Affectionate blender

Name of the Day: a London Times business reporter: Peter Stiff. I’m thinking his parents did not love him.

Forgot to mention: LRB personals (old ones) are now on Teh Twitters. And here are a few recent ones. (As always, the complete WIIIAI collection of LRB personals is here.)

In 2004 I was a love machine…now I’m just an affectionate blender. Whirrr. Box no. 18/02

Privately, I will always regard 1987 as my most successful year but publicly I would state that 2003 brought me more happiness than any other. The 16 year gap between these two points in my life represents roughly half of my overall achievements, whilst the square root of 97 is 9.591663046. None of these things are believed to be coincidental. F, 40. Box no: 21/06

I fear packing peanuts possibly more than other man alive. But I never fail to weep at the simple beauty of swans making love. Carl, 36. Box no: 21/09

Like a faithful hound I will fetch your slippers and newspaper in the morning and follow you for walks on beaches on brisk autumn mornings. Of course, if I bite a small child I will have to be injected with sodium pentobarbital and destroyed. But let’s just accentuate the positive for now. Slippers. Newspaper. Beaches. F, 32. Box no: 21/11

Women to 55 who enjoy cabbage will get along just fine with me! Cabbage-enjoying M, 55. Box no: 21/13

Toles.

While you think about that I shall remove my clothes

Well, I got nuthin’. Fortunately, there are always personal ads from the London Review of Books (the complete WIIIAI collection of LRB personals is here.)

Not very friendly woman seeks not very friendly man. Box no. 13.01

Without my grandfather’s contribution to agricultural reforms in 1912, this nation would currently have to import its turnips. While you think about that I shall remove my clothes. Man. 55. Box no. 16/02

I have a dream. And that dream is to try on every pair of shoes in the world. That’s where you come in: brusque, butch fem cobbler to 55 with expansive collection of animal skins and a strap-on. Man, 76. Box no. 16/03

I cast a magic spell on you. And now you are reading this advert in a literary magazine that exists only in your mind. Soon you will fall in love with me. When we meet, the odour will not concern you. Mr Mesmer: amateur hypnotist, professional shrimp-farmer (M, 51). Also available for weddings and birthdays. Box no. 16/05

The sweet smell of apples in the orchard carried on the warm, gentle breeze. A hushed moan, the curtains swish softly. Slowly my breasts come into focus. The goat bleats. The shackles tighten. And then the chanting starts again. Scary woman, 52, looking for a very specific type of ‘perfect Sunday’. Box no. 16/08

I flow like a harpoon daily and nightly. What does that mean? If the readings on my ambulatory blood pressure monitor are correct – and I think they are – it means I’m currently not allowed solids but I am allowed cuddles. Tactile man and lecturer in cultural studies, 52, patiently waiting for the hearing to return in his right ear. So much love to go around at Box no. 16/13

This advert is exactly what happens when you ignore the label’s warning and actually do ingest the Listerine. Idiot man, 38. Box no. 16/17

To be fair, geese are quite scary

It’s been quite a while since I’ve run personals from the London Review of Books (the complete WIIIAI collection of LRB personals is here.)

If forced to commit, I’d say I feared geese more than ducks. Man, 47. Fears geese more than ducks. Box no. 02/03

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. 03/05

I subvert all the expectations built up in this column like a goat in space subverts gravy. Space-goat-esque gravy-subverting pervert (M, 51). Box no. 05/04

If you’re anything like me, you’ll be a marine biologist, 56, and enjoy secretly juggling crabs when no-one else is in the laboratory. Man, 56, seeks crab-juggling fish nerd. Box no. 05/05

For all you ladies keeping a vigil for my return to this column after an absence of 2 years, God has answered your prayers by forcing the LRB, after much petitioning, to lift almost all of their unreasonable restrictions on the content of my adverts. I am a man. I am 46. Box no. 05/06

Celebrate National Nurses Week with me! Man, 82. Box no. 05/03

Don’t read too much into this.

Short ugly bald bloke (32, Cambridge) seeks Scandinavian Model (F) due to marginal grasp on reality. No timewasters or photos of Volvos. Must not try to feed me broccoli.

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

No linguists

Here’s a picture of Bush and Medvedev at the APEC summit I didn’t get around to using. Dignitude!


It’s been over a year since we’ve heard from Riverbend, after she left Iraq.

It’s also been a while since I’ve had some London Review of Books personal ads, so here are some. As ever, more can be found here.

Aardvark lover, M, 37. Not really I just put that hoping to be at the top. Non-aardvark lover seeks F with similar interests. Box no. 16/01

This ad is a web of deceit, spun with threads of fabulation, arranged in radials of hubris and hanging with the vestiges of good intention between the washing line of virtue and the gazebo of dissipation. If you reply immediately it will leap off the page, wrap itself around your head in a split second and cling there for the rest of the day. So maybe wave a broom about a bit first. Box no. 16/06

“Don’t worry about overeating; you’ve got enough on your plate as it is”. Excruciating knuckle biter of a gaff prone dinner guest (M. 31), seeks not easily offended lady for patient exchanges about anything other than weight, age, height, dress or popular culture. Mature correspondents welcome, age before…never mind. Box no. 19/04

I really wish I’d studied anthropology instead. Box no. 21/06

Some of the LRB personals are intended seriously. It’s not always easy to tell which is which:

My profile here boasts the index carding skills of Miss Marple, the sexual ambiguity of Tank Girl and the wardrobe of Cadfael. Kinky junior librarian (F. 34), lurking in the boondocks of XY9802, tripping over re-evaluations of Nick Cave in back issues of Parallax and her own hem line, WLTM nice academic man or woman to 40 unphased by evening wear once described as “Mrs Doyle Does Dallas”. No Linguists. Box no. 22/04

Female LRB readers, in the course of reading this edition you have unwittingly submitted your intellect to an ingenious algorithm designed by me (intense male sub editor and amateur neuro-linguistic programmer) to gauge your suitability as a long term partner and mother of our children. Congratulations, you’ve passed! Now ditch the boyfriend and move to New England. No arguments, this isn’t a matter of faith, it’s science. Box no. 22/06

You like walking barefoot on cold beaches in the winter, movies that make you cry and baking cookies that you have no intention of eating. I like defending my home against the government forces that are trying to destroy me and knitting carpet samples from fibre remnants found in the back of the dryers at my local launderette. Are we fools to think it could ever work? Moron and amateur carpet sample enthusiast (M, 35). Box no. 23/02

I’m everything you ever wanted in a woman. Assuming you’re into fat 47-year old moody bitches who really don’t enjoy the mornings. Stop talking and pour the bloody marys at..
Box no. 23/05

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. 23/06

Would you be able to carry on an extended erotic correspondence with a filthy-minded forties man on the basis of a one-off coffee in the Long Acre Pret a Manger? Box no. 23/01

It’s deep philosophical questions like that that make the world go ‘round.

Unfortunate Name of the Day

A spokesperson for a pro-choice group in Colorado, Crystal Clinkenbeard.

Speaking of choice, as in spoiled for choice, here are some more London Review of Books personal ads. As ever, more can be found here.

Let this advert serve you as the Rosetta Stone of personal ads. Man, 38. Box no. 14/07

World’s worst univocalic personal ad writer. Male. 43. Box no. 12/03

I am more like Grand Duke Nicholas Mikhailovich of Russia than anyone else who has ever advertised here. Man, 54. Box no. 12/06

You can have the key to my heart! I’ll swap it for the combination to your gym locker. Yoga nazi (F, 43) plans on whipping you (dumpy, bland, moccasin-wearing M to 50) into shape with 18-week programme of sit-ups, circuits and emotionally-draining discussions about how pretty you really think I am. Box no. 13/06

An ancient Czech legend says that any usurper who places the Crown of Saint Wenceslas on his head is doomed to die within a year. During World War II, Reinhard Heydrich, the Nazi governor of the puppet Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia secretly wore the crown believing himself to be a great king. He was assassinated less than a year later by the Czech resistance. I have many more stories like this one. I will tell you them all and we will make love. Man, 47. Box no. 14/04

Not waving but drowning

George Bush went to church today. This is him waving dolefully before the service:


This is him waving dolefully after the service:


Cheer up, George, at least you didn’t burst into flames. Did Laura not promise there would be ice cream after?

Even I’m not interested in my thoughts about the Puerto Rico primary (update: literally as I was writing that, an email came in for Hillary herself, so I can relay her thoughts on the Puerto Rico primary: “Now there can be no doubt: the people have spoken and you have chosen your candidate.” Just in case you had any doubt), so instead let’s have some more London Review of Books personals, some of which this time are a little creepy. (More of my selected LRB personals can be found here.)

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. 10/02 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. Box no. 10/02

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 that 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. 10/03 Include a full list of qualifications, a list of your aspirations, and a full frontal nude body shot. Box no. 10/03

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. As my collection of taxidermied amphibians will testify. Man, 60. Box no. 10/06

This advert is my entry to the LRB’s young person essay writing contest. I won’t win it, however, because it is far too clever by half and also because I’m 62. Man, 62. Far too clever by half. Box no. 10/08

Think of every sexual partner you’ve ever had. I’m nothing like them. Unless you’ve ever slept with a German bulimic cellist called Elsa. Elsa: German bulimic cellist, (F, 37). Box no. 10/09

Fighter Ace, Nobel/Olympic legend, seeks slim lady tired of bullshit.

