by David Rose
This advert is the only feel-good moment in this edition of the London Review of Books. Man, 51. Box no. 7251.
They gave me this personal advert for free because I moaned, whinged and complained like a mo’ fo’23 over my last advert not getting any replies. Who’s the winner now LRB? Me. It’s me. I’m the winner and don’t you ever forget it. Man, 29. Deprived of affection and most forms of human contact since birth, now just wants a ton of free stuff and to be loved. Box no. 8632.
Like the previous advertiser, but +1. Box no. 2850.
If you don’t love yourself, I can’t love you. Although I’m still quite happy to have sex. As long as you buy me dinner. And theatre tickets. And a new pair of trousers. And a fridge magnet that says ‘Sagittarians do it with a quiver’. Man, 36. Happy to hook up with needy, desperate, confidence-lacking fems to 40 until someone better comes along. Box no. 9721.
I wrote this advert specifically to rebuke my rivals, undermine my critics, and fill the hearts and minds of my true followers with the love they so richly deserve. Kevin, 46, Sunbury Cross. Box no. 9811.
That darksome cave they enter, where they find / That cursèd man, low sitting on the ground, / Musing full sadly in his sullen mind.24 So, next time you want to turn the TV over, ask first. Finchley troll (35). Box no. 1117.
Nineties upper-class Poll Tax rebel—‘can pay, but chooses not to so as to gain working-class affinity.’25 Strictly red wine socialists only write to M thirties before father’s publishing company pays him to trek across the Hindu Kush and write jejune diaries. Box no. 0521.
Once was wonderful. Twice was terrific. But a third? That’s just damned crazy. Serial husband hoping for Home Counties hat-trick.26 Would-be match-ball wives write to objectionable sexist pig, box no. 0121.
I couldn’t care less. This message is paid for by the Apathetic Old Shits Society. Box no. 5102.
Beard. Real ale. A load of bollocks about Marx. Short-lived sexual intercourse. You have to admire my honesty. Now get the drinks in. Man, 43, Camden. Box no. 9219.
Narcissus of Truro.27 Likes nothing better than admiring himself, but hopes gay man to 45 will rest contented as a close second. Box no. 8336.
“Primal scream therapy among the pots of flat-leaf parsley”
These adverts give birth to a thousand violent dreams. And when I awake I am no longer immune to the desperate cries of the damned. After-dinner speaker and corporate entertainer (M, 57) seeks lover/CV-writer/exorcist for nights of re-aligning my career path and silencing the voices. Box no. 8558.
If we hit it off and embark on a serious relationship, I must insist that you don’t throw surprise birthday parties for me when I’ve just been turned down for the role of Leroy in my local church drama group’s production of Fame.28 Man, 63, harbouring a more lateral standard of psychological episode triggers. Eccleston. Box no. 8088.
My last chance to leave home died in a house fire in 1978, along with two cats, a goldfish called Herod, and my VAT receipts for the previous financial year. Since then I’m not allowed to leave my mother alone. Or use matches. Or flammable nylons. I’m also not allowed anywhere near spoons, but that’s another story. You can hear all about it by replying to mitten-wearing idiot man (51), Gloucester boarders. Box no. 9997.
No obligation whatsoever to marry lonely, desperate and emotionally draining 42-year-old Oxford academic and produce children for him in the next couple of years. Relationship strictly in your own time (but it’s a long ride and the meter’s running). You’ve absolutely nothing to lose (except the respect of your parents and a few of your friends). Box no. 0413.
Did you just look at that other advert? Don’t lie, I saw you. Paranoid, jealous and often scary woman, 42. Do you want this marriage to work or not? You don’t know the meaning of love. London—so why does your credit card receipt say ‘Birmingham’? Box no. 1118.
I’ve spent my adult life fabricating reciprocal feelings from others and I don’t intend to stop now, nor at any other London Review Bookshop event I’m summarily ejected from. Yes, once the history section had emptied and we were left alone his voice said ‘I’m not interested’, but his eyes very clearly stated ‘please follow me home at a discrete distance and secretly observe me from the shrubs in the park opposite.’ Woman, 43. Reading between the lines even when the lines aren’t actually there. Don’t pretend you don’t love me. Box no. 7966.
If we meet, it mustn’t conflict with my community service obligations. Edgy woman (51), not terribly fond of overhanging hedgerows or cats or postmen WLTM man to 55 who has other things to do for ninety hours over the next three months. Box no. 3039.
I’ve kissed too many frogs in search of my prince. Woman, 32. Retired from amphibian zoology very much against her will. Box no. 3332.
The average person contains enough iron in their body to make a small nail. Not me, I’ve got about a tent peg’s worth. Man, 57, enjoys licking railings.29 Box no. 3352.
If you think I’m going to love you—you’re right. Clingy, over-emotional and socially draining woman, 36. Once you’ve got me, you can never ever leave me. Not ever. Prone to maniacal bursts of crying, usually followed by excitable and uncontrollable laughter. Life is a rollercoaster; you’ve just got to ride it, as Ronan Keating once said.30 Buxton. Box no. 0617.
If you respond to this ad and agree to meet me, you’ll probably want to get yourself drunk first. Man, 51. Good-looking but rarely great with conversation. Especially if it doesn’t require me thumbing nervously through the Welsh coastal tides timetable that I always carry in my wallet next to a picture of my mother (may the Lord have mercy on her sweet soul, snatched injudiciously away from us by ulcer complications on June 17th, 1987—we love you, Mum, you’re with us every single day). Box no. 9291.
I am not as high maintenance as my highly polished and impeccably arranged collection of porcelain cats suggests, but if you touch them I will kill you. F, 36. Likes porcelain cats. Seeks man not unused to the sound of sobbing coming from a bedroom from which he is strictly prohibited. Tell me how attractive I am at box no. 1123.
Justify my strop.31 PMS 24/7 suffering woman seeks man to 35 prone to inadvertently saying the wrong thing (which is everything) at the wrong time (which is always). No whistling. You have been warned. Chocolate (lots of it, please) to box no. 3234.
Let’s wipe the slate clean. Lacklustre, melancholic and depressive rock-climbing PhD (M, 29) unable to get a foothold in anything seeks woman with those funny metal things that stab into crevices and stop you from plummeting to a certain death.32 Or whatever the hell it is they’re called. Box no. 7712.
My complex personality permits both inane conversations about meaningful topics and meaningful conversations about inane topics. More unusually, it also harbours a fear of ceramic tiles. Women to 50—laminate your kitchens then let’s spend hours talking about the identity of the fifth Beatle.33 M, 51, Ross-on-Wye. Box no. 9927.
I’m placing this ad against my better judgment. But then the last time I listened to my better judgment it told me the only way to find a well-read articulate man to 45 was to hide in a bin outside his flat until he arrived home from work then lunge wildly at him as he struggled to put the key in his door. If the ad doesn’t work, keep your bins inside until collection day. Woman, 43. Tactile and cuddly in a mildly terrifying sort of way. Box no. 8629.
The Owl Who Married a Goose. National Film Board of Canada bore seeks woman who ideally has a shed full of public information films and a ravenous appetite for animated shorts that heavily rely upon waltzes. The modern world has deserted us, leaving us free to create our own Cosmic Zoom.34 Professional therapists welcome. Box no. 8381.
I sense a lot of sadness behind most of these ads. Not this one though—I’m double-dosed until next spring’s repeat prescription review. Happy woman, 34. This dainty, girlish laugh isn’t forever, and I’ll blame you when it ends, but by then we’ll have a mortgage and a massive debt and you won’t ever be able to escape. Box no. 9911.
Fr
au Emmy of Colchester (38) seeks non-talking cure for evenings of nachträglichkeit.35 Why put off until tomorrow what you can do next week? Box no. 5520.
I trew there’s charm in a wee pickle gear, / And wha wadna strive at the gaining o’t? It mak’s a puir body baith canty and fier, / If honesty’s had the obtaining o’t.36 You know what I’m saying. Woman, 43. Possibly mad. Livingstone. Box no. 4424.
Some incidents in life are blacked-out for a reason. Much as I shudder to recall an incident at Dulwich in 1968 involving a goose, a penny whistle and the local priest, so you will probably twist in the wind whenever, in years to come, you’re forced to relate a tale about how you once replied to a personal advert in a flurry of misplaced appreciation for what you regarded at the time as a heightened and sophisticated sense of irony. Man, 40. Hates geese. And priests. And penny whistles. Box no. 7793.
This advert is exactly what happens when local councils release man-eating squirrels into the wild to do the jobs that men used to do. Do you hear me, Corrie McChord? Do you? Man, 37. Proudly staring the squirrels in the face and telling them, ‘Not today, motherfuckers, not today.’ Stirling.37 Box no. 8822.
I begin each sexual performance with a tympani roll. I find it steadies the ship. Less than buoyant canal-boat dweller, amateur percussionist and bon viveur (M, 57) seeks not-easily intimidated woman to 55 with no small knowledge of crank-shaft engines, blue-note fades and behaviour-correcting medicines. Box no. 6362.
Everyone in this column has an agenda. Not me. Man, 41. Box no. 6900.
This time next week you’ll think replying to this advert was the best decision you’ve ever made. At the same time you’ll be regretting your choice of footwear. Why? Because dark soles aren’t allowed on my mother’s newly laid laminates. Don’t worry, I’ve already bought you slippers (size four) and pyjamas (size 10) and a brush for your beautiful long red hair (I’ve had ‘Susan’ engraved on the handle—that’s what I’d like to call you). Size 10 Susans with size four feet, please, reply to box no. 9396. You can be any age but if you’re 42 with a birthday on September 6 it will be a distinct advantage. Otherwise we can just pretend.
Love? My eyes will tell you all. My forehead, however, is slightly more reticent. My knees won’t give you a damn word. Paranoid military nutcase and part-time undertaker seeks F to 50. Box no. 2122.
Tomatoes of wrath. Angry organic window-box farmer (M, 51, Hersham). Seeking green-fingered, red-eyed, purple-standing-out-on-forehead-veined woman for evenings of primal scream therapy among the pots of flat-leaf parsley. Must have own trowel. Box no. 0915.
“Scrimshawed from the tusk of a walrus”
This advert originally contained a 300-word paragraph about cats but I edited it out. Woman, 36. Box no. 5637.
I stopped playing Freecell38 for three-and-a-quarter hours to write this ad. Man, 39. Box no. 9763.
This ad is emblematic of, yet somehow transcends, my entire body of work. Magician and part-time shrimp peeler (M, 48). Tring. Box no. 8522.
This advert was constructed specifically to attract the exactly right sort of person by utilising the very subtle tenets of Feng Shui.39 Woman, 52. Box no. 0778.
I scrimshawed this advert from the tusk of a walrus. Now make love to me. Pathetic man, 49. Box no. 6758.
This advert first appeared in this column in 2001. I’ve rehashed and updated it, however, replacing the original cast with a man who is now 37 rather than 32. And he’s seeking any form of female contact rather than just a rich, 21-year old blonde woman able to apply Pilates techniques to intimate moments.40 Oh, and his waist is now four inches wider. And he’s defaulted on most of his credit cards. Box no. 6201.
I stole the contents of this ad from a highly successful banker (M, 53, annual income £500k + benefits) currently appearing on Match.com.41 It’s funny because we honestly couldn’t be more different. Unless I was a woman. Or 12. Man. Older than 12 and not really a banker. Box no. 3469.
My psychotherapist suggested I place this ad. Woman, 43. Not mental, despite whatever a fear of open spaces, the colour red, the sound of rain, plastic containers, beards, percussionists, birdsong and cornflakes may suggest. Box no. 4326.
This advert began as a limp but over the following weeks it developed into this magnificent sprint. Woman, 36. Probably as good as you’ll ever get. Stop complaining and kiss me. Box no. 0880.
I had to take part-time work to pay for this advert. F, 32. Box no. 7710.
I spent an entire day in the British Library sourcing obscure reference material to cite in this ad, then I lost it all when I stopped off at Burger King on the way home. Man, 34. Box no. 8611.
I wrote this ad to prove I’m not gay. Man, 29. Not gay. Absolutely not. Box no. 7471.
I grazed my knee writing this advert. Accident prone F, 35. Box no. 4311.
In laboratory tests, this ad made seven mice blind. The remaining three, however, developed extra-sensory powers and the ability to levitate. You could too, by replying to excommunicated biologist and psychic-mouse groomer (M, 39) at box no. 4656. Or you may just go blind. It’s a 70–30 shot but you can’t halt progress.
“Sexually, I’m more of a Switzerland”
My subscription to the LRB includes a proviso allowing time for ‘quiet naps’. That pretty much says everything you need to know. Man. Box no. 7429.
My self-compiled love-making tape includes songs from the lesser known albums of Crosby, Stills and Nash.42 Man, 48. Box no. 8595.
They don’t call me Naughty Lola. They call me Brian. Brian, 57.43 Box no. 6477.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think this personal advert puts me firmly on the map. Box no. 8541.
Are you more Peret than du Pré? More mocha than Moët? More Bacardi Breezer than Bollinger? Then write to me, F, 46, more Judith Chalmers than Judith Pinnow.44 Box no. 3733.
England’s best hope for Olympic gold if ever there was an Olympic event for wearing plaid and brogues. Man, 56. Not a snappy dresser but extremely well-endowed. Box no. 9987.
The wind left my sails years ago. Hopeless yachtsman (M, 64). Box no. 8521.
Think of every sexual partner you’ve ever had. I’m nothing like them. Unless you’ve ever slept with a bulimic German cellist called Elsa. Elsa: bulimic German cellist, (F, 37). Box no. 6327.
Did you march in the streets in 1968? I did, but with the Barrow-in-Furness Majorettes. The long white socks and pony-tails have gone, but I can still twirl a baton. If you know how to shine brass buttons, and how to keep a pom-pom fluffy, drop me a line. Box no. 9792.
‘Shame’ and ‘terror’. The two words that most adequately sum up my sexual performances. If yours are ‘banter’ and ‘pot-roast’, write now to bubbly F, 36, making trouser-suits from carpet remnants since 1994. Box no. 2525.
Nothing makes me feel more alive than the scent of a well-oiled caster or fake blood spilled clumsily on parkland. Office chair manufacturer and weekend historical battle re-enactor (M, 52) WLTM woman to 50 to join me at Val-ès-Dunes this autumn and witness Duke William the Bastard crush the Norman rebels before we whiz around tiled surfaces on a new pair of reclining lock orthopaedic support seats. No time-wasters.45 Box no. 8422.
It’s a jungle out there! Confused librarian. F, 34. Box no. 7421.
The song that most puts me in the mood for love is Rick Dees’ Disco Duck.46 Woman, 54, clinging desperately to the erotic undertones of a 1976 historical society Christmas party chance dance floor encounter. Box no. 5222.
If I were a hamburger, I’d probably come without the salad stuff. If you like hamburgers without the salad stuff, why not write? Woman, 35. The poorest opening gambits you ever did hear. Box no. 8550.
Yes, the jacket’s tweed, the pullover maroon, and the socks over-washed red. But my vest is 100 per cent cottontwist, and my pants are Primark classics.47 M, 38. As enticing as a philosophy lecturer can be. Box no. 2116.
Casanova began his career as a librarian.48 I’ve begun mine as a museum curator, which is more or less the same thing except i
t involves old bones and stuff instead of books. And there is a designated picnic area in a museum whereas libraries don’t like you bringing in food. And we have fun maps you can colour in as you go around. And help points for the disabled. Man, 24. Museum curator and potential Casanova. Box no. 7971.
In France, it’s just a kiss. In England it’s just a muffin. In Belgium it’s just a waffle. In Germany it’s just a shepherd. You know what I’m saying. Man, 41. Box no. 5520.
Sexually, I’m more of a Switzerland. F, 54. Box no. 8828.
Does sex have to rear its ugly head? Physically distant, cold, unendearing woman (my age is my business), WLTM man who knows where the door is and when to use it. Sshh—I’m trying to read, and I have to be up early in the morning. Box no. 1009.
Marcel Mauss–type figure (man, 52). Nothing up my sleeve save a love of atonal jazz and a passion for Cup-a-Soup.49 WLTM woman with knowledge of microwaveable foods and tapered decks. Box no. 9971.