Data for London alone show the top three occupations among accepted members are chief executive, consultant and analyst; some 13 per cent have an MBA.
Although users do not have to pay, they do have to be screened.
I’m definitely heightist but the rest doesn’t really matter to me. The flakier you are (not responding, not logging in), the fewer matches you'll get. You get to experience a fleeting sense of validation that you’ve been accepted into a virtual cool-kids club and someone thinks you’re good enough.
I then get an emoticon-littered message from my "concierge" with the “rules”, which include (but are not limited) to the following, which I've paraphrased: You'll get a (ridiculously small) batch of people per day sent to you at Happy Hour (5pm). League members who don't login for more two weeks will be kicked out. Of course, I finally stop lying to myself and acknowledge the guy is a complete fucking douchebag through whom I'm seeking approval (ladies, I know some of you hear me). The League only gives you five matches a day -- helllooo! And with that low number, you're also unnervingly aware of the fact that you'll be called out as flaky if you don't talk to these people.
It is the dating equivalent of a private members’ club.
The brainchild of Amanda Bradford, a 32-year-old self-confessed nerd, the elite dating app has been active in the US since 2015 and has just launched in the UK.
“Why not spend your time a little more intelligently?
” is their slogan, so being bored of Tinder fuckboys, I decided to apply for The League.
I applied a couple months ago, because although it seems a bit pretentious, meeting people from dating apps is a lot of work.
Really, who wants to trek halfway across town for a date that’s mediocre at best, or to get catfished?
If you’re going to meet someone online, wouldn’t it be better to use a dating app that actually spends time verifying their users? Here’s everything you need to know about The League. Each person is screened through an algorithm and handpicked from there.
The League, a dating app that prides itself on selectiveness and requires members to be approved before joining, has traditionally taken expansion pretty slow.
Originally launched in early 2015, the app is still only in 7 cities – New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago, Boston, Washington D. But the startup just announced they are about to embark on a summer tour, adding 10 cities before the end of August.
By last month, of the 9,205 applicants to the London League, only 2,000 (21 per cent) had been accepted.
When I meet Bradford in a café in Chelsea, I find a friendly American, wearing no make-up, at a laptop.
If both people "heart" the other, you'll have a match; but people aren't necessarily revealed to each other on the same day so don't expect anything immediate. So will users who consistently don't respond, behave offensively, suggest casual encounters, wear anything other than white, or ask questions (OK, two of those aren't true). I haven’t even gone on a date yet and I’m already anxious and confused by your games. Guy goes radio silent for three days, then starts texting me exclusively after 1am. Or worse, if you don't swipe right you'll be kicked out. And while the potential for serial killers is lower, the potential for douchebags may actually be higher because the entitled misogynists just got another ego stroking.
League members removed from the community for flakiness or inactivity will have to pay a "re-admit fee." The pickier you are, the lower your odds of matching. Users who log in daily have a higher match rate, even after normalizing for popularity. After a series of unsuccessful equations to untangle these rules and determine my best course of action (my masters is in the arts, OK? The concierge's words are in my head the entire time: I go for drinks with the first guy I talk to. Insecure, 22-year-old me would've been a doormat to that shit. And lastly, there's less instant gratification than you get from Bumble and Tinder because matches are less frequent.