Mad Dog and Englishman, 24, interested in Wagner, Edwardianism, fortified wines, and debauchery, seeks older women for coy exchanges of Wildean put-downs, followed by forbidden candle-lit passions, leading to clandestine affair, epic betrayal, and eventual Götterdämmerung and redemption. Accountants and Paleontologists need not apply. Box no. 11/03

You’re Helen Mirren. I’m Will Self. One half of this century’s übercouple-to-be seeks tousled fems to 50 for weekends full of recondite wines, obscure blandishments, and winning references to abstruse 11th century sexual practices. No loons. Box no. 11/06

The first thing we do, let’s kill all the economists

Great minds think alike. George Bush, Friday: “And I’m -- if you believe these economists, if they had three hands they’d say, on the one hand, on the other hand, and then on the third hand.” Hillary Clinton, today, asked to name even one economist who supports the idea of a gas-tax holiday: “Well I’ll tell you what, I’m not going to put my lot in with economists.”

Stoopid economists.

Headline of the day, emailed in by an Alert Reader: “Qatar Rulers Pay £26m for Bacon.” In fact, a painting by Francis Bacon (that the headline doesn’t also mention a £10m Damien Hirst sculpture – the Qataris are way, way over-paying – strongly suggests that the bacon mislead in the headline was intentional.)

Speaking of intentionally misleading, to fill up a slow Sunday, here are some more London Review of Books personals. (More of my LRB faves here.)

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. 07/03

Women to 35 – you’re all invited to the party in my pants. It’s bring a bottle and, please, remember to remove your shoes before you step on the carpet – mum’s just had it cleaned. Stupid man, 33. Box no. 07/05

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. 07/06

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. 07/07

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. 07/10

As it happens, 11.34 am two weeks next Friday is the first day of the rest of my life. Nuclear physicist (M, 40) on the brink of time-travelling break-through. Write now to box no 07/11 but be aware that by the time I reply you will be 98 whereas I will have aged just twelve hours. You may have a good-looking grand-daughter by then though. Give her my number and tell her to look me up. Box no. 07/11

I’m still Jenny from the block. Which is odd because yesterday I was Keith from the allotment. Keith from the allotment, 49. You can call me Jenny.

Some men can only be loved by their own mother. Not me, I’ve got Mr Snuggley Panda. Male, 36, and Mr Snuggley Panda, also 36

I hope you’re sitting down while reading because this advert might just excite your socks off! Man, 37.

Don’t look back in anger, try condescension instead. Look sideways with schadenfreude and upward in revulsion. Serial divorcee (F, 53) has you in her sights next with a raft of sarcastic barbs and derisive statements, but a photo sent to box no. 09/02 along with a list of trite achievements that I’ll remain aloof and casually disdainful about should make the whole process slightly less painful by confronting the inevitable head on. Box no. 09/02

Newly divorced man, 46, looking for a woman to 50 who doesn’t conclude sexual intercourse with Queen Elizabeth I’s rebuke to Cardinal Wolsley. Box no. 09/03

Man, 41. Not the sharpest sandwich at the picnic. Box no. 07/01

A sexual Switzerland

Today’s must-read: the WaPo on the regime we’ve imposed on Fallujah.

Myself, I seem to have nothing to say at the moment, so here are some more London Review of Books personals. (More of my LRB faves here.)

If partaking of the grape too eagerly after a messy break-up has taught me anything, it’s that answer phone messages can never be retrieved and are admissible in divorce courts as evidence of ‘unreasonable behaviour’. But if you’re a 35-45 year old guy who knows when a lady needs space and is able to take threats of physical assault and arson in the humorous, ironically edgy way in which they’re intended, then write to beautiful, vivacious, newly-medicated F, 38. Box no. 02/06

By reading this advert you have unwittingly become the latest in my mind experiments in which I persuade the subject to believe I’m a 6’4, sandy blonde Abercrombie and Fitch model with the world at my feet and a lifetime of excitement ahead of me. Man, 57. 6’4, sandy blonde Abercrombie and Fitch model with the world at my feet and a lifetime of excitement ahead of me. Worthing. Box no.02/08

I grazed my knee writing this advert. Accident prone F, 35. Box no. 02/09

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 and observe me from the shrubs in the park opposite until squirrels start to burrow into your legs, believing you to be a tree.’ Woman, 43. Reading between the lines even when the lines aren’t actually there. Don’t pretend you don’t love me. Box no. 06/08

Most partners cite the importance of having a loved one who will listen and understand them. I’m here to debunk this theory. The more you listen to your loved one, the more you will realise they talk crap, whine a lot, and make a lot of unreasonable demands regarding holidays together (since when is a car-ferry better than a plane, since when is a museum tour stop better than drunken evenings talking to oiled-up Italians on a beach?) I’d like to state here and now that anyone responding to this advert and winding up in an emotional (or, even better, purely sexual and frequently tawdry) relationship with me will never be listened to at all. That way we can carry on the pretence of enjoying each other’s company for many an ignorant year. No lawyers. Woman. 38. Box no. 06/10

It’s a jungle out there! Confused librarian. Box no. 06/11

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 tantric 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. 06/14

Everyone in this column has an agenda. Not me. Man, 41. Box no. 06/13

Sexually, I’m more of a Switzerland. F., 54. Box no. 06/12

Yes, that is jolly belligerent

You know what I’m looking forward to? A BBC Radio 4 program
Wednesday on puns, by Stephen Fry.

A caption contest. The caption provided by the White House is: “President George W. Bush makes Christmas Eve telephone calls to members of the Armed Forces at Camp David, Monday, Dec. 24, 2007.” In case the poor writing confuses you, the members of the armed forces are not at Camp David, George is.


It’s been a long time since I posted personals from the London Review of Books, because for some reason only a few have been appearing on the LRB website lately. So if anyone’s looking for a date for New Year’s...

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. 12/03

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 mis-placed appreciation for what you regarded at the time as a heightened and sophisticated sense of irony. Man, 40. Hates geese. And priests. And whistling. Box no. 12/05

This advert is about as close I come to meaningful interaction with other adults. Woman, 51. Not good at parties but tremendous breasts. Box no. 12/08

I have a mug that says ‘I’m the World’s Greatest Lover’. I think that’s my referees covered. How about you? Man. 37. Bishopsgate. Box no. 12/09

Belligerent from the word fuck. Sod off. Box no. 18/03

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 timer from beeping. box no. 01/01

Don’t listen to your inner voice in matters of the heart! Especially if your inner voice tells you to check his outgoing message box for evidence of a wife or ask why he always needs to be on the last train to Stafford instead of just staying the night. It’s a simple rule, but it’s a rule that will give us many happy – if somewhat tawdry –experiences together. Man, 38. Not in the slightest bit married. Remember that. box no. 01/05

I stole the contents of this ad from a highly successful banker (M, 53, annual income £500k + benefits) currently appearing on Match.com. 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. 01/06

To the guy with the wild grey hair and thin pony tail and bow-tie and white socks and chewed copy of Rimbaud and the lisp and excessive spittle and over-use of the word ‘platitudes’ and faint odour of taco meat who will no doubt reply to this advert much like he’s replied to every other advert I’ve ever placed in here: ‘eccentric’ is only a favourable adjective when it’s wrapped in an attractive package or earns over £200,000 a year and owns a holiday retreat in Tuscany. Other LRB-reading men should also note this. Replies from ‘normals’ or the stupidly rich only please to woman, 45, currently down to 37 seconds on her ‘tolerance of idiots’ metre. box no. 01/08

My last husband was a loser. If you’re not a loser please reply. Woman, 40. Incredibly simple criteria. box no. 01/09

[More of my LRB favorites here.]

I’m Harry

Tony Blair decided that Prince Harry will be sent to Iraq with his unit. The military decided not to decide, saying the decision was a political one. Obviously if it had been decided on military considerations, he wouldn’t have gone, since a lot of soldiers will spend all their time protecting him from kidnappers. Anyway, soldiers are now arriving in Iraq with t-shirts saying “I’m Harry” to show their solidarity, inspired by the movie “Spartacus.” Because Prince Harry is just like the leader of a defeated slave rebellion.

If Jenna ever joined up, would our soldiers have to wear “I’m Jenna” t-shirts?

And would they have to lift them to expose their chests in exchange for beads?

The London Sunday Times obit of Bobby Pickett says that the song “Monster Mash” was originally banned in Britain as “too morbid.”

An email from the McCain campaign provides more “fun facts about John McCain”:

In June 1999, on a campaign stop in rural New Hampshire, McCain played the fiddle for more than 3,000 residents...

John McCain boxed at Annapolis and is a lifetime boxing fan...

Something rather horrible has happened to the London Review of Books personals section: it has been taken over by genuine personal ads. Art historians and self-described fabulous Finnish blondes and Titian beauties looking for romance. That is just so wrong (although less pathetic, obviously, than the fun facts about John McCain). Here are a few from the good old days earlier this year, which I was saving up for a longer collection. (I can, however, recommend the hardback compliation “They Call Me Naughty Lola,” somewhat over-priced at $10.88 for 160 pages, but a lot of fun, and with informative footnotes).

It’s taken me all year to summon the courage to place this ad. M 34. Affectionate coward. Box no. 03/02

You, F. 40s, cannot accept a blind man in a dark room looking for a black cat which does not exist. Me, M. 40s, will be fond of your intolerance.

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. 03/05

They say silence is golden. Well meaning man, 34, WLTM patient girl who doesn’t handle congenital lack of male foresight with carat after carat of disquieting quiet. Box no. 06/06

Woman, 36, WLTM man to 40 who doesn’t try to high-five her after sex. You know who you are. Box no. 02/08

A metaphor alert is issued for the central Texas region

Bush’s three-hour-a-day consideration of how to come to closure on a New Way Forward (TM) in Iraq was interrupted by a tornado warning issued for the central Texas region. He drove with Laura and the dogs to the ranch’s tornado shelter, but did not go inside.

According to Iraqi PM Maliki, “Those who reject the execution of Saddam are undermining the dignity of Iraq’s martyrs.” Well we wouldn’t want that. In fact, “Our respect for human rights requires us to execute him.” So to sum up, nothing says dignity and respect for human rights like a good old fashioned hanging.

Speaking of dignity and respect for human rights, here are some fresh London Review of Books personal ads, in case you’re looking for a date for New Year’s.

Ball-breaking irrational F (52). Very probably just like your mother. Box no. 24/0

Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Amateur roadkill/wild mushroom chef living the Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall dream (F, 34) is fairly certain it will be a stray cat and another night of unwanted psychedelic flashes. Thanks for nothing River Cottage. Also the A405. Box no. 24/05

Just as chugging on a bottle of White Lightning 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. 01/02

When eventually calming down after a heated argument involving smashed plates, thrown cutlery, insults directed at your circus side-show of a family, and emotionally destructive sex, 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. 01/05

When I inevitably read this ad again in a ‘laugh-out loud’ follow-up volume of ‘hilarious’, ‘quirky’ and ‘endearing’ lonely hearts ads, it will be like opening a time-capsule of despair on the emptiest period of my pathetic existence. Unless you write now and agree to marry me. No pressure from ‘winning’, ‘charming’, ‘best loo-read’ F, 38. Box no. 24/06

That’s a reference to the book of collected LRB personals, my copy of which Amazon still hasn’t delivered.

Also, stop calling me Lou.

Provocation

My theory: Cheney was supposed to make a “surprise” Thanksgiving visit to Iraq, but cancelled when they started setting off car bombs every 15 minutes.

While the authorities in Britain are deciding how to perform an autopsy on Alexander Litvinenko without killing everyone in the room, Putin denounces the late Litvinenko’s statement blaming him for his murder, saying “It’s extremely regrettable that such a tragic event as death is being used for political provocation.” So maybe you shouldn’t have had him killed, huh Vlad?

Speaking of provocations, here are some more London Review of Books (LRB) personal ads:

Young, charming, thoughtful, attractive, sporty, zesty, intelligent. None of these are me, but if you’d like to spend an afternoon or more considering alternative adjectives to be applied to 53-year old cantankerous dipshit, write now to box no 2202

I wrote this ad to prove I’m not gay. Man, 29. Not gay. Absolutely not. Box no. 2205

They don’t call me naughty Lola. They call me Brian. Brian, 57. Box no. 23/07

Normally I wait until I have more than that, but I thought I’d mention, for those looking for Xmas presents, that there is now a book of LRB personals (which I just ordered, but haven’t seen), They Call Me Naughty Lola. (Mysteriously, that Amazon.com page thinks the book should be bought along with “Home Comforts: The Art and Science of Keeping House.”) Or for free there’s always my own compilation page, currently experiencing a small surge of Google popularity following an article Monday in the NYT on the LRB personals phenomenon.

Let me make one thing perfectly clear

GeeDubya spoke about North Korea in his weekly radio address, using his current favorite word “clear” three times in as many minutes: “The logic behind this approach is clear”, “we will send a clear message to the North Korean regime”, “Our goals remain clear”. For an easily confused man, clarity (some might say over-simplifying) is a virtue even in a completely impotent policy.

The US accidentally paid for 328 men in Swaziland to be circumcised. Yes, you could click here for more details, but honestly, isn’t “The US accidentally paid for 328 men in Swaziland to be circumcised” already a kind of perfect news story?

A presidential candidate in Catalonia, Albert Rivera, has appeared naked in a poster (and believe me, I tried hard to find a Homage to Catalonia pun, but failed). The caption (which is about overcoming the divisive Catalan politics of identity through the power of public nudity, or something): “We don’t care where you were born. We don’t care which language you speak. We don’t care what kind of clothes you wear. We care about you.”


Speaking of caring about you, it’s time for some more personal ads from the London Review of Books (LRB):

I suppose the end began with me paying for the meal and all the drinks. The brief relationship was practically over by the time he told me that he hadn’t brought cash with him and could I pay for the taxi? The formal departure, however, came with his attempt to push his debit card into my mouth and tap out his pin number on my forehead after I’d asked simply ‘do you think I’m an ATM?’ (You know who you are). LRB-reading men – either you have small change always about your person or it’s long walk home back from beautiful and, until last Friday week, reasonably tolerant of even the most stupid of men F (London, 43). Box no. 18/03

This advert originally contained a 300-word paragraph about cats but I edited it out. Woman, 36. Box no. 18/04

Stare at the back of your hand for 30 seconds. Now stare at this advert for 15 seconds while squinting your eyes. Now fully open your eyes and stare at the back of your hand for another 30 seconds. And again at your hand. Now stare at your mother. Back of your hand. Advert. Hand. Advert. Mother. Mother. Hand. Mother. Wall. Feet. Now wipe the tears away. Back at the hand. Advert. Hand. Mother. Man, 43. Hand. Advert. Mother. Hand. Hand. Hand. Box no. 18/07. Mother.

