by David Rose
Colour-blind driving instructor and weekend hastilude enthusiast (M, 33) seeks jousting F to 35 to give him the green light (and appropriate ‘drive on’ hand signal). Box no. 9643.
Although this is an advert that screams excitement, the man who placed it (historian, 54, enjoys model airplanes) is strangely subdued. Box no. 7735.
Man, 46. Animal in bed. Probably a gnu. Box no. 1910.
Serial winner of Alan Bennett audio books in work’s Christmas tombola.50 WLTM man willing to exchange his decade’s worth of Marks & Spencer bath bombs, then love the dowager’s hump right off of me. Box no. 1014.
Amyl nitrite. Apparently it’s not a common rose-fertilizing compound. Write now to box no. 3012 for more ill-judged assumptions made by F, 48, spending weekends going through her ex-husband’s ‘gardening’ drawer. Ben Wa is not a modern-day Percy Thrower.51
When the switch is in the ‘T’ position the microphone is disconnected and no sound is heard from the aid because the microphone has been replaced by a pick-up coil. My explanation for 13 years of pweeeeeph sounds coming from my head during periods of sexual excitement. Now Bluetooth enabled and finally ready to love again. Man, 63, wrestling with the wonders of the modern world like a naked Amazonian might wrestle with angry snakes. Box no. 1211.
“One eye on the William Hill Saturday quick-pick cards”
Worse things could happen. You could lose all your money on a holiday fling that sure felt like a good idea at the time—until you try to use your credit cards at the resort. Once-bitten, probably get bitten again intellectual numbskull (M, 36). This time my wallet stays in my pocket. Box no. 7108.
My most humbling moment was the birth of my first grandchild. No! Wait! It was when I won the office Grand National sweepstake in 1999. God bless you, Bobbyjo! Idiot gamer (M, 61). One eye on a meaningful relationship, the other on the William Hill Saturday quick-pick cards.52 Box no. 5244.
Found love yet? Console yourself with our fabulous range of fitted wardrobes—bookcases made to order, leatherbound executive chairs. Write for free catalogue to desperate salesman, 44, divorced, no access to the kids, sleeping in his mother’s Astra. Box no. 0527.
Fidelity. The recognition of the supreme importance of love. Intelligence. Beauty. Sense of humour. Sincerity. An appreciation of good food. A serious interest in some art, trade or hobby. An old-fashioned and wholehearted acceptance of monogamy. Courage.53 Borderline obsession with receipt collecting and completely unfounded fear of calculators. Formerly Rudolph Valentino–type M (32), latterly tax evading, nervous asthmatic (47). Seeks woman not unused to hiding under the kitchen table when the doorbell rings. Box no. 2211.
I am Mr Right! You are Miss Distinct Possibility. Your parents are Mr and Mrs Obscenely Rich. Your Uncle is Mr Expert Tax Lawyer. Your cousin is Ms Spare Apartment On A Caribbean Hideaway That She Rarely Uses. Your brother is Mr Can Fix You Up A Fake Passport For A Small Fee. Man, 51. Box no. 1407.
Let’s double down on Fifth Street, split the aces on a quad and steal the brag from Napoleon before he freezes out on fourth. Rubbish poker player (M, 41) WLTM women to 45 who aren’t too embarrassed to play Connect Four.54 Box no. 7961.
Fame? Riches? Glamour and a lifetime of ease and comfort? I’d give it all up just to be near you. Freeloading loller (38) seeks big breasted celebrity heiress of unfeasibly large fortune (21, max, or I’m out of here). Box no. 5285.
The eighties never went away! Nor did its hair! Or its piano-key tie! Its previously untarnished track record of solvency did though. As did its trousers. And teeth. Man, 47. Less A Flock of Seagulls, more A Troubling of Goldfinches.55 Box no. 9620.
I hate you, Ray Romano. Woman, 32. One-time publishing high-flier, now redundant and spending most days shouting at the TV. Would like to meet anyone with a decent array of credit cards and no prior experience of the hypnotic ways of QVC.56 Box no. 0981.
According to my records your Council Tax instalments have not been paid in accordance with the details shown on your bill. Payment of the amount now due must be made within 7 days. Legal proceedings will be commenced 14 days after the date of issue of this notice. If the Council issues a summons, application will be made to the Court for an order for costs from you. Not even love can come between me and my work, but promise you’ll try. Responses should be directed to North London council worker (F, 37), box no. 0305. A delay in your response will result in you losing your right to pay future demands by instalments.57
Come fly with me.58 Man, 42, seeks undemanding tax exile in exotic far-away land (i.e., not the Isle of Man). No money in the bank, but Air Miles-a-go-go at box no. 1008.
The finest mind in the academic world conceived this ad, but it was his secretary who took two and half hours out of her day to collate his angst-ridden ramblings, phone the LRB and pay for it with her own money. He’s basically looking for an affair with a twenty-something idiot tart who needs good grades. I’m looking for a better job, a decent pension package, and a man to 50 who’s great in bed and doesn’t make condescending comments about every damn book I read. Man, 57. Or his secretary, 43. Box no. 1207.
Play your cards right and I’ll marry you. Compulsive gambling F, 41, seeks non-judgmental M to whatever with fully functional credit cards, easily remembered pin number, and desperately poor tolerance of alcohol. Also seeking lateral thinking lawyer with track record of successful implausible embezzlement defence claims. Box no. 9876.
Does that billet doux you’re writing have my box number on it (M, 42, great eyes, great prospects)? Are you sending it today? Can you enclose a £10 postal order with it—I’m a bit strapped until giro day?59 Box no. 1208.
Rich old buggers about to peg it, write to attractive, nubile young filly. Box no. 0119.
Social parasite (M, 36, lecturer in Classics), takes more from the community than he could ever put back. Enjoy it while it’s free, I say. WLTM woman compelled to give, give, give. London, or else you pick me up and bring me back. In your own car. Using your own petrol money. Box no. 0916.
What a difference a junior suite makes! That’s where you come in—F to 30 with access to husband’s bank account and a shrill delight at the thought of breaking through its previously unbreachable over-draft limit over the course of a weekend fling with limber octogenarian bankrupt no longer welcome in his son-in-law’s Lake District caravan. Box no. 4328.
Read the small-print before writing any cheques! Bankrupted timeshare-buying moron (41) would like to meet wealthy, blind, deaf, idiotic 96-year old woman with heart problems. Must be willing to run 20 miles a day and carry the shopping home. Box no. 0919.
And the award for Reformed Criminal Mastermind goes to box no. 0415. (Send signed blank cheques as congratulations.)
In Analects, Confucius wrote ‘Man has three ways of acting wisely. First, on meditation; that is the noblest. Secondly, on imitation; that is the easiest. Thirdly, on experience; that is the bitterest’.60 I’d like to add a fourth, on my patent-pending Decision Squid. Simply place the decision squid in a large water tank with each side labelled with one of the following: ‘Yes’, ‘No’, ‘Maybe’ and ‘Decision Squid too tired to answer’. Next, jab the squid with the Question Stick and whichever side it swims to gives you your decision. Man, 36. Bankrupt and recovering alcoholic. Box no. 8785.
LRB subscribers—get six free issues and your money back if you’re not entirely satisfied with Market Rasen61 lust racoon (M, 78)—‘The most serious and radical lust racoon around’. Direct debit forms, and dried fruit, to box no. 8620.
Publishing’s Next Big Thing (October, 1998). One time author and bon viveur (M, 37) now part-time baguette filler and amateur chiropractor seeks agent who actually will call Monday62/career advisor/solvent woman with impressive stock options and low self-esteem. Box no. 9997.
“Only love is catching”
There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to make love to all the women I want to make love to, so I’m going to start with you, nubile 21-year old choreographer and tantr
ic masseuse, preferably French or able to adopt a French accent or not talk at all. Must know how to spoon-feed. Man, 78. Box no. 4876.
Like a lot of people, I’m uncomfortable in my own skin. Unlike a lot of people it’s because I have an unidentified skin allergy that has baffled science for 47 years. Woman, 47. Itchy and baffling. Box no. 8369.
I took steroids to produce this winner of an ad. Woman, 64. Box no. 4976.
Shepherd of Love seeks F to 45 free of scrapie, pinkeye and Caseous Lymphadenitis.63 Vet (M, 43). Little experience of human contact outside the farming communities of Pembs. Box no. 9837.
