by David Rose
Part biopic, part utopian vision, all epic of redemption amidst the trials of mankind. This personal ad has everything. Woman, 38. Only one conviction for nuisance calling. Box no. 6544.
In the age of Facebook triteness, the ability to engage with even the most fractional components of writing has become an increasingly valuable commodity for any intellectually-minded mate. Shortage, it is true, drives demand:
Dear LRB, I have no money. Please run my advert for free. I want a woman who is 38. Let her know I’m really clever and good-looking. Thanks. Box no. 4487.
But it would be a mistake to assume that our advertisers are simply old-fashioned, or that, as traditional lonely hearts sections become transplanted onto the internet, the LRB personals column is nothing more than the last tooth in a gum of long-since vanished small ads sections. Perhaps they are a canon in their own right, presenting a very specific style of writing that is quite apart even from other publications’ personal ads sections. Like haiku or sonnets, they suggest specific constraints of form and metre—a ‘house-style’, if you will—but traverse these frequently with gamesmanship and a desire always to be distinct:
Straight line. Straight line. Funny line. Sucker punch. Busy man, 36. Box no. 9732.
Nor would it be entirely egregious to suggest that they have a small place in the broad aesthetic of British emotional awkwardness that would include Morrissey, Alan Bennett and Philip Larkin at the top of the tree, and my auntie Alice at the root (‘I can’t dance tonight, lad, me dollypegs are ’urtin’). For LRB readers, the personal ads aren’t cris de coeur as much as they are bucolic tests of wit and audacity—poissons d’avril pinned to the back of the unsuspecting literary establishment. And yet, when all’s said and done, they are personal ads. They may punch above their weight, but there is an end to them that stops considerably short of art’s high-table. Their purpose is to attract attention, nothing more. Their absurdity and humour aren’t disguises for some deeper intent. They are simple and genuine statements about the people who write them and the people they hope to find. True, their honesty subverts the traditional lonely heart form, and we’re often surprised, delighted or infuriated by their unwavering and messy emotion, inelegantly sprayed across the page like water from a garden hose loose on its faucet, but if an advert doesn’t garner a positive response—however entertaining it may be—its author will always consider it a failure. Whilst the stakes aren’t necessarily high in the LRB personals, there is always a sense of consequence:
I celebrated my fortieth birthday last week by cataloguing my collection of bird feeders. Next year I’m hoping for sexual intercourse. And a cake. Join my invite mailing list at box no. 6831. Man.
Note for readers: It should be pointed out that the adverts in this volume are no longer active and as such responses cannot be forwarded on to advertisers.
“A shoddily-painted bust of Richard Dudgeon”
What kind of animal are you? I’m a giraffe. No! Wait! I’m a monkey! Welcome to my tree-top paradise. (F, 62). Box no. 0220.
My way or the highway— the two are very often the same with asphalting loon, 53, mixing his own bitumen and coarse aggregate surfacing solutions at box no. 6737.
My success as a lover is matched only by my success in the field of astronomy. Man, 37. WLTM woman to 40 with eyes as big and as bright as those stars that come up over by the trees opposite my house at about 9pm every night, then every 15 minutes or so. You know the ones. I call them the Regular Magic Tree Stars. They may be comets. Or planes. Whatever. Write, we’ll have sex, you’ll love it. Box no. 8909.
Are you the man of my dreams? Green, 9’10”, three eyes, six tentacled arms and reciting the third canto of Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene1 whilst crushing football-sized grapes with hoofed feet? Either stop it now or kiss me, you monstrous wine-making fool. Woman, 41, Exeter. Box no. 1011.
The origin of evil may have been a problem for the Romantics, but not for me—I lay it squarely at the door of freeze-dried onions. Come hang perilously on the cliff of soak-before-eating foodstuffs. Conversation is limited, but the nutritional value is off the meter.2 Man, 41. Box no. 0524.
Gun for hire. Also terrapins for sale. Confused but fully-booked Bradford cowboy-cum-terrarium zoo gardener, WLTM quick-fire Calamity Jane3 to 50 with no small amount of expertise in rearing amphibious reptiles. Whip-crack-away at box no. 1006.
I made this magazine what it is today—a crumbling, shoddily-painted bust of Richard Dudgeon,4 inventor of the hydraulic jack. Papier mâché–obsessed idiot (M, 42). Box no. 1312.
Re-enact the American Civil War5 in my kitchen. Man, 51, holed up in the larder, seeks Confederate woman for pitched battles with muskets, pikes, and Tefal griddle pans. Must know how to slaughter a perfectly good omelette. Bucks. Box no. 0764.
Quornbaya, my Lord, quornbaya. Gay, non-smoking vegetarian Joan Baez fantasist (F, 54). WLTM similar to 60 for textured mycoprotein-based protest music shenanigans.6 Someone’s cooking meat substitute fajitas, my Lord, quornbaya at box no. 6587.
This wheel’s on fire.7 So is my hair. And my under-paid assistant. Beatnik chemist and perennial misfiring love jerk (M, 35) WLTM woman to 40 with asbestos suit and no small knowledge of acids and which things from my bathroom cupboard I shouldn’t be mixing them with. Box no. 6190.
Man, 41. Not the sharpest sandwich at the picnic. Box no. 2442.
A lot of people say these ads are tacky and tasteless. Not me, and I promise you I know art when I see it. Velvet Elvis and Genuine Pope-shaped hip-flask salesman, 49, looking for woman with lounge bar in the shape of a ship’s hull. Anchors away, momma, and bless you, my child. Box no. 1013.
One-time Mario Andretti of popular short-lived quad protests seeks Stirling Moss of resurgent leftist agit-prop theatre for nights of frequent pit-stops and dragging up behind the safety car.8 Must have large bosoms. M, 61. Box no. 8699.
“Mentally, I’m a size eight”
If intense, post-fight sex scares you, I’m not the woman for you (amateur big-boned cage wrestler, 62). Box no. 8744.
The low-resolution personal ad. When viewed from a distance it looks amazing, but up close it’s pretty poor. Man, 35, Gwent. Box no. 7863.
Nothing says ‘I love you’ in a more sincere way than being woken with champagne and pastries and roses. Apart from a dog with peanut butter on the roof of his mouth. Write, we’ll meet, sleep together and—in the morning, just before my friend’s wife tells me to get off their sofa and get out of their house—I’ll show you Winston’s trick. It’s hilarious. You’ll have to bring the peanut butter though—they’ve put locks on all the kitchen cupboards. Man, 26. Box no. 6433.
My last seven adverts in this column were influenced by the early catalogue of Krautrock band, Paternoster. This one, however, is based entirely around the work of Gil Scott-Heron. Man, 32. Possibly the last person you want to be stood next to at a house-party you’ve been dragged along to by a friend who wants to get off with the flatmate of the guy whose birthday it is. Hey! Have you ever heard Boards of Canada? They’re amazing; I’ll burn you a CD.9 Box no. 3178.
This advert is about as close as I come to meaningful interaction with other adults. Woman, 51. Not good at parties but tremendous breasts. Box no. 5436.
Years of cigarette smoke can put one hell of a patina on a guy’s complexion. F with hot soapy water, coarse brush and a poor sense of smell/sobriety required by jug-faced M, 57. Box no. 4674.
I’m no Victoria’s Secret model.10 Man, 62. Box no. 3280.
Meet the new face of indoor bowling! More or less the same as the old face, but less facial hair and better teeth. M, 28. Box no. 3377.
I cannot guarantee you’ll fall in love with me, but I can promise you the best home-brewed beetroot wine you’ll have ever tasted. Now if that doesn’t sound like a fermented bucket of yummy siphoned lustiness I just don’t know what does. Man, 41. Stupid like wow! Box no. 9851.
It is my manifest destiny to find a man through this column and marry him
. Woman, 103. Box no. 2134.
The celebrity I resemble the most is Potsie from Happy Days. What feels so right can’t be wrong. Man, 46.11 Box no. 2480.
Mentally, I’m a size eight. Compulsive-eating F, 52, WLTM man to 25 for whom the phrase ‘beauty is only skin-deep’ is both a lifestyle choice and a religious ethos. Box no. 5115.
I’ve been parachuted in to return this column to its usual standard. Man, 96. Box no. 3270.
Drooling, toothless sociopath (M, 57) seeks F any age to help make this abandoned gas station kiosk feel more like home. Must bring shoes (size 10). Box no. 5310.
Tall, handsome, well-built, articulate, intelligent, sensitive, yet often grossly inaccurate man, 21. Cynics (and some cheap Brentwood psychiatrists) may say ‘pathological liar’, but I like to use ‘creative with reality’. Join me in my 36-bedroomed mansion on my Gloucestershire estate, set in 400 acres of wild-stag populated woodland. East Ham.12 Box no. 0620.
Time is the serenest beauty of the camp, but only I have the reflexes of a fox. And a badger’s sense of smell. Woman. 51. Box no. 0522.
I vacillate wildly between a number of archetypes including, but not limited to, Muriel Spark witticismtrading doyenne, Mariella Frostrup charismatic socialite, brooding, intense Marianne Faithfull visionary, and kleptomaniac Germaine Greer amateur upholsterer and ladies’ league darts champion.13 Woman, 43. Everything I just said was a lie. Apart from the bit about darts. And kleptomania. Great tits though. Box no. 2236.
Rippling hunk of a guy; washboard stomach, blonde, blue-eyed, not quite 50, WLTM woman with open mind and some experience of hallucinogens. Box no. 4532.
Two out of every ten times I’m absolutely correct. Man, 35, (Islington). Non-smoker, academic, caring, solvent, passionate, articulate, full head of hair. Box no. 7326.
Just as chugging on a bottle of White Lightning14 on a park bench will make you nauseous and diminish the respect of your peers, yet taking just a glass of cold cider on a barmy summer evening will quench your thirst and take you back to heady days frolicking in West Country apple orchards, so it is with this ad. Man, 37. Refreshing in small sips where the delicate nuances of Somerset burst through full and flavoursome, but anything bigger and you’ll end up puking over your own shoes and smelling of wee. Box no. 8930.
My advert comes in the form of interpretive dance. Man, 62. Box no. 4458.
I’m the entire third chapter from that shite book they compiled from these ads.15 Go figure. Man, 57. Box no. 0733.
Sent to prison by a military court for a crime he didn’t commit, this man (32) promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade into the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, he survives as a soldier of fortune. If you have a problem—if no one else can help—and if you can find him—maybe you can fall in love with irritating TV trivia genius, wearing white socks regardless of the colour of his trousers.16 Box no. 0533.
Sweet Caroline (da, da, daaa)—good times never felt so good. Man, 42—bouncy and irritating like a bad tune you can’t get out of your head. Come on, Silver Lady, take my hand—I won’t walk out on you again, believe me. Thank your lucky stars at box no. 0618 that we’re not as smart as we like to think we are. Cambs.17
At first glance you may consider me a true modernist in the von Webern sense, but—like him—deep down I’m very much a romantic.18 As my collection of taxidermied amphibians will testify. Man, 60. Box no. 9444.
Why waste time in the bath? M, 45, with secret to natural, water-free cleanliness—psychic showering, bathe in your own karma (patent pending). Seeks woman to 50 for invigorating wash-down in the fountain of the mind. Must be prepared to lose friends and never be allowed in restaurants again. Box no. 0217.
Man, 42. WLTM woman to 50 to help harness the disappointment I routinely create in all my relationships. Own tap shoes an advantage. Box no. 3868.
Being a Capricorn with an ascendant Sagittarius, I only ever date women in February when my moon is in the seventh house. If you’re a Virgo with Leo or Aries rising, or Taurus with Pisces or Gemini rising, or Cancer with an Aquarian moon, or Libra with a cousin called Derek, or Scorpio with a dachshund, write now to Sunday newspaper columnist and conjurer (M, 53), fast running out of excuses as to why he hasn’t had sex in over three years. Strictly no women with a fear of cats. Or a reluctance to participate in pagan rejuvenation rites involving the drinking of our own urine. Box no. 9783.
‘Go on, son, hit me in the stomach’. Everybody’s boring uncle, 51 (‘and I got this scar in Korea’). Box no. 0534.
“The usual hyperbole and a whiff of playful narcissism”
In my house the electric sander is king and I am its willing knave. The toaster is chancellor. You (woman to 37, Cambs. and surrounding) can be a scullery maid. My palm-top is queen. Obey its organisational mastery and mega-pixel display properties at box no. 5712.
I have a mug that says ‘World’s Greatest Lover’. I think that’s my referees covered. How about you? Man. 37. Bishopsgate. Box no. 8763.
Brief personality multi-choice: you’re reading a respected literary magazine when you see an advert from an American, intelligent, 57-year-old man with his own computing business and really impressive motorbike. He is obviously the man of your dreams. Do you a) cancel your subscription and start reading Hello!, b) sulk in bed, wishing you were a woman, c) join the queue and write to box no. 2545?
I will file you under ‘T’ for ‘Totty’. Just after ‘T’ for ‘Teutonic’ and before ‘T’ for ‘Tributary’. You can file me under ‘P’ for ‘Pithy’. And my shoes under ‘R’ for ‘Recherché’. Well-turned-out man, 46. Box no. 7892.
Philanthropy is my middle name. It’s just a name though so don’t be expecting any free rides. You can call me Mr Wallace. My first name is none of your business. Applications to box no. 9741.
We’ve all made mistakes. Mine was a cerise pump during London Fashion Week 2004. Style troubadour (M, 35). WLTM similar, or appropriately dour fag hag. Box no. 8643.
All humans are 99.9% genetically identical, so don’t even think of ending any potential relationship begun here with ‘I just don’t think we have enough in common’.19 Science has long since proven that I am the man for you (41, likes to be referred to as ‘Wing Commander’ in the bedroom). Box no. 3501.
Normally on the first few dates I borrow mannerisms from the more interesting people I know and very often steal phrases and anecdotes from them along with concepts and ideas from obscure yet wittily-written books. It makes me appear more attractive and personable than I actually am. With you, however, I’m going to be a belligerent old shit from the very beginning. That’s because I like you and feel ready to give you honesty. Belligerent old shit (M, 53). Box no. 6378.
Whilst I look forward to an engaging and fulfilling relationship with someone whose emotional needs dovetail neatly with my own in a way that enables us both to express ourselves freely and exist together with mutual respect and compassion, I see absolutely no harm whatsoever in having wild, disgusting, nasty one-off sex with just about anyone. That’s where you come in—woman to whatever age from anywhere either within or from outside the M25 with a pulse and four hours to spare. Exquisite breasts and own Oyster card20 a distinct advantage. Man, 34. Box no. 2582.
If clumsy, unfeeling lust is your bag, write to the ad above. Otherwise write to me, mid-forties M with boy next door looks, man from U.N.C.L.E. charm, and Fresh Prince of Bel-Air casual insouciance. Wicky wicky wick yo.21 Box no. 2851.
I have accommodated many terms from the world of embroidery into my bedroom lexicon. Whenever we make love, you will be sexually satisfied whilst also subliminally studying an accredited course in a skill long lost to women over the ages. Man (57): lover, instructor, and, providing you have gained enough modular credits throughout the term, invigilator on your final exam. Box no. 3721.
The usual hyperbole infuses this ad with a whiff of playful narcissism and Falstaffian bathos. But scratch below the surface and you’ll soon find tha
t I really am the greatest man ever to have lived. Truly great man, 37. Better than Elvis and Ghandi. You’ll never be a genuinely worthy partner, but try anyway by first replying to box no. 7637. Include a full list of qualifications, your aspirations, and a full frontal nude body shot.
When not in my London city office overseeing the day-to-day business of my successful accountancy firm, I can be found leaning inside taxi cabs, spitting wild obscenities and challenging the drivers to fisticuffs. M, 47. We take the direct route home, we don’t stop at Belisha beacons and we never—and I mean never—leave the impudence of a box junction unquestioned.22 Don’t expect a tip from box no. 9091.
The toughest decision I ever had to make was choosing between soup and fish in a Brighton café in 1987 (I went for the fish, though later regretted my decision when I discovered the cod had been over-seasoned). Now, however, I’ll have to pick one of you delicious women. The selection procedure will involve a four-part interview, along with an aptitude test and multiple-choice questionnaire. Apply now for full details to stupid man, 45. Box no. 6821.