When I first joined Tinder, in the summer of 2013, it was like gaining entry to the VIP section of an exclusive Justin Hemmes nightclub: a hidden oasis where everything felt so new, so exciting, yet so innocent. I matched, chatted and sexted with girls — pretty girls — of all colours and creeds. For the first time in my life, I was able to experience what it meant to have what had always come so effortlessly to many of my white mates.

But things changed when I returned to the app a year later, when the barriers to online dating were well-and-truly broken down. The vocal, open invitations that had previously been enthusiastically extended my way were replaced by letters of rejection in the form of a non-response. I was back to being denied entry by the Ivy nightclub bouncers, relegated to hearing day-old details of my mates' tales of their successful Tinder conquests.

The science shows certain groups getting pushed to the bottom of the pile on Tinder, but societal attitudes mean talking about it is taboo. Credit:Andy Zakeli

I tried everything to change the way I presented myself — smiling and smouldering looks, casual and dramatic poses, flamboyant and conservative clothes, playful and intense introductions — but was always dismissed in the same fashion: immediately and without explanation.

After spending nearly all my life reinventing my personality in order to impress others and adapting my values to fit in, it turned out the one thing I couldn't change was the only thing that mattered: my race.