We were on our second date when everything crashed. I knew something was adrift as Ben stared into my eyes with a certain wariness.

“I feel weird about the fact you’re a Telegraph writer,” he suddenly said, sipping his beer regretfully. “My mates warned me to stay away.”

We’d been getting on so well before that, talking animatedly about science and dogs until the pubs chucked us out. But I knew it was all over. How could I date a boy who treated my right-wing persuasion as if it was chlamydia? With his penchant for woolly jumpers and audacity to turn up in a cycling vest for date two, perhaps I should have seen the signs. That a socialist had stumbled into my romantic path.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised: dating at 30 is a Left-leaner’s game, with studies suggesting over 70 per cent of 18-24 year olds voted remain in the referendum, while analysis on how under-45s might vote should a second one take place puts that number up to 82 per cent. The impact of recent polarising political events has been seismic, and while most people acknowledge Brexit has caused social divisions, these usually describe friendships and families, rather than youngsters looking for love. Are fractures locking people into the single market, too?

One of my good mates, a 34-year-old guy with similar views to me, is sick of politicised dating apps. He showed me a screenshot of one of the many woke women he’s been subjected to. One profile reads: “I get along best with people who can check their privilege and hate the Tories”, another says men can only contact her if they “also strongly believe that toxic masculinity is suffocating and there should be no room for its traits & damaging behaviours in society”. There was also the girl who warned not to go out with her if “You disagree with veganism”. He eventually called dating apps quits after an evening with a whiny Corbynista, although it turned out her worst crime was being teetotal.

Another male friend, 35, showed me a profile of a woman who said she values “kindness” and “compassion”, yet writes “f--- the Tories”, in her self-summary box. “As someone who has had relationships with people who were strongly Labour, it’s depressing to see that politics has become a more acceptable barrier between people when dating,” my friend says. “Even if you voted remain or if you don’t like Boris Johnson, you are guilty by association.”

On Twitter, when I asked others about this societal phenomenon, other users replied to say they had been rejected on Grindr and OkCupid because of politics. “You have to be liberal otherwise you’re doomed”, wrote one young man.

I did my own investigation on Hinge, one of the most popular dating apps. I hadn’t been on it for some time, as nowadays I prefer to meet people in real life, but the time spent away made me realise just how much worse things have got.

For starters, huge numbers of profiles ward off Conservatives and Leavers, while one man lists “bloodletting the bourgeoisie” as his hobby. Never do I spot anyone rejecting Labour lovers or Europhiles.

Forget having a nice smile, or enjoying films; among the hundreds of profiles I combed through, recycling, veganism, feminism and socialism were in demand for women. One individual said he wanted “Strong legs, confidence, intelligence, an ability to get passionate, an understanding of the environmental impact of life” as preferences in a mate.