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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

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Are smart toys spying on children?

If you thought stepping on a Lego was bad, consider the new ways in which toys can hurt and harm families.

In January 1999, the president of Tiger Electronics, Roger Shiffman, was forced to issue a statement clearing the name of the company’s hottest new toy. “Furby is not a spy,” he announced to the waiting world.

Shiffman was speaking out after America’s National Security Agency (NSA) banned the toy from its premises. The ban was its response to a playground rumour that Furbies could be taught to speak, and therefore could record and repeat human speech. “The NSA did not do their homework,” said Shiffman at the time.

But if America’s security agencies are still in the habit of banning toys that can record, spy, and store private information, then the list of contraband items must be getting exceptionally long. Nearly 18 years after TE were forced to deny Furby’s secret agent credentials, EU and US consumer watchdogs are filing complaints about a number of WiFi and Bluetooth connected interactive toys, also known as smart toys, which have hit the shelves. Equipped with microphones and an internet connection, many have the power to invade both children’s and adults’ private lives.

***

“We wanted a smart toy that could learn and grow with a child,” says JP Benini, the co-founder of the CogniToys “Dino”, an interactive WiFi-enabled plastic dinosaur that can hold conversations with children and answer their questions. Benini and his team won the 2014 Watson Mobile Developer Challenge, allowing them to use the question-answering software IBM Watson to develop the Dino. As such, unlike the “interactive” toys of the Nineties and Noughties, Dino doesn’t simply reiterate a host of pre-recorded stock phrases, but has real, organic conversations. “We grew it from something that was like a Siri for kids to something that was more conversational in nature.”

In order for this to work, Dino has a speaker in one nostril and a microphone in the other, and once a child presses the button on his belly, everything they say is processed by the internet-connected toy. The audio files are turned into statistical data and transcripts, which are then anonymised and encrypted. Most of this data is, in Benini’s words, “tossed out”, but his company, Elemental Path, which owns CogniToys, do store statistical data about a child, which they call “Play Data”. “We keep pieces from the interaction, not the full interaction itself,” he tells me.

“Play Data” are things like a child’s favourite colour or sport, which are used to make a profile of the child. This data is then available for the company to view, use, and pass on to third parties, and for parents to see on a “Parental Panel”. For example, if a child tells Dino their favourite colour is “red”, their mother or father will be able to see this on their app, and Elemental Path will be able to use this information to, Benini says, “make a better toy”.

Currently, the company has no plans to use the data with any external marketers, though it is becoming more and more common for smart toys to store and sell data about how they are played with. “This isn’t meant to be just another monitoring device that's using the information that it gathers to sell it back to its user,” says Benini.

Sometimes, however, Elemental Path does save, store, and use the raw audio files of what a child has said to the toy. “If the Dino is asked a question that it doesn’t know, we take that question and separate it from the actual child that’s asking it and it goes into this giant bucket of unresolved questions and we can analyse that over time,” says Benini. It is worth noting, however, that Amazon reviews of the toy claim it is frequently unable to answer questions, meaning there is potentially an abundance of audio saved, rather than it being an occasional occurrence.

CogniToys have a relatively transparent Privacy Policy on their website, and it is clear that Benini has considered privacy at length. He admits that the company has been back and forth about how much data to store, originally offering parents the opportunity to see full transcripts of what their child had been saying, until many fed back that they found this “creepy”. Dino is not the first smart toy to be criticised in this way.

Hello Barbie is the world’s first interactive Barbie doll, and when it was released by Mattel in 2015, it was met with scorn by parents’ rights groups and privacy campaigners. Like Dino, the doll holds conversations with children and stores data about them which it passes back to the parents, and articles expressing concerns about the toy featured on CNN, the Guardian, and the New York Times. Despite Dino’s similarities, however, Benini’s toy received almost no negative attention, while Hello Barbie won the Campaign for a Commercial-Free Childhood’s prize for worst toy of the year 2015.

“We were lucky with that one,” he says, “Like the whole story of the early bird gets the worm but the second worm doesn’t get eaten. Coming second on all of this allowed us to be prepared to address the privacy concerns in greater depth.”

Nonetheless, Dino is in many ways essentially the same as Hello Barbie. Both toys allow companies and parents to spy on children’s private playtimes, and while the former might seem more troubling, the latter is not without its problems. A feature on the Parental Panel of the Dino also allows parents to see the exact wording of questions children have asked about certain difficult topics, such as sex or bullying. In many ways, this is the modern equivalent of a parent reading their child's diary. 

“Giving parents the opportunity to side-step their basic responsibility of talking to, engaging with, encouraging and reassuring their child is a terrifying glimpse into a society where plastic dinosaurs rule and humans are little more than machines providing the babies for the reptile robots to nurture,” says Renate Samson, the chief executive of privacy campaign group Big Brother Watch. “We are used to technology providing convenience in our lives to the detriment of our privacy, but allowing your child to be taught, consoled and even told to meditate by a WiFi connected talking dinosaur really is a step in the wrong direction.”

***

Toy companies and parents are one thing, however, and to many it might seem trivial for a child’s privacy to be comprised in this way. Yet many smart toys are also vulnerable to hackers, meaning security and privacy are under threat in a much more direct way. Ken Munro, of Pen Test Partners, is an ethical hacker who exposed security flaws in the interactive smart toy “My Friend Cayla” by making her say, among other things, “Calm down or I will kick the shit out of you.”

