No borons

More personal ads from the London Review of Books (the complete WIIIAI collection of LRB personals is here.) After that, because it’s our 6-month anniversary today, and as a special treat for the almost three of you who have asked for new pictures of Christabel, there will be some.

Cobalt blue eyes, bronze hair and a heart of gold but also Nerves of steel! Legs of potassium! A forehead of lithium! All the most attractive elements than you could want or that your first Salter Science kit could ever have delivered from reactive lady (F. 31) seeking generous physics man to 35, who has at least seen a woman naked before, and won’t passively aggressively play muted classical music while I’m trying to read during quiet time. No Borons. Box no. 24/04

Yesterday I was a disgusting spectacle in end-stage alcoholism with a gambling problem and not a hope in the world. Today I am the author of this magnificent life-altering statement of yearning and desire. You are a woman to 55 with plenty of cash and very little self-respect. When you reply to this advert your life will never be the same again. My name is Bernard. Never call me Bernie. Box no. 31/01

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. 31/03

I hate you all. I hate London. I hate books. I hate critics. I hate this magazine, I hate this column and I hate all the goons who appear in it. But if you have large breasts, are younger than 30 and don’t want to talk about the novel you’re ‘writing’ I’ll put all that aside for approximately two hours one Saturday afternoon in January. Man, 33. Box no. 31/04

Everyone. My life is a mind-numbing cesspit of despair and self-loathing. Just fuck off. Or else write back and we’ll make love. Gentleman, 37. Box no. 31/05

I make my own sexual lubricant. The secret ingredient is Bovril. Man, 56. Congleton. Box no. 31/07