Around five years ago, I got the magic notification; I’d been accepted to Raya. It had taken two years, and numerous referrals, but I was finally on the dating app regularly featured on the Daily Mail sidebar of shame. An app Olivia Rodrigo has called “so vomit”. And one where the likes of Ben Affleck, Paul Mescal and Lewis Hamilton have been spotted.

Raya – meaning friend in Hebrew – was founded in 2015, but thanks to tabloid coverage, it’s gained notoriety in recent years. The app, which you can use for networking or dating, supposedly has an acceptance rate of 8%, but you could argue Raya is like the Soho House of dating apps – meant to be ‘exclusive’, but a lot of those who are willing to pay, and have some sort of creative/tech-bro job, will be accepted. The interface is also a bit more high-tech than other dating apps; profiles are like a mini slideshow of photos, and they have to be accompanied by a song.

You might even spy the popstar who soundtracks your profile, as among the normies like me, a lot of celebrities are on the app. But this is something which is supposed to stay secret. Like a no photos policy at a private members club, you cannot take screenshots of celebs’ profiles and text them to your group chat. (Don’t even try it: a stern warning flashes on screen.) And to add to the illusion of exclusivity, you can only see around a dozen profiles at a time.

At first, being on Raya was exciting – like being on a celeb safari, what I would imagine driving around LA is like. I’d spy actors who are worth hundreds of millions of pounds, singers with viral heartbreak anthems, and more ex-Love Island/TOWIE/Made in Chelsea stars than you could shake a stick at.

And it took more than a while to get my head around being able to shoot my shot with some of my celebrity crushes. I shrieked when I matched with the frontman of an indie band I was completely and utterly obsessed with as a teenager (funnily enough, I stopped myself from messaging that I’d met him before, when I was fourteen and I’d waited for the band before one of their gigs).

I couldn’t resist sending a message saying hi though. Turns out it didn’t matter as I was ignored. Far from the first time I was pied on Raya, sending messages in to the abyss. In two years, and god knows how much money pissed up the wall, I only went on one date. As the app matches you with people from around the world, I ended up going on a first date hundreds of miles away from London in Wales with a musician who had millions of listeners on Spotify. As an exceptionally naïve 23-year-old, I jumped on the train and didn’t think through what would happen if the date was a complete disaster – which, obviously, it was. He was a lovely guy, but unfortunately we had less than nothing in common, and after a couple of extremely awkward drinks at a bar, I stayed round his as I’d missed the last train home.

The excruciating encounter should have put me off Raya in the long term, but as a woman who dabbles in delusion, I was then on and off the app for another year. Missing the chance of matching with Charlie Puth, who was a proud Raya user before he dated his wife, was obviously too much for me to bear.

Some of my friends have had far more luck. When my younger sister was on Raya, she matched with quite a few UK household names (predictably, one who was embroiled in a classic Strictly cheating scandal). One of my best friends, who has been on the app for almost three years, frequently goes on Raya dates. While she says the amount of money she’s spent is “horrifying”, she adds that she likes the slower pace and the “quality of dates are generally much higher than apps like Hinge”. “I also think the fact you can list where you’re travelling is really useful, for example I’ve been on dates with guys who are visiting London,” she adds.

And there are real success stories. When I asked my Instagram followers to share their thoughts, one creative said he met his girlfriend on the app – and it was the first Raya date she’d been on. They met for their first date the day before he moved to America for two months, but they Facetimed every day until he was back in the UK. The rest is history.

Another, who works in music, said she met her boyfriend on the app around four and a half years ago. But, before that, she used to play a drinking game with her friends where they would stockpile swiping through profiles so they could go through their options together. If a man’s profile had a Getty watermark, a photo on a yacht, a photo with another celeb, a pic with their tops off or a pic with an instrument or a sports pitch – they’d take a shot. How drunk would they get? “It definitely helped us get more pissed.”

But even stunning presenters, actors and models I know found themselves in the same boat I did. One – who I will keep anonymous – summed up why she had cancelled her membership, saying: “There’s so much ego involved nobody is prepared to make the first step.” That façade seemed to be a theme with most people I spoke to. Another man DMed me saying his time on there was dire. “It was a waste of money – very expensive,” he said, “filled with the worst, most boastful people.”

And I have to say I agree. If I look back to reactivate my subscription, it says I’d have to part with £19.99 a month. With over a year off the app, I’ve realised I’d much rather spend the money on a round of Jägerbombs than paying to be part of a club where I’m always going to be an outsider. I’m not on dating apps right now, but if I was, I’d much rather take my chances trying to find a rockstar boyfriend on Hinge. At least that’s free.