by David Rose
F, 36, WLTMLRB-reading M to 40 who plays darts professionally. Box no. 0189.
This notice requires you by law to guarantee your love and fidelity for the rest of your life. You can use the form provided, or you could use other Inland Revenue-approved paper versions. Please make sure your missives reach me by 31 January 2004. Otherwise you will have to pay interest, and perhaps a surcharge. Additional forms can be obtained by contacting desperate Civil Service fast-tracker (F, 36). Box no. 3797.
These ads are all very funny now. But will they be funny in two months’ time when you’ve missed your period? Comprehensive-school sex educationalist (F, 57) seeks man for relationship based on knowing grimaces, OHPs of bearded men, and front-of-class demonstrations involving cucumbers. Syphilis isn’t a town in Eastern Europe, you know. Box no. 6331.
Grange Hill3extra (retired), latterly university lecturer (M, 34) WLTM woman to 35 obsessed enough by ‘Where are they now?’ features to want desperate affair with peripheral kids’ TV actor of the eighties, thereby giving herself the vague and remote opportunity of appearing on such a list. It will never happen, of course–your clutching self-regard could never outshine my 2.3 seconds stood behind Mr Bronson as he stomped down the corridor to confront Mrs McClusky one more time over an apparent slackening of school protocol. Less hostile, bordering on the cuddly, with alcohol. Box no. 4169.
Gruff train conductor (M, 59) abandoned on the tracks of love. Your ticket is not valid until 9.15, and you are required to upgrade to the full standard fare. All I need is a hug and a valid railcard. Reserved seating only at box no. 0847.
Tell me your kidney-stone experiences–I’ll set them to music and we’ll make us a West End fortune! Unemployable choreographer and amateur harpist (M, 62) seeks recovering alcoholic with feeble mind. Own tap shoes an advantage. Box no. 7353.
Had an accident at work that wasn’t your fault? My god I love you. Junior lawyer (M, 62) seeks winnable case/easy sex. Box no. 0856.
1 Bluestone: various types of igneous rocks including dolerites, rhyolites and volcanic ash. The bluestones at Stonehenge are thought to have originated from the Preseli hills in Pembrokeshire, the method of their transportation to the site at Stonehenge being the subject of years of speculation.
2 Territorial Army. Part of the British Army made up of reserve units and part-time soldiers. Formed in 1908.
3 British children’s television drama. The series, focusing upon a fictional comprehensive school, was created in 1978 by Phil Redmond, who felt that children’s TV didn’t adequately tackle the issues confronting youth. It was originally devised to be set in Liverpool, but the setting moved to London because BBC production at the time was in-house. Filming moved to Liverpool in 2002 when Redmond’s company Mersey TV took over production. The series became famous for its often controversial storylines, which over the years included heroin addiction, playground knifings, a gay teacher, attempted suicide, and teacher bullying. Early seasons provoked tabloid outrage and national boycotts, but Redmond’s insistence on issue-led drama has seen Grange Hill cited as a revolution in children’s television. Notable production members of early seasons include script editor Anthony Minghella, who later won the Academy Award for Best Director with The English Patient.
“My mind is
a globe of
excitement”
If I was a chocolate confection, I’d be a Walnut Whip. You, however, would be a Kinder Surprise.1 I’m all seriousness and constantly overlooked by those who don’t know me; you’re a bit thin with a complicated toy that gets stuck in the dog’s lungs. Unless one of us can change, this relationship is doomed from the outset. For now, however, let’s just revel in the absurdity of fondant love and advanced canine respiratory surgery. Box no. 2867.
They say an army marches on its stomach. Wrong–it marches on its legs. Sometimes it uses tanks or aircraft and other heavy vehicles. And cars. Box no. 2097.
Today I feel like a hedgehog. But I want to be a fox. Scotswoman, 26. Box no. 7864.
I want my mummy. Man (37) with far too many issues to go into detail about in this column seeks psychoanalyst/tailor/stevedore. Whitstable. Box no. 0556.
‘They tell me that this is the kind of thing that gets hold of suburban dwellers once in a while. But most of them just lie down till the feeling passes.’ LRB personal ads are the new Deliverance and, Honey, I’m their Burt Reynolds (though, admittedly, only during his Smokey and the Bandit phase). Looks like we got us a convoy at box no. 8532.
A tear rolled down his cheek. ‘Know him? I was that old soldier.’ Implausible old loon (56, mad as teeth). ‘Bullets were flying above our heads, yet we managed to carry him to safety.’ You can call me uncle. Box no. 5286.
Man, 32, writes poetry like Evel Knievel2 jumps canyons. Watch me fly at box no. 3698.
‘I never spent much time in school, but I’ve taught ladies plenty…’ Literary Fall Guy3 of the Tyne (M, 43, I’m the unknown stuntman that made Julian Barnes such a star). Saloon doors in the kitchen and an unfeasible amount of bubbles in the bath. WLTM Heather Locklear-type for nights of winding up in the hay–a hay, hay. Box no. 8646.
My mind is a globe of excitement. My heart is an atlas of generosity. My body is a map of struggle. You can camp out on the flat heaths, but careful where you tread and remember to close all gates behind you. Akela4 of desire (F, 38) seeks orienteering M to 45 for nights of bluster and queuing for the showers at box no. 2196.
E Emmdee-Emmay:5 to you it means nothing but to me it opens the door to wealth beyond your wildest imaginings in the form of a herbal tablet found in my son’s wallet that transforms an ageing, withered man (64) into an Asian dancing beauty with tremendous breasts! Patent (and bail) pending. Look at my fingers! They’re moving like wondrous vipers! Box no. 4273.
Am I alone in wanting to concrete over the Lake District? Multiple-level parking enthusiast/NCP6 eroticist (M, 34, familiar with most forms of therapy) WLTM city-dwelling F ready for night-time random aggregate-dumping campaign and coarse-sand compound repointing. Bring a shovel and expert knowledge of automated ticket-machines to box no. 2826.
Need more than just a sympathetic ear? I give you the sympathetic leg. For a limited period only, Norwich inventor (M, 34) offers LRB readers the chance to sample the unique ‘Leg of Troubles’. Simply whisper what ails ye into the patented Leg Worry Trumpet and watch all your anxieties of modern living fade away. Send £10 (cash only) and a picture of yourself naked to box no. 2896. Available in teak.
None of the above? Come fly with me, amateur paraglider on love’s flattest heath (M, 104). All we need is a strong head wind and a couple of sturdy helmets. And maybe an ambulance on stand-by. Box no. 6327.
The best composers are from the Rhineland–Beethoven; Ruyle; Hildegard; Schnorbitz7 –and so are the best kit-car racers. Join me, darling of the Ahr valley, demon of the Nürburgring racing circuit (leather-clad peroxide F, 57, childless but not joyless), for evenings of stick-shift classical madness and baroque carburettor ballet–in the morning we take on the municipal councils and their inadequate joint regional road-planning extension schemes. It’ll be 50 km.p.h., and it’ll be the time of your life. Shake your pagoda tree, and hand me that motoring atlas, at box no. 0286.
My ad comes in the medium of whistles: ppfffttttt, ssshhhhhhhwwwwt, peeffwt, pfftpt. Man, 36. Bad at whistling. Box no. 2621.
Pimp MyLRB! My subscription has chrome rims, neon waterfall lighting, and the baddest, phattest exhaust this side of Osterley. Once inside, however, it’s the same old Austin Maxi it’s always been–unpredictable, sticky brake pedal, worn clutch, and chipped walnut-veneer dash. M, 51, wants woman with a scooter. May accept all-zone train pass as long as you don’t mind my stopping off at the Well-Man clinic along the way (first Tuesday of every month). Box no. 2146.
I know every boating regulation. And I’ve broken most of them. Skipper at the helm of uncharted desire (mostly involving a rudder, 6 metres of fishing yarn and a box of docile maggots) seeks first
mate for landlocked evenings re-enacting the destruction of the Hesperus. Must have own hammock and wellies. M (52), Coventry. Box no. 7343.
If I were a type of shrub I’d be euonymus. Go figure. Euonymus-esque woman (37). Box no. 7292.
Let post-Revolutionary disillusionist crush your banditos of doubt with the best vodka jelly this side of Islington. Whatever any of that means. M, 36. Box no. 1449.
They call me Mr Boombastic.8 You can call me Monty. My real name, however, is Quentin. But only Mother uses that. And Nanny. Monty is fine, though. Anything but Peg Leg (Shrewsbury Prep, 1956, ‘Please don’t make me do cross-country, sir’). Box no. 0473.
The difficult follow-up personal ad. Darker lyrics, more keyboards, a four-minute drum solo. In seven years’ time you’ll hail it as a classic. Until then, make hot and crazy love to me (35-year-old kraut-rocking Innagoddadavida9 nerd, M). Box no. 7542.
Put a sock in it! Now two shots of rum. OK, some fresh-squeezed OJ. And some Lego. Surrealist cocktail-maker and barfly guerrilla (M, 35) seeks lady friend to sample the chewiest bloody Marys and the messiest kitchen work-surfaces this side of the Humber. Box no. 7832.
I am the best-kept secret in Paignton. Box no. 8356.
Scotch tape. Tippex. Laddered stockings (sheer). Manhattan Transfer10 and cold nights in the Shropshire wilderness with nothing more than Eça de Queirós11 to keep us warm. Are you talking my language? Box no. 3036.
The only item you’ll find in my fridge is soup. Forty litres of the stuff. Beat that. M, 46. Box no. 7524.
What I want from you: goose-bumps with your poetic analysis of the seemingly trivial; laughter with your cutting down to size of the overstated; tears at the touch of our hands as we stand watching the waves roll out; shame at your superior knowledge of pre-1972 naval insignia. Perennial deck-hand on love’s roughest ocean (M, 47, Fleetwood) seeks Hattie Jacques-at-sea for barrack stanchion shenanigans. It’s all grape sigs and grunions bearing drift at box no. 7832.12
This is a terrifying world. I am the only worthy edifice in it. You are probably a tree. You know what I’m saying. Man. 35. Box no. 7213.
Less Luke Skywalker, more Wedge Antilles13(M, 37). Always on the periphery of someone else’s story, but reliable and can pilot a TIE Fighter with all boosters a-blazin’ (though have nut and shellfish allergy and don’t like smokers). Wimbledon. Box no. 5824.
Like Dave Eggers,14only better. Man, 41. Better than Dave Eggers. Box no. 9442.
During intercourse, I can list Brian Eno’s ten favourite books in reverse order. Most women, however, only let me get to number 7 (Grooming, Gossip and the Evolution of Language–Robin Fox). M, 34, WLTM woman to 35 willing to let me get to at least number 3 (The Evolution of Cooperation–Robert Axelrod). Box no. 8323.
Are you Kate Bush? Write to obsessive man (36) at box no. 7363. Note: People who aren’t Kate Bush need not respond.
List your five favourite books. First, let me list mine: The Boy Who Couldn’t Stop Washing: The Experience andTreatment of OCD, Judith L. Rapoport; Brain Lock: FreeYourself From Obsessive Compulsive Behaviour, Dr Jeffrey Schwartz; The Doubting Disease: Help for Scrupulosity and Religious Compulsions, Joseph W. Ciarrochi; Imp of the Mind: Exploring the Silent Epidemic of Obsessive BadThoughts, Lee Baer; The River Café Cookbook, Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers. F, 32. Enjoys cookery, hairclips, light-switches. Box no. 8313.
Switching the names on the Sunday Rota Chemist lists of Uttoxeter no longer holds the same thrill it did back in 2002. What I need now is a woman. That’s where you come in. You have two degrees in Maths, look like Bettie Page, are a strong swimmer, and like nothing better than standing next to the rabbit cages in branches of Pets at Home and weeping disconsolately as horrified children look on. Man, 38. Very, very alone. Box no. 4297.
If I could be anywhere in time right now it would be 17 December 1972. I have my reasons. Man, 57. Box no. 1553.
This ad is a seven. But my last one was a nine. Easy. M, 32. Box no. 5346.
I ate a pencil and three Post-Its whilst writing this ad. Oh, and drank a bottle of correcting fluid. Whhheeeeeeee!!! Man, 33-and-a-quarter. Box no. 2378.
1 Hollow chocolate egg containing a plastic toy (often self-assembly). Originated in Italy in 1974 and available worldwide with the exception of the US, where the toy item is banned by the Food and Drug Administration because of regulations against non-food items being contained within food casing. In the US, the eggs are available with small candies replacing the toy.
2 Robert Craig ‘Evel’ Knievel (b. 1938, Montana). Stuntman famed for his public displays of motorcycle daring. One-time holder of the world record for number of broken bones. See Appendix.
3 American television series starring Lee Majors playing a stuntman who moonlights as a bounty hunter. The programme’s theme song, ‘The Unknown Stuntman’, was performed by Majors and included the lyric ‘I’m the unknown stuntman that made Eastwood such a star’. The ad cites images from the show’s opening credits, but it was actress Heather Thomas who appeared alongside Majors in the series and not Heather Locklear.