“We just thought ‘Wow’, the opportunity to get a talking doll to swear was too good,” he says. “It was the kid in me. But there were deeper concerns.”

Munro explains that any device could connect to the doll over Bluetooth, provided it was in range, as the set-up didn’t require a pin or password. He also found issues with the encryption processes used by the company. “You can say anything to a child through the doll because there's no security,” he says. “That means you've got a device that can potentially be used to groom a child and that's really creepy.”

Pen Test Partners tells companies about the flaws they find with their products in a process they call “responsible disclosure”. Most of the time, companies are grateful for the information, and work through ways to fix the problem. Munro feels that Vivid Toy Group, the company behind Cayla, did a “poor job” at fixing the issue. “All they did was put one more step in the process of getting it to swear for us.”

It is one thing for a hacker to speak to a child through a toy and another for them to hear them. Early this year, a hack on baby monitors ignited such concerns. But any toy with speech recognition that is connected to the internet is also vulnerable to being hacked. The data that is stored about how children play with smart toys is also under threat, as Fisher Price found out this year when a security company managed to obtain the names, ages, birthdays, and genders of children who had played with its smart toys. In 2015, VTech also admitted that five million of its customers had their data breached in a hack.

“The idea that your child shares their playtime with a device which could potentially be hacked, leaving your child’s inane or maybe intimate and revealing questions exposed is profoundly worrying,” says Samson. Today, the US Electronic Privacy Information Center (EPIC) said in a statement that smart toys “pose an imminent and immediate threat to the safety and security of children in the United States”. 

Munro says big brands are usually great at tackling these issues, but warns about smaller, cheaper brands who have less to lose than companies like Disney or Fisher Price. “I’m not saying they get it right but if someone does find a problem they’ve got a huge incentive to get it right subsequently,” he says of larger companies. Thankfully, Munro says that he found Dino to be secure. “I would be happy for my kids to play with it,” he says. “We did find a couple of bugs but we had a chat with them and they’re a good bunch. They aren’t perfect but I think they’ve done a hell of a lot of a better job than some other smart toy vendors.”

Benini appears alert to security and the credibility it gives his company. “We took the security very, very seriously,” he says. “We were still building our systems whilst these horror stories were coming about so I already set pipelines and parameters in place. With a lot of devices out there it seems that security takes a backseat to the idea, which is really unfortunate when you’re inviting these devices into your home.”

As well as being wary of smaller brands, Munro advises that parents should look out for Bluetooth toys without a secure pairing process (ie. any device can pair with the toy if near enough), and to think twice about which toys you connect to your WiFi. He also advises to use unique passwords for toys and their corresponding apps.

“You might think ‘It's just a toy, so I can use the same password I put in everything else’ – dog’s name, football club, whatever – but actually if that ever got hacked you’d end up getting all your accounts that use that same password hacked,” he says.

Despite his security advice, Munro describes himself as “on the fence” about internet-connected smart toys as a whole. “Most internet of things devices can be hacked in one way or another,” he says. “I would urge caution.”

***

Is all of this legal? Companies might not be doing enough ethically to protect the privacy of children, but are they acting responsibly within the confines of the law?

Benini explains that Dino complies with the United States Children's Online Privacy Protection Act (COPPA) of which there is no real equivalent in the UK. COPPA says that companies must have parental permission to collect personal information over the internet about children under 13 years of age. “We’ve tried to go above and beyond the original layout of COPPA,” says Benini, when describing CogniToys transparent privacy documents. Parents give their consent for Elemental Path to collect their children’s data when they download the app that pairs with the toy.

Dino bears a striking similarity to Amazon Echo and Google Home, smart speakers that listen out for commands and questions in your home. Everything that is said to Amazon Echo is recorded and sent to the cloud, and an investigation by the Guardian earlier this year discovered that this does not comply with COPPA. We are therefore now in a strange position whereby many internet of things home devices are legally considered a threat to a child’s privacy, whereas toys with the same capabilities are not. This is an issue because many parents may not actually be aware that they are handing over their children’s data when installing a new toy.

As of today, EU consumer rights groups are also launching complaints against certain smart toys, claiming they breach the EU Unfair Contract Terms Directive and the EU Data Protection Directive, as well as potentially the Toy Safety Directive. Though smart toys may be better regulated in Europe, there are no signs that the problem is being tackled in the UK. 

At a time when the UK government are implementing unprecedented measures to survey its citizens on the internet and Jeremy Hunt wants companies to scour teens’ phones for sexts, it seems unlikely that any legislation will be enacted that protects children’s privacy from being violated by toy companies. Indeed, many internet of things companies – including Elemental Path – admit they will hand over your data to government and law enforcement officials when asked.

***

As smart toys develop, the threat they pose to children only becomes greater. The inclusion of sensors and cameras means even more data can be collected about children, and their privacy can and will be compromised in worrying ways.

Companies, hackers, and even parents are denying children their individual right to privacy and private play. “Children need to feel that they can play in their own place,” says Samson. It is worrying to set a precedent where children get used to surveillance early on. All of this is to say nothing of the educational problems of owning a toy that will tell you (rather than teach you) how to spell “space” and figure out “5+8”.

In a 1999 episode of The Simpsons, “Grift of the Magi”, a toy company takes over Springfield Elementary and spies on children in order to create the perfect toy, Funzo. It is designed to destroy all other toys, just in time for Christmas. Many at the time criticised the plot for being absurd. Like the show's prediction of President Trump, however, it seems that we are living in a world where satire slowly becomes reality.

Amelia Tait is a technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman.