away from their windows. “One of the officers said it was beginning to look like a hoax,” Scott said. “Then he mentioned swatting. As soon as he said that word, I twigged that I’d seen the term that day on Twitter in relation to the Mumsnet hack.”

***

The term “swatting” has been used by the FBI since 2008. “Swat” is an acronym of “Special Weapons and Tactics”, the American police squads routinely called to intervene in hostage situations. It is, in a sense, a weaponised version of a phoney order of pizza, delivered as a prank to a friend’s home, albeit one that carries the possibility of grave injury at the hands of police. For perpetrators, the appeal is the ease with which the hoax can be set in motion and the severity of the results. With a single, possibly untraceable phone call, dialled from anywhere in the world, it is possible to send an armed unit to any address, be it the home of a high-profile actor whom you want to prank or that of someone you want to scare.

In America, where swatting originated, the practice has become so widespread – targets have included Tom Cruise, Taylor Swift, Clint Eastwood and the Californian congressman Ted Lieu – that it is now classed as an act of domestic terrorism. In the UK, where Justine Roberts’s was one of the first recorded cases, swatting is classed as harassment, though that may change if these and other forms of internet vigilante attacks, such as doxxing, become increasingly commonplace.

Doxxing involves the publication of someone’s personal details – usually their home address, phone numbers, bank details and, in some cases, email address – on the internet. It is often the prelude to swatting: after all, the perpetrator of a hoax cannot direct the police to the target’s home address until this is known. (During the week of the Mumsnet attacks, one of the perpetrators attempted to locate another target using their computer’s IP address, which can identify where a person is connected to the internet, often with alarming precision. Their calculation, however, was slightly out; police were called to a neighbour’s address.)

Though doxxing has a less dramatic outcome than swatting, the psychological effects can be just as severe. For victims – usually people who are active on the internet and who have outspoken opinions or who, in the eyes of an internet mob, have committed some kind of transgression – the mere threat of having their personal information made available on the web can cause lasting trauma. A Canadian software developer whose home address, bank details, social security number and email history were published online in 2014 told me that he now keeps an axe by his front door. “I still don’t feel safe here,” he said. “It’s terrifying.”

Christos Reid, a social media manager for a software company, was doxxed last year. Reid’s information came from a website he had registered seven years earlier. “I woke up one morning to find a tweet announcing my personal details,” he told me. When he asked the Twitter account holder to take down the address, he was told to commit suicide. Reid said he was “OK for about half an hour”; but then, after he went out, he broke down in the street. “I’ve become more paranoid,” he said. He no longer gives out business cards with personal information.

Reid lives in London, but at the time of the doxx he was attending an event in Nottingham, home to the British police’s largest cybercrime division. He was impressed with the police response, even though they told him that they had not heard of the term “doxxing” before. “I was interviewed by two separate people about my experiences who then compiled everything into a case file and transferred it to the Met. When I arrived home, an officer visited me to discuss what happened and my options.”

The policeman explained harassment law to Reid, and offered advice on how to improve security at his flat and what to do if someone hostile turned up at the address. Reid shouldered the repercussions of what had happened alone; no suspects were identified. A spokesperson for the Metropolitan Police similarly said that although detectives from Islington CID have investigated the swatting attacks made on Roberts and Scott, no suspects have been identified “at this time”, even as “inquiries continue”.

Doxxing may seem to be a mild form of harassment but it carries with it an implicit threat of impending violence; the worrying message is: “We know where you live.” Unlike swatting, which is always malicious, doxxing is sometimes viewed by its perpetrators as virtuous. In November 2014, hackers claiming to be aligned with the internet group Anonymous published personal information allegedly belonging to a Ku Klux Klan member from Missouri. The hackers said that their action was a response to the KKK’s threat to use lethal force against demonstrators in the city of Ferguson, Missouri, protesting against the killing of the unarmed black teenager Michael Brown by a white police officer. In January 2015 hackers claiming to be from Isis took over US Central Command’s Twitter account and posted information about senior military officers, including phone numbers and email addresses. In each case, those carrying out the doxxing believed, however mistakenly, in the virtue of their actions and hoped that the information could be used to bring punishment or ruin to the subject.

The term “doxxing” may be new but the practice is an old one. The Hollywood blacklist revealed the political beliefs and associations of actors and directors in the late 1940s as a way to invite shame, deny employment and dissuade others from following their example. “But it has become a lot easier to find people’s private details with the help of the internet,” Jeroen Vader told me. Vader owns Pastebin, a website that allows users to upload and distribute text documents, and where much of the personal data is anonymously uploaded and shared. “People post their private information on social networks,” he said. “A lot of people aren’t aware that their information is so easily available to others.”