4 Leader of cub-scout troops and outward-bound groups.
5 The advertiser is referring phonetically to MDMA, or ecstasy, a drug of the phenethylamine family affecting the release of serotonin in the brain and leading to feelings of euphoria.
6 National Car Parks.
7 Not a composer but, rather, a St Bernard dog owned by British comedian Bernie Winters, hence the allusion in the ad to Shake a Pagoda Tree, the title of the biography of brothers Mike and Bernie Winters.
8 ‘Boombastic’: single released by Shaggy, 1995. Reached number one in the UK charts.
9 ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’: Song recorded in 1968 in the spirit of the psychedelic sixties by Iron Butterfly. The song covered one entire side of the album of the same name and, despite being seventeen minutes in length, became a hit in the US.
10 Vocal jazz group formed in 1972.
11 Portuguese writer. Born 1845, died 1900.
12 Deck-hand: ship member who carries out the daily maintenance operations. Hattie Jacques: British comedy actress known for her roles in the Carry On franchise (though none based at sea). Barrack stanchion (naval term): a sailor who rarely goes to sea. Grape sig (naval term): signature given in return for a favour, traditionally given in purple ink. Grunion (naval term): yard worker or, literally, a species of fish.
13 An X-Wing pilot and commander. As a member of the Rebel Alliance, Antilles would never have had the opportunity to pilot a TIE Fighter (Twin Ion Engine), which was, in fact, a space craft used by the Galactic Empire.
14 American writer and editor.
“Must all the
women in my life
take the witness
stand?”
I’ve experienced some of the finest mace sprays produced in the Western world, but nothing is as painful as placing an ad in here and getting no responses. That’s where you come in: blonde, pole-dancing acrobatic F to 21 who isn’t put off by two-way mirrors. Man, 82. Box no. 2985.
Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me. Do you find your legal representation inadequate? I once did–in 1992–but now I’m ready again for love. Write to me, man, 47, Reading. Box no. 8480.
‘Guilty, Your Honour.’ Don’t let these be my last words ever spoken to a UK resident female. Long-distance offers of love (one letter per month, weight restricted and all contents vetted) to box no. 1673.
If you get a camcorder for Christmas, can you videotape your love and send me a copy? If you don’t get a camcorder for Christmas, still photos will do. If you don’t own a camera, I’ll accept donations of cash towards my therapy. Man, 98. Box no. 3286.
MaleLRBreaders: Luton Expressway is not a gateway to love. You know who you are. So do the authorities. F, 34. Box no. 8342.
Mah-jong shark of illegal Welsh gambling dens (M, my age is my business) here to reclaim his place as king of the Bloomsbury gamers. Strategic cunning, poker face and all the aces with b
ox no. 7321. (Respondents should have quick access to a full bank account, a face unrecognisable in Bicester, and be willing to take short-notice long-haul flights.)
A bottle of fizz, some Howlin’ Wolf, a cheap hotel. Add to that my eczema lotion, my prosthetic arm and my probation officer and we may not have the most romantic of evenings but we do have the mother of all poker games. The bets are on with flaking, out-for-the-summer-only M (39), Oxford (and occasionally Pentonville).1 Box no. 2824.
Reformed dognapper (M, 43). Box no. 0864.
Must all the women in my life take the witness stand? Serial embezzler, gangster, fly-tipper and–crucially for the prosecution against an otherwise watertight defence–bigamist (M, 48) WLTM easygoing, dizzy fems to 50 who don’t ask too many questions (it’s a business trip–I’ll be back Tuesday week). Box no. 3663.
I started advertising in here with the best intentions. Now I find myself on a witness protection programme. Thanks for nothing, LRB. Also Jimmy ‘Knuckles’ Malone (I thought you were a classics lecturer being ironic). F, 42. New identity, new location, every first Tuesday of the month. Seeks M to 45 with no ties, no traceable numbers, and a hell of a lot of petrol in his tank. Non-smokers, non-mafia only. Box no. 9727.
I know more languages than the advertiser above. And I’ve been to jail fewer times. In his favour, I guess his mother doesn’t make his lovers sign a guestbook on their way out but two out of three ain’t bad, to quote both Meatloaf and my solicitor. Man, 45. Box no. 5279.
1 HM Prison Pentonville, Caledonian Road, London N7.
“Like the ad
above, but better-
educated”
English lecturer. M, 49. It’s not all Bachman-Turner Overdrive.1 But a good portion of it is. Box no. 2642.