My winning streak in this column is about to come to an abrupt halt with the placing of this ad. Man. 38. Box no. 19/06

I composed this advert on the anniversary of the first performance of Das Rheingold for a very good reason. Man, 59. Box no. 19/08

I got it bad and that ain’t good. Amateur jazz singer (F, 54) seeks glockenspielist/gynocologist for nights of atonal ramblings through both my medicine cabinet and your prescription pad. No crazies. Box no. 20/05

Consult the spirits to measure our compatibility:
YES NO
ABCDEFGHIJKLM
NOPQRSTUVWXYZ
Goodbye Box no. 20/09

At first I was sceptical about writing this ad but slowly the idea won me over. Box no. 20/10

[More of my LRB favorites here.]

Caption contest:

For those of you not playing volleyball and reading Harry Potter...

I forgot to mention that in his op-ed piece, Rumsfeld made a big deal about Guantanamo having volleyball and basketball courts and that the inmates are all reading Harry Potter. Does anyone truly believe (as Rummy would say) that Gitmo prisoners are allowed to use the volleyball and basketball courts?

I’m sitting by the computer waiting to pounce on any juicy news this holiday weekend, but so far not a dicky bird. Also, the change to Beta Blogger seems to have cut my readership way down, possibly because there’s a new RSS feed and the old feed may or may not be working for everybody, and of course I have no way of contacting them to tell them that, and did I mention how annoyed I’m getting with Beta Blogger?

Or possibly my stats are low because my readers are all at the beach, playing volleyball and basketball and reading Harry Potter.

Anyway, while we’re waiting for someone to do something for me to mock, here are some London Review of Books (LRB) personal ads (for those of you looking for that special someone to play volleyball and basketball and read Harry Potter with). The complete collection of my favorites is here.

Estella, 42, seeks Pip. Low expectations. Box. No. 17/03

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. 16/08

6.10 am, January 19, 1977. Snow falls for the first time on West Palm Beach. The snow spreads to Fort Lauderdale by 8.30am, continuing south to Miami and Homestead. At Crandon Park Zoo, heat lamps are brought in to protect the iguanas. True story. Man (35) incapable of making any point whatsoever would like to meet woman to 40 for nights of awkward smiles and petering off mid-sentence. Box no. 16/05

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. 40. Tactile and cuddly in a mildly terrifying sort of way. Box no. 17/06

When the authorities eventually remove this covert recording device from my brain, they’ll be able to download not only the most profound musings on the universe ever conceived by man but also possibly the whereabouts of my car keys. Until then paranoid amateur tailor (M, 37, Warwickshire) remains unable to take these cross-stitch manuals back to the library. The chirps and whistles aren’t getting any quieter, and the fines aren’t getting any smaller, but this dog-fur suit is sewing up a storm at box no. 17/09 That’s not revulsion you’re feeling right now – it’s passion (or possibly it is revulsion).

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think this personal advert puts me firmly on the map. Box no. 17/10

Shepherd of Love seeks F to 45 free of scrapie, pinkeye and Caseous Lymphadenitis. Vet (M, 43). Little experience of human contact outside the farming communities of Pembs. Box no. 16/01

‘Good news! My favourite flavour of crisp is in production again!’ If this is a sentiment you have ever expressed or conceived in adulthood, you needn’t write. You know who you are. F, 32. Box no. 16/09

Aux barricades!

Headline of the day: “Thai Bride Admits Feeding Ex-Husband to the Tigers.”

In that Fox interview, Bush supported the House Republican move to link the first increase in the minimum wage in a decade to permanent repeal of the estate tax. You know, when a country’s ruling party is that cynical, when it holds the interests of the poorest workers hostage to the interests of the wealthiest non-workers, voting against them just isn’t good enough. This is the sort of callousness that sparks revolutions. We need heads on pikes, people. We need to build barricades, and I will personally donate raw material for the first one.

Why yes, it is from IKEA, how did you guess?

More London Review of Books personal ads:

Leave me alone with your father for an evening and by the end of the night we’ll have gotten drunk together and have nicknames for each other and be scheduling in a football game. Give me the weekend and we’ll be lovers. Man in denial, 35, determined to bring everyone you know out of the closet before crawling into it himself and nailing the door shut from the inside. Box no. 11/02

The Schrödinger’s cat of personal ads. Box no. 11/08

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. 14/03

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. 14/04. Man.

