Twitter's 16 million silent voices

Most users have little use for their 140-character limit.

New research has cast the social networking site Twitter as somewhere hordes of people have signed up, tuned in and vegged out: only 21 per cent of its 20 million account holders are "true" Twitter users.

The analysis, by the technology vendor Barracuda Networks, looked at 19 million Twitter accounts. It found that only 21 per cent are "proper" Twitter users, which they define as a user with at least ten followers, following at least ten people, and who has tweeted at least ten times. Arbitrary, perhaps, but not a particularly high bar to set, either.

We shouldn't be overly surprised. Similar research by Harvard Business School last June found that 10 per cent of Twitter users were generating 90 per cent of the "noise" at that time.

Meanwhile, an analysis of 4.5 million Twitter accounts by HubSpot, a technology start-up, found that 55.5 per cent of Twitter users are not following anyone, while 52.7 per cent have no followers. And 54.9 per cent had never tweeted (and probably never will).

The Barracuda Networks analysis also found that the cult of celebrity is nowhere more pronounced than in the 140-character world of Twitter: 49 per cent of Twitter users, and 48 of the top 100 most followed Twitter users, joined during the "Twitter Red Carpet Era".

The "Twitter Red Carpet Era" -- yes, they are really calling it that -- apparently occurred from November 2008 to April 2009, when loads of celebs started Twitter accounts and started banging on about Twitter both online and offline.

The silence of most of Twitter's approximately 20 million account holders, and the comparative noise generated by Twitter celebs, somewhat contrasts with the idea that the site is full of people having conversations and discussions. Rather, it appears to consist of a few people talking to the masses. Much like most other "traditional media", then.

Anecdotally, readers will have noticed that any conversation about Twitter invariably includes the sentence: "Didn't Stephen Fry tweet about being stuck in a lift once?"

What all this also suggests is that the immense growth of Twitter -- from zero to ten billion Tweets in four years -- is thanks at least in part to celebs. Which means that if the allure wears off for them, as it so nearly did for Stephen Fry last October, that could have dramatic consequences for Twitter. A caTwastrophe, perhaps (sorry).

Jason Stamper is the NS technology correspondent and editor of Computer Business Review; and yes, he confesses he is a "true" Twitter user.

Follow the New Statesman team on Twitter.

Jason Stamper is editor of Computer Business Review

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad