Though another page has torn off the calendar and the autumn leaves are falling, love is still in bloom, and, as usual, the personal ads at the London Review of Books are fecund with possibilities for casual or meaningful fecunding and the pursuit of happiness or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Contact info has been deleted to protect the delightfully guilty:
My attempts to find a suitable lover in this column would have been far more successful but for the bureaucratic pettifoggery of the LRB advertising department, the dilatory shenanigans of the British postal service, and the rambunctiousness of my gall bladder. Foppish dandy and laparoscopy enthusiast (M, 56) WLTM matronly fems to 60 with own stamps and collection of surgical dressings. Leighton Buzzard.
If you can, and do, talk for hours and hours about your love of elderflower kombucha, refuse to eat anything containing wheat, endlessly refer to your travels to India at dinner parties, correct other people’s pronunciation at every opportunity and insist on naming your children (all four of them, born in rapid succession) after members of the Bloomsbury Set, are 46, cold and sexually hostile, you’re either my PhD supervisor or my ex-wife. Good day to you both. The rest of you can try saying something nice to: [info deleted].
M, 36, would like to see more reviews in this magazine centered around the ‘gay cowboy’ genre.
Compliant and trusting man, 43, WLTM F to 45 who doesn’t insist on using the chemical names for obscure proteins as the safety word. Stoke-on-Trent.
A graveyard in the dead of night. A spade. A curse. Then we turn the sods. Just a sneak peak into some of my dating habits, but we could start with dinner and a movie (something from the Dario Argento canon perhaps?) Ghoulish M, 57.
As a frequent attendee at LRB Bookshop events, I spend most of my time wrestling with my own internal monologue jokes and summoning up the courage to articulate these before an audience. Naturally, by the time my anxieties have subsided, the shop has emptied and I’m once again alone. My sexual experiences mirror this. Let’s hang out! M, 43.
Sulky M, 68, seeks acquiescent wife or punctual urologist. Preferably one in the same. No perverts/slackers.
Literary lads of the LRB! Know a girl who keeps in touch with all of her ex’s? Says she gets along with men better than women? Laughs about keeping up with their drinking? Recommends white beer with salmon rather than pinot noir? Well forget about her, she’s a manipulative, cackling lush who’s hated by female colleagues and the morose clutch of resigned eunuchs orbiting her Hoegaarden. Instead, date me. Post ironic, post feminist who enjoys informed conversation, gender theory and ranking the ladette phenomenon alongside the Britisches Freikorps in retrospectives of the 20th century.
Ever been the only person in the room to take a fancy dress invite seriously? Answer me this: was it worse than attending the IAEA Christmas Party as Dr Manhattan? Failed Dr Manhattan impresario. M. 64.
This zombie-in-contrary-context, trend will halt. After which my Cavaliers-in-Space vehicle will literally, literally take off.
Like every pícaro, I’ve suffered the degradations of an apparently infinite exile with resilience, but sometimes I wonder if this bathroom will ever be fully tiled. Rugged bachelor with roughish charm (think Rico Dredd on a penal colony made from grout) seeks literary fangirl to 34.
In 2004 I was a love machine…now I’m just an affectionate blender. Whirrr.
LRB geeks! Stop attempting the reappraisal of your literary hero’s sporting achievement. They were all shit at sport, just like you were. You might as well speculate on the blank verse of Chung Li or the prolific correspondence of Goru, four armed demi-God of the Netherrealm. Reconciled reader of Hemingway raised on the New Journalism and Megadrive, seeks brainy but useless former Goal Attack gal who wanted to be Cammy (I’m more of a Blanka myself though).
In the dive bar of the forsaken, I am a workhorse whiskey and every woman I’ve ever fallen in love with has been a surprise Britvic mini. After 8 years of being downed with cheap lager we were briefly united, but alas, you’d settled. It brings tear to my eye and puts a lump in my throat. Also 3 shots of tequila, a slice of lemon, half a cruet set and a long bitter tirade involving endless misquoting of the Whitsun Weddings addressed to a skipping juke box over which I stand sentinel. Two third empty, half cut literary barfly (M. 72) seeks a better bottling up rota from Love’s bartenders. No gingers or bitter lemons.
Possession is nine tenths of the law. Unless it’s possession of an A class drug, in which case it’s up to seven years, or an unlimited fine, or both. I’ll be out in 18 months though, probably, until then why not write to M.31 better at optimism than he is at transporting the Persians.
Dear Academic Commissioning Editor. There is no greater exposition of Guy Debord’s commodity cycle than the advertising campaign for Magner’s Irish Cider. Please publish my thesis. Or make love to me; former Whitbread employee and part time Birkbeck PhD. M. 37.
Man, anno MCMLXVI. Former Tito-jugend. Technical craftsman with short att.span. Tall, non ambitious. Affection for languages, astrology. Sátántangó, grappa. Is hunting. The one and only F 40-55. Pale, wide-eyed. Sensitive, extremely intelligent. To take her. For semi-nomadic life around EU. For intense long-term exchange of mind, heart and body fluids.
Shakespeare's sister, 36, seeks a charming man with passions just like mine for potential hand in glove relationship.
THE BEST IS YET TO BE! Delightful Devonshire Lady of substance and charm. Refreshingly curious mind, adventurous spirit, gentle outlook, with a real passion for life. Attractive, very youthful and active. Adores travel, bridge, film, music from Jazz to opera, eating out and cooking. Seeks an equally affluent, well presented, refined educated male between 75-85, fit, active,N/s, perhaps retired military officer, to join her on a journey of love and laughter. Devon/Dorset/Somerset/Wiltshire/Cornwall/Gloucester replies please. Initially, please contact: [deleted]. NO fee is required to meet this lovely lady.
Whoa! How did this last person find her way into the LRB personals carnival of yearning, carnal or otherwise? An accident? On purpose? LRB has high standards for personals; this one is so… New York Magazine!
Of Related Interest:
London Review of Books Personal Ads, Redux.
Miss Lonelybooks, Revisted.
"Have Books Destroyed Your Life, Too?"