‘Scarface’, ‘Mad Dog’, ‘Pretty Boy’, ‘Baby Face’ – if I had an underworld crime nickname it would be ‘Screwed by Ex-Wife’s Solicitor and Currently Sleeping in a Caravan’. Man, 42. Screwed by ex-wife’s solicitor and currently sleeping in a caravan. Box no. 14/06

Week 3 – Day 2. Breakfast: small piece of fruit (for example an apple), two crispbreads with one tablespoon low-fat soft cheese and one sliced tomato. Lunch: one wholemeal pita bread with a quarter small pot reduced-fat hummus and crudités, one small banana. Dinner: 47 chocolate cakes, anguish, despair, bile, hatred, a small pot of low-fat fruit yoghurt. Post-divorce comfort eater and sex therapist (F, 38). Box no. 15/03

The Red Devils flew over this ad while I was writing it. Family fun day guy (divorced, 51); monster trucks, motorbike displays, St John’s Ambulance and a beer tent. That’s me, breaking my leg on the Marine Corps death slide of self-hatred and over-compensation at box no. 15/05. I’ll meet you by the face-painting stand.

My advert comes in the form of interpretive dance. Man, 62. Box no. 15/09

When the Antmen unite, all will be their slaves. Man, 46, WLTM woman to 50 for whom this opening line works as a prelude to sex. Box no. 15/10

My complete LRB personals here.

Russia, still a little unclear on the whole “rights” concept

Moscow’s mayor having already banned what was to be the city’s first gay pride march, the city has now also banned a planned gay conference and festival, the city’s chief of security saying that all public expression by gays must be outlawed because “they violate our rights.”

And really, what’s wrong with a dude gettin’ it on with another dude?


Military name of the day: the British chief of defense staff, Air Chief Marshal Sir Jock Stirrup.

To enliven a dull news day (and because I don’t feel like looking into why the East Timorese are killing each other), some more London Review of Books (LRB) personals. I understand there’s to be a book of these published sometime soon.

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. Box no. 10/05

Drooling, toothless sociopath (M, 57) seeks F any age to help make this abandoned petrol station kiosk feel more like home. Must bring shoes (size 10). Box no. 10/06

Justify my strop. 24/7 PMS-suffering woman seeks man to 35 prone to inadvertently saying the wrong thing (which is everything) at the wrong time (which is always). If you whistle, I will kill you. You have been warned. Chocolate (lots of it, please) to box no. 10.08

Although this is an advert that screams excitement, the man who placed it (historian, 54, enjoys air-fix modelling) is strangely subdued. Box no. 10/09

I intend to keep the precise contents of this personal ad secret. Box no. 10/10

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’. 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. 10/11

World of the Strange! LRB reader (F, then 36) places personal advert in 2001 for man to 40 who loves literature, the arts, and cycling in Italy. She receives no responses whatsoever but duly notes over the course of the next five years the number of male advertisers to 40 who enjoy literature, the arts and cycling in Italy (there were 13 of them). Is the reason they didn’t reply to her advert because they were blind to her outrageous beauty or because she lived in a house in which an old soldier had died upon returning from the Great War in 1918 and had subsequently cursed all future inhabitants, preventing them from ever being happy (this same curse also prevents inhabitants of the house from being able to make omelettes or perform basic house chores such as washing dishes and opening council tax bills)? F, now 41, believes it to be the latter and WLTM M to 45 with some knowledge of exorcism rituals, direct debits, and the best place for bulk paper plate purchases. Box no. 10/04

On 15 March, 1957, Commander J.R. Hunt of the United States Navy landed at Key West Florida in his non-rigid airship having travelled for 264 hours and 12 minutes without once refuelling. Coincidentally, that’s the same length of time I’ve spent without once making contact with a woman (apart from my mother, who doesn’t count, but who only ever asks me what I’d like for breakfast – it’s eggs, I like eggs for breakfast, poached, please, on two slices of granary bread). Is this a world record? Answers, please, to 37-year old male idiot. Box no. 08/03

Another picture from Bush’s visit to West Point, which I might as well make into a caption contest for the three of you actually looking at this blog this long weekend. What is he saying to Valedictorian Jessamyn Jade Liu? And no references to ping pong balls, please.

Sole responsibility

In a spate of recent articles on the predictably lethal effects of the collective punishment of the Palestinians by the US and other Western nations, including the ending of medical aid (The Times: “How 14-Month-old Leukaemia Victim Is Suffering for Hamas”), I have yet to hear a Western politician justify the tactic of punishing dialysis patients as a way of pressuring a government – or see any sign that any of them were even asked, by journalists or anyone else, to do so, although Condi said Tuesday that “The Hamas-run Palestinian Authority government bears sole responsibility for the hardships facing the Palestinian people”. Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike Condi? There is some talk now about finding ways to funnel money into Palestine through NGOs, the World Bank, whatever, but shouldn’t they have thought about that before cutting off the aid? I’m also hearing conflicting things about the extent to which Israel is blocking medical and other supplies entering Palestine, especially Gaza.

Something called the Catholic Secular Forum wants Christians in India to starve themselves to death to protest the movie of The Da Vinci Code. Everyone’s a critic.

Some more personals from the London Review of Books (LRB). As always, the complete collection of my favorites is available here.

Hubris made me pen this ad. You will answer, of course, but only ironically. Man, once great and 23, now alone and 51. Box no. 08/07

I’m no Victoria’s Secret model. Man, 62. Box no. 08/08

Man sought, with Mozart tendencies, his own wig and his own arch rival, by a gorgeous(ish) F (39, living in NW) Box No. 09/02 Box no.

If it wasn’t for this column I’d be the loneliest man alive. Box no. 07/06

(You can tell how lonely he is because he’s blatantly trolling for letters from LRB readers telling him it should be “weren’t” rather than “wasn’t.”)

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. 07/07

I’d like to dedicate this advert to my mother (difficult cow, 65) who is responsible for me still being single at 36. Man. 36. Single. Held at home by years of subtle emotional abuse and at least 19 fake heart-attacks. Box no. 09/08

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. 09/12

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. 09/10

Have you checked all your pockets?

Bush said today, “I know we’re going to succeed [in Iraq] if we don’t lose our will.”

As Swopa of Needlenose points out in comments on my last post, Bolivian President Morales punked, as the kids say, Condi, presenting her with a charango (Andean stringed instrument) with coca-leaf inlay.


Needlenose has a caption contest. Wonder what Morales was on when he came up with the idea of pulling a practical joke on a woman with no sense of humor. Probably the same substance that inspired land-locked Bolivia to establish a navy.

A NYT editorial Wednesday had a rather good headline. About the innocent people incarcerated in Guantanamo, it was called “They Came for the Chicken Farmer.”

Vicious turd Slobodan Milosevic has died. Unlike, say, Hitler, it was never clear that Milosevic actually believed in the racist aggressive nationalism he utilized after the Communist Party of Yugoslavia ceased to provide a viable career path. Is that better or worse?

Some more personals from the London Review of Books (LRB). As always, the complete collection of my favorites is available here.

The uncomfortable mantle of guilt, the heavy cloak of ignominy, the coarse socks of denial, the iridescent trousers of doubt, the belligerent underpants of self-loathing. All worn by the haberdasher of shame (M, 34, Pembs.). Seeks woman in possession of the Easy-Up iron-on hem of redemption and some knowledge of workaday delicates. No loons. Box no. 05.06

146 is not only my IQ but also my waist size in centimetres. Lecturer in advanced maths and Mensa bore, 51. Bit of a porker but willing to low-carb for at least a fortnight for the right woman (pastry chef and trigonometry fetishist to 50). Box no. 05/09

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. 05/12

The actual advertiser above that one:

In the circus of life, I’m its very willing clown. You probably serve donuts in a kiosk outside. We could never have any life together, but sometimes a clown just needs donuts. Possibly coffee. Clown (M, 51), seeks F donut seller for donuts, possibly coffee. Box no. 05/11

This column is a ziggurat of heartache and I am its High Priest. Pork Belly-Eating Champion, Stroud, 1981 (M, 47). Box no. 04/06

Male otolarynologist (39) seeks woman with normal-shaped head. Box no. 04/07

To some, I am a world of temptation. To others, I’m just another cross-dressing pharmacist. M, 41. Box no. 04/08

What is your favourite preserved body part? Mine is the diseased bladder of Italian biologist, Lazzaro Spallanzani (currently on display in the Scarpa Room in the University of Pavia). This, and many more conversation killers available from librarian and failed travel agent F, 32, Northampton. Box no. 04/10

I’ve been using Vicks Vaporub for two years solid. What do you think about that? M, 58. Box no. 04/11

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. 04/12

Getting personal

For Vday, a selection of personals from the London Review of Books. For all my favorite LRB personals, click here.

Librarian-looking punk, 34, seeks punkette-looking librarian.

Every year, without fail, the LRB produces the biggest turkey. This year it’s me – monocled, plaid-festooned gadabout, out of place in any relationship, or century, that fails to recognise the comfort of a secure knickerbocker. Please help me. Man, possibly your embarrassing uncle, 51. Box no. 24/10

It takes me just seven minutes and thirty-one seconds to dress for dinner. Woman, 34. Don’t even pretend not to be impressed. Box no. 01/04

Technically, by writing this ad, I’m breaking the terms of my probation. Technically, though, I’m not really a woman either. Two wrongs always make a right in the mixed-up, muddled-up, security-tagged and banned from most Croydon shopping centres world of box no. 01/09.

I once came within an ace of making my own toothpaste. M, 36, seeks woman with knowledge of fluoride compounds/tantric love-making. Box no. 02/18

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. 03/06

The only thing that makes me happy is weeping in front of the television whilst wearing mother’s clothes. That, and jazzercise. M, 42. There’s always time for guilt, Newsnight, and a good abs workout in the tortured juvenile psyche of box no. 03/07

I have the largest collection of bus tickets in Sunderland. Beat that. Man, 41. Box no. 03/11