Walk a mile in another man’s shoes. Mine. But only if I can borrow your trousers. And a cummerbund if you have one. Syndicated clothing enthusiast and mature student radiologist on the verge of finally graduating to the big leagues (Haversham General Hospital) WLTM woman with 42-inch waist and 30-inch inside leg, or man with size 6 brogues, or anyone with an over-active thyroid and a plaid jacket in XL. No loons. Box no. 8974.
Not all that wheezes is asthma. Laryngologist and weekend chicken-farmer (M, 61) seeks attractive F to 70 with stable blood pressure for long distance running, evening tango classes and CPR. Box no. 8369.
Michelle Barrow of Class 4C: yes, astigmatism is permanent, but so is chess-genius. Unlike sports ability or hair. Who’s laughing now? Not Jamie MacFarlane of Windsor Keys-While-U-Wait, that’s for sure. Box no. 7863.
You’ll have to speak louder than that to be heard above my tinnitus. Tinnitus-suffering woman, 40. Box no. 8631.
X-rays, blood tests, EEGs, ECGs, lung function, barium, bone density, colonoscopy. Doctors don’t know what to do with me. Medical enigma (M, 33). Confounding science and all the staff at Streatham Hill Burger King since 1997. Box no. 9731.
Does anyone know what I did last summer?64 Kitsch horror-fan and recovering alcoholic (M, 52). Box no. 9722.
Last time I placed an advert in here I got a great response from a lovely man who seemed ideal (remember those letters, swapping bits of Yeats with lines from Dylan songs?). We arranged to meet at a nice restaurant south of the Thames. Unfortunately I missed the date because on the way out of my flat I popped a Kegel.65 That was almost three years ago, but after several surgical pubococcygeus restorative procedures and 30 months of contracting and relaxing and stopping mid-flow I’m finally ready for that Italian meal you promised. If you’re still out there, Carl from Highbury, get in touch with Wendy, now 49 and fit enough downstairs to crack a walnut. Otherwise any man to 55 who isn’t afraid of surgical knickers. Box no. 9376.
I could fit into a 42-inch waist trouser if I sucked in a little. Pathetic man, mid-eighties (GI value of typical breakfast), mid-fifties (temperature after walking upstairs), 143 (heart rate after walking upstairs), 38 (minutes before coming around after walking upstairs, and my age). WLTM patient F in a bungalow. Box no. 0295.
I got it bad and that ain’t good.66 Amateur jazz singer (F, 54) seeks glockenspielist/gynaecologist for nights of atonal ramblings through both my medicine cabinet and your prescription pad. No crazies. Box no. 8632.
One day this advert will have its own entry on Wikipedia for gaining the most responses ever received. Reply now to get to the head of the queue. Hay fever–suffering gymnast (M, 52). Box no. 3960.
A list of what I’m looking for in a man is displayed on the door of my fridge. You’ll never see it, however, because I locked myself out of my flat at the weekend and will probably have to rent somewhere else for a while. Menopausal woman, 52. Sent my Estraderm off to Truprint67 back in January and now spend most evenings staring in despair at seven rolls of unprocessed Christmas film with no hormonal benefits whatsoever. Box no. 9361.
They said the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Disqualified surgeon (F, 32), a touch on the literal side maybe, seeks man for nights of complete misunderstanding. Box no. 0219.
Frankly, I don’t think there’s anywhere near enough salt in ready meals these days.68 Man, 37, poor kidney function. Box no. 3976.
What do you get when you fall in love? Trench foot.69 Woman, 36, seeks man to 40 who has no interest in re-enacting WWI battles and doesn’t insist on making love in sewage-filled holes dug in the garden. Box no. 9271.
The rumours are true! A scintillating love monkey does read the London Review of Books and currently has an opening in his life for a delicious lust vixen with whom to super-charge the static on his real nylon sheets. This advert is the recruitment process and, guess what, you just got the job (home-owning women or convincing TSs only, 20–65, verifiable income, full credit history, no pets, no smokers, some knowledge of pulmonary medical procedures a distinct advantage). Man, 68. By reading the advert this far you agree to its terms and conditions and acknowledge it to be a legally binding contract. No loons. Box no. 8611.
This advert may well be the Cadillac of all lonely hearts adverts, but its driver is the arthritic granddad with a catalogue of driving convictions. Arthritic granddad (67) with a catalogue of driving convictions including ‘Driving whilst trying to turn the dang wipers off’, ‘Driving whilst wondering if his urology appointment has come through’, and ‘Driving whilst “Hey! Isn’t that where your Aunt Maude’s first husband lived after the divorce came through? He’s settled in Jersey now. I could never stand him—he used to do this thing with his teeth...” ’ WLTM someone who knows how stop the oven from beeping. Box no. 9729.
They said I’d never dance again—they were right. Incontinent 76-year old man, needs buxom woman to spoon-feed him breakfast (and dress his leg ulcers). OK, I’m not Cary Grant, but who are you—Lana Turner? Box no. 0123.
Love me, love my fungal skin complaint. Man, 37, charmless and flaky. Box no. 0914.
Girlfriend in a coma,70 mother undergoing angioplasty, father with a bad case of shingles, but there’s nothing wrong with me (other than a lazy eye and hay fever). Only love is catching at box no. 1214.
“Look sideways with schadenfreude”
Ten things you should know about me. Favourite read—Querelle de Brest, Jean Genet. Favourite attribute—my eyes (hazel). Brand of cigarette—Malboro (red). Phobia—peristerophobia (look it up). Favourite walk—Lochinver to Suilven. Favourite food—M&M’s (green ones). Favourite country to visit—Denmark. Allergy—men who earn less than £80k per annum. I am a woman. I am 37. I can do a weird trick with my nostrils, a ball of string and seven paper clips. Now you.71 Box no. 7626.
Ever woken up and wondered why you have that sinking feeling again? Ever stopped to think why everything seems so cold? Ever longed for the warmth of another? Ever just wanted to be able to give love and to receive a little love back? Ever married a homosexual? Well I have, buster, so save the sob-stories. Woman, 52, WLTM man to 60 willing to participate in an intense program of psychometric testing including, but not limited to, a polygraph and a lengthy discussion over wallpaper samples before we commit to any sort of relationship. Box no. 1109.
Peel half a mango and slice into a blender. Add half a banana and some slices of apple. Add the juice of half an orange and a little ginger. Blend with ice. Smoke 17 cigarettes. Drink a bottle of gin. Cry. Phone your mother and slur incoherently down the receiver. Clean the aquarium. Steal the neighbour’s bin. Get thrown out of local grocery store. Sleep under some leaves. If your days begin with the best intentions but gradually unravel, why not get yourself some psychological help from a trained professional, rather than from gorgeous, articulate F, 36, with four languages, own home, own business and a Dutch cap. Box no. 8807.
One night stands based on lust, greed, and mutual disgust have led to some of the most fulfilling three-hour sections of my life, but now I’d like a man who knows how to read and will, eventually, come to learn the entire layout of my house. That’s where you come in, LRB-reading men to 50 with good incomes, good careers, no pets and a penchant for women who know exactly the right tone of whining to get the things they want in life. Box no. 5375.
I’ve memorised every shortcut to Waitrose, Caversham.72 W
oman, 43, just about ready to take a step up the social ladder with any reasonably-minded moneyed M to 90. An ability to know when not to speak is a distinct advantage, as are frequent-flyer Air Miles. Box no. 7511.
Whilst calming down after a heated argument involving smashed plates, thrown cutlery and insults directed at your circus side-show of a family, you should know now that I’m very unlikely to participate in that ‘no, really, I’m sorry, it was my fault’ charade. You accept all of the blame all of the time or you grow gills to breathe in the stale, bitter soup of my angry and eternal silence. Cuddly F, 36, brown hair, green eyes, degree in geology. Box no. 2129.
When we eventually meet for dinner under the pretext of wanting to know each other better before we engage in the self-destructive sex we’ve each been craving since our previous relationships crashed against the rocks of reality (in my case, a younger, more attractive woman—in your case a stunning lack of awareness that you’re not actually the most interesting person in the world), the widening of my eyes and the nodding of my head may be mistaken for me empathising with whatever banal and ridiculous episode of self-pity you’ve just launched yourself into. I’m not. I recently started wearing contact lenses to combat the ‘anal librarian’ features my delightfully eloquent ex-husband so often accused me of having; they irritate my corneas. And that’s no smile—it’s me trying to pluck a fish rib from my teeth with my tongue. Woman, 39. No time for small-talk at box no. 6637.