“Sexually, I’m More of a Switzerland”

by David Rose

  I’d like to dedicate this advert to Phil Fondacaro.134 Box no. 4222.

  When Diana Rigg was in The Avengers I liked it.135 But when Diana Rigg wasn’t in The Avengers I didn’t like it. I like Diana Rigg. Are you Diana Rigg? Please write. Box no. 4377.

  I am the only valid reason to visit St Albans. Ambidextrous psychiatrist and amateur fire-eater (F, 37).136 Box no. 5483.

  Nepenthes rajah.137 It’s an insectivorous pitcher plant species with an urn-shaped trap so large it has been observed digesting rats and other mammalian species. I find it a continual source of inspiration and the single most impressive organism on the planet. Woman, 34, WLTM man to 40. Kent. Box no. 5993.

  “A time capsule of despair”

  Man, 41. Will you marry me? Anybody? Box no. 8976.

  They say the pram in the hallway is the enemy of art. Not true. Astaroth, Threshold Guardian of the Infernal Plane138 is the enemy of art. Join me in my battle to rid this world of his Satanic intent by sending care-home vouchers to his long-suffering daughter and one-time sculpturing genius, 37, box no. 9361.

  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, 38.139 Box no. 8563.

  Herring-bone Artex.140 It could be yours. But you’d also have to take gorgeous, nubile, 30-year old Eng Lit postgrad. Also woodchip wallpaper from 1972 and a grandmother who refuses to go into care. Box no. 9730.

  LRB readers! You are all invited to my wedding. One lucky guest will also be picked to be my groom. Dress is smart/casual and hymn sheets will be provided by desperate, clutching F (41 and not getting any younger, or thinner, or more fertile) at box no. 2457.

  Short-changed by the pie-vendor of love. Hamstrung on the pitch of reason. Man, 34, stuck in the lower divisions of passion, where the players are always part-time, and the action (blundered, chaotic and often resulting in injury) is only every second Sunday. Urgently needs woman with good shin-pads, half-time oranges and experience of serial playoff disappointment. Must be embittered by years of following Dagenham & Redbridge.141 No seats on my terrace at box no. 1012.

  Agerum, Alvine, Lång, Delikat, Drälla, Fågelbo, Igge, Ordning, Utgård. Gentleman to 50 familiar with the simple poetry of Ikea, and no stranger to flat-pack assembly, urgently sought by woman currently living in a tee-pee in her own living room. Putting together my Noresund is no guarantee of sex but it does put you a long way up the waiting list. Box no. 9073.

  Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Malteser! Be the sweetie worth ploughing my way through love’s harshest Revel’s bag for.142 Man, 36. Box no. 8361.

  Wanted: rich, deaf and blind woman to take my irascible old fart of a father off my hands. Must like the Telegraph.143 Box no. 9470.

  Beard. Have one? Want one? Box no. 1315.

  This column is not a great place for meeting like-minded people. It is the Third Bolgia of the Eighth Circle of Hell for lonely literary types. Woman, 46, finally ready to stare defeat in the face after three ads and 41 responses from goblin perverts.144 Box no. 2220.

  Your Christmas bookings now taken! Pathetic man, 37. Box no. 9641.

  myspace.com/ mantellinghimselfheisnotyetoverthehill whenreallyheis or box no. 8743.

  Stare at the back of your hand for 30 seconds. Now stare at this advert for 15 seconds whilst squinting your eyes. Now fully open your eyes and stare at the back of your hand for another 30 seconds. Advert. 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. 8936. Mother.

  Word to yo moms—I came to drop bombs. I got more rhymes than the bible’s got psalms.145 Classics lecturer (M, 62). To some I’m possibly the single most embarrassing person at any social gathering. To others I’m fly-er than the zipper on yo pants. 4reals. Laters. Or something. Please make love to me. Box no. 9749.

  1996 was the best year of my life. 2003 wasn’t too bad either. If you can figure out a pattern I’ll marry you. Dentist and evening Lars Ulrich146 fantasist. 54. Male. Box no. 9709.

  I met all my previous lovers at Costco (I only needed one, but came away with thirty). That changes right here, right now, with a call to all men to 45 allergic to generic vodka brands and bulk purchase pastries. It’s cash only, and you must show your membership card upon entry (parking strictly limited to two hours, one trolley per customer during peak hours). Box no. 1553.

  “Hubris made me pen this ad”

  If partaking of the grape too eagerly after a messy break-up has taught me anything, it’s that answer-phone messages 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. 0784.

  My winning streak in this column is about to come to an abrupt halt with the placing of this ad. Man. 38. Box no. 3499.

  Ordinarily I shun all things pertaining to the nefarious world of dating—personal ads, matchmaking agencies, over-zealous friends who ‘know someone perfect’. But right now I’m unemployed, alcoholic, medicated and haven’t had my bones jumped for a year. Hit me up. Woman, 37. Box no. 7799.

  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. 0420.

  Serial personal advertiser (Man, 33)—ninth time lucky? Probably not. Here’s to another £14.80. Box no. 5029.

  Less Chicken Soup for the Soul,147 more Lobster Bisque for the Glutes—rejected self-help manual author and fitness instructor (M, 38) seeks in-shape F to 40 for evenings constructing publishable titbits on overcoming depression, enhancing the strength of a weakened pelvic floor,148 and questionable shell-fish aphrodisia. Must enjoy light bondage. Box no. 8721.

  IT savant (M, 37) unexceptional in most things but blessed with uncanny ability to remember every wrong ever done to him and to bring them all up on the very rare occasions he’s invited to the pub after work. WLTM woman to 40 who preferably doesn’t speak English, is very bad at interpreting facial gestures and to whom a clenched fist snapping pens in half doesn’t mean a promotion at work has once again passed me by and gone to the least qualified member of staff but is a sign of glorious victory in the power struggle against my tyrannous employers and their idiot ways. Viva La Revolución! Then pass me my beta-blockers at Box no. 0889.

  When life gives you lemons, don’t make lemonade—instead squeeze it into the face of your cheating arse of a husband then cut the legs off every pair of trousers he owns. Sensitive F, 45. Ready to move on and begin her life a-fresh with man willing to provide time-sheets and supporting documentary evidence for every minute of his time out of the house. Box no. 9078.

  This personal ad is the product of an entire evening spent eating acid.149 Man, 63. Box no. 1211.

  Safety first. Dignity second. Trousers last. Rubbish wokcooked foods enthusiast and flammable materials-wearing loon (M) WLTM F to 45 with fire-blanket and no small amount of knowledge regarding the correct batter-frying procedures of tempura.150 Bicester. Box no. 3299.

  My life is an endless hell of Little Britain quotes, rugby shirts worn with the collars turned up in a non-ironic way, England flags attached to every car window, holidays to Whitby, two-minute sex, golf anecdotes, boxed wine, bumping into ‘Bob from the office’ in the frozen food aisle at Safeway as he fill
s his trolley with bulk purchases of Findus Crispy Pancakes, self-assembly bookcases staying in their cardboard boxes in the corner of the kitchen for six months, disposable tongue scrapers, did I say two-minute sex, the ‘art house film’ he had in mind being The Da Vinci Code, discount CDs called ‘Dance Anthems Vol. 13’ bought from gas stations, punctuated only by self-loathing and impotent dreams of revenge that I wish I had the energy to manifest into reality. Woman, 34, seeks man/divorce lawyer/assassin to explore possibilities, payment plans, poetry.151 Box no. 1198.

  Fear. Alienation. Irrational hatred. Compulsive teeth-brushing. If only I’d read the reverse of my ex-wife’s business card before jumping into bed with her and signing away a decade of happiness and my house in Surrey. You can write if you like, but I’m going to have to ask for the phone numbers of at least two past employers and five previous lovers. Box no. 8908.

  ‘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’.152 Man, 42. Screwed by ex-wife’s solicitor and currently sleeping in a caravan. Box no. 5543.

  The complete list of my sexual conquests: 1994–95—Anna; 1996—Julia, Alison; 1997—Italian girl at Karl’s party, Claire (Clare?), Jessica (fingered); 1998—Anna again (big mistake), receptionist at my second temp job (possibly called Helena), Becky (I was in love but she went back to her boyfriend); 1999—Jeremy’s girlfriend; 2000–01—Karolina (deported); 2002—woman at nightclub, woman at nightclub, woman at nightclub, woman at Stewart’s barbecue, Stewart (accidental coming together of groins, the three of us were naked and very, very drunk), woman at nightclub; 2003–06—Evil Satanic Bitch Whore; 2007—the internet. LRB-reading women to 35—don’t pretend your relationships have been any less incongruous and unsatisfying. Write to probably the most normal guy you’ll ever see in a lonely heart advert and maybe we’ll end up friends or lovers or despising each other and wincing every time we remember our awful one-night stand or maybe we’ll get married or have children. Writing’s a good start though. Man, 31. Box no. 3243.

  If it wasn’t for this column I’d be the loneliest man alive. Box no. 4335.

  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. 9977.

  Get out. And don’t come back. If these are the words that greet you upon waking every morning, why not join me—man, 51, completely incapable of realising when he’s outstayed his welcome. Clinging on like shit to a shovel at box no. 8017.

  ‘Your feelings towards your partner may change for the worse on Wednesday when they act in what you perceive to be an inappropriate way in the cold meats section of Waitrose153 by ordering a sliced Italian ham that you specifically didn’t want for a small evening meal you’re thinking of preparing for some mutual friends. Console yourself by leaving him immediately, burning all his underwear and writing to his parents to tell them he’s secretly gay’. My (now ex) girlfriend’s astrological reading for March 22 this year was uncannily accurate. Man, 34, WLTM woman who isn’t a Virgo Rooster.154 Box no. 6678.

  This ad has appeared before. Last time, though, it was funnier. And better looking. And didn’t have to worry about CSA155 payments. Box no. 4322.

  Just once I’d like to date a woman whose home isn’t on Bitch Island, accessible only by the Train of the Damned156 into which is continuously piped the blood-curdling screams of her multitudinous previous victims. If you don’t think that’s too much to ask—and don’t have a long-running tab at your local pharmacist—then write to stupid man, 43. Box no. 6544.

  The last time I wrote a lonely heart advert my dog ate it and subsequently choked to death. I’m hoping for better results with this one. Woman. 38. Box no. 5435.

  My resolution for 2007 was to finish my PhD, go running every day, reduce my intake of toxins, give up smoking, travel across India and the Far East, fix the hinge on the refrigerator door and make peace with my estranged father. I achieved only one of these. This year my resolution is to remember to put my trousers on every day. Man, 43. The fridge opens like a dream at box no. 5427.

  ‘Du bist eine Maultasche’. Not, it transpires, the correct greeting when welcoming an ‘art’ publisher. Gullible publicity exec (F, 28) and the butt of all the jokes with the Frankfurt ‘in-crowd’ seeks avuncular M to 40 with penchant for hitting enemies with sticks.157 Box no. 5400.

  The Red Devils flew over this ad while I was writing it.158 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. 8769. I’ll meet you by the face-painting stand.

  MISTEAK! Spt the deliberit errers in this ad and ern £££’s working from home or as an editer on wan of are countrys leeding jurnels. Or else let’s meet for coffee and whine about the state of modern publishing for a good three hours whilst slowly getting drunk before going back to your place (my flatmate is 72 and makes pig noises in his sleep) and having clumsy, immediately regrettable sex. Man, 35. Still bitter over poor career decisions made a decade ago. Hoxton. Box no. 8900.

  Mid-twenties, divorced, ex-secondary school teacher. Likes the lights out, the curtains closed, Simon and Garfunkel singing ‘Scarborough Fair’,159 and quiet reminiscences about mother’s herb garden. Would like to hear from sympathetic Christians with recipes using rock salt and dill. Box no. 7989.

  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 A405.160 Box no. 8979.

  Prevent your new-cut sweeping fringe from parting in the centre by blow-drying in the opposite direction to the way you want it to go using a flat brush. The natural parting will be gone, as will your boyfriend who perversely resents your hairstyling tips, but it will keep the hair laying flat with a nice sweep. Man, 46. Camp as custard. Box no. 0770.

  This town isn’t big enough for the both of us. Failed urban planner. M, 48. Didsbury.161 Box no. 9876.

  “You know who you are”

  All too often the companion adjective to those used by men in this column (‘intelligent’, ‘witty’, ‘creative’, ‘funny’, etc.) is ‘psychopath’.162 Being remembered as the blind date who stabbed himself in the back of the hand if I carried out my threat to leave the restaurant unless the crying stopped is not a good thing. You know who you are. Woman. 40. No nutters. Box no. 6343.

  This isn’t a lonely heart column. It is an occult ritual that opens a gateway to hell itself. Such is my conclusion after my only previous respondent turned out to be the Devil’s Hell Bitch with a sulphurous heart and talons for fingers. You know who you are. Subscribe not to the temptations held within. Although if you’re not the Devil’s Hell Bitch and enjoy classical music, contemporary art and theatre, why not write to finance consultant, M, 46. Whitstable. Box no. 3400.

  ‘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. 9091.

  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 ‘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 a long walk h
ome back from beautiful and, until last Friday week, reasonably indifferent towards even the most stupid of men F (London, 43). Box no. 5431.

  Is there a charming man out there—warm, spontaneous, knowing? If so, could you reply to all the men currently appearing in this column and give them a few pointers? Attractive, educated woman, 46, fed up of having to fake emergency phone calls to avoid pre-dessert ramblings about your sister’s new conservatory and how much respect you have for Enya.163 You know who you are. Box no. 9980.

  Placing this advert does not mean I have suddenly become a pervert shepherd. You know who you are. Photos of you clothed and without your collection of porcelain Napoleonic soldiers, please, or not at all to impatient woman, 34, sitting firmly atop of a hillock of normalcy. Box no. 4444.

  Don’t refer to your biceps as ‘guns’ and you may stand a chance of me not wanting to kill you at the next LRB singles night. You know who you are. F, 37. Always remembers a face and any subsequent associations of despair. Box no. 8791.