In Justine Roberts’s case, the perpetrator may not even have needed to look at social networks to mine her personal information. “If you’re on the electoral roll, you’re easy to find,” she said. “There’s not much you can do to stop people getting hold of your data one way or another, whether it’s for nefarious reasons or simply to better advertise to you. We live in a world that is constantly trying to gather more information about us.”

Jeroen Vader said he has noticed an “upward trend” in the number of doxxing posts uploaded to Pastebin in recent months, but insisted that when someone uses the site’s abuse report system these offending posts are removed immediately.

Across social media companies, action is more often reactive than proactive. Victoria Taylor, a former director at Reddit, one of the largest community-driven websites in the world, said that the rule against publishing other users’ personal information has been “consistently one of the site’s most basic policies” and that “any violation of this rule is taken extremely seriously by the team and community”. Still, she was only able to recommend that victims of doxxing send a message to the site’s administrators. Similarly, when asked what a person can do to remove personal details that have been published without permission, a Twitter spokesperson said: “Use our help form.”

The spokesperson added: “There has def­initely been an overall increase in doxxing since 2006, both on Twitter and on the internet more generally.” She attributed this rise to the emergence of search engines such as Intelius and Spokeo, services designed to locate personal information.

***

The surge in the number of dox­xing and swatting attacks is in part a result of the current lack of legal protection for victims. Confusion regarding the law on doxxing is pervasive; the term is even not mentioned in either US or European law. In a tutorial posted on Facebook in 2013, the writer claims: “Doxxing isn’t illegal as all the information you have obtained is public,” and adds: “But posting of the doxx might get you in a little trouble.”

Phil Lee, a partner in the privacy, security and information department of Fieldfisher based at the law firm’s office in Silicon Valley, said that differing privacy laws around the world were part of the problem. “Various countries have laws that cover illegal or unauthorised obtaining of data. Likewise, some of the consequences of releasing that data, such as defamation or stalking, cover elements of what we now term doxxing. But there is no global law covering what is a global phenomenon.” Indeed, Roberts believes that her London address was targeted from America – the 999 call was routed through a US proxy number.

One challenge to creating a law on doxxing is that the sharing of personal information without permission has already become so widespread in the digital age. “If a law was to state something like, ‘You must not post personal information about another person online without their consent,’ it wouldn’t reflect how people use the internet,” Lee said. “People post information about what their friends and family members have been doing all the time without their consent.

“Such a law could have a potentially detrimental effect on freedom of speech.”

Lee believes that a specific law is unnecessary, because its potentially harmful effects are already covered by three discrete pieces of legislation dealing with instances where a person’s private information is obtained illegally, when that information is used to carry out illegal acts and when the publication of the information is accompanied by a threat to incite hatred. However, this does not adequately account for cases in which the information is obtained legally, and then used to harass the individual in a more legally ambiguous manner, either with prank phone calls or with uninvited orders of pizza.

Susan Basko, an independent lawyer who practises in California and who has been doxxed in the course of her frequent clashes with internet trolls, believes that the onus should be on the law, rather than the public. She points out that in the US it is a crime to publicise information about a government employee such as their home address, their home and cellphone numbers, or their social security number, even if the information is already online. “This law should apply to protect all people, not just federal employees,” she said. “And websites, website-hosting companies and other ISPs should be required to uphold this law.”

Basko said that doxxing will continue to increase while police have inadequate resources to follow up cases. For now, it is up to individuals to take preventative measures. Zoë Quinn, an American game designer and public speaker who was doxxed in 2014, has launched Crash Override, a support network and assistance group for targets of online harassment, “composed entirely of experienced survivors”.

Quinn, who spoke about the problem at a congressional hearing in Washington, DC in April last year, recently posted a guide on how to reduce the likelihood of being doxxed. “If you are worried you might some day be targeted,” she wrote, “consider taking an evening to stalk yourself online, deleting and opting out of anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Both Scott and Roberts have changed their privacy habits following the attacks. Scott is more careful about interacting with strangers online, while Roberts uses scrambler software, which ensures that she never uses the same password for more than one online site or service.

For both women’s families, the effects of their encounters with armed police have also lingered. When one day recently Roberts’s husband returned home early from work, the au pair called the police, believing it was an intruder. And Scott is haunted by what happened.

“What if my husband had made a sudden move or resisted in some way? What if my eldest had grabbed the gun instead of gently reaching for it? What if people locally believed that my husband did actually have guns in the house?” she asks. “I don’t think the people making these sorts of hoax calls realise the impact.” 

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