They Call Me Naughty Lola

by David Rose

  Sinister-looking man with a face that only a mother would love: think of an ageing Portillo with a beard and you have my better-looking twin. Sweetie at heart, though. Nice conversation, great for dimly-lit romantic meals. Better in those Welsh villages where the electricity supply can’t be guaranteed. Charitable women to 50 appreciated. Box no. 0364.

  Bald, short, fat and ugly male, 53, seeks shortsighted woman with tremendous sexual appetite. Box no. 9612.

  You think I like dressing this way? Lanolin-sensitive Cumbrian chick: outside all calico, inside pure wool. WLTM man to 40 who knows when to turn the lights down and the heat up. First-aid skills a bonus. Box no. 3280.

  I’m just a girl who can’t say ‘no’ (or ‘anaesthetist’). Lisping Rodgers and Hammerstein fan, female lecturer in politics (37) WLTM man to 40 for thome enthanted eveningth. Box no. 2498.

  My other car is a bike. Eco-friendly bio-diverse M (29). Smells a bit like soil and eats too much soup, but otherwise friendly (you’re not seriously going to put that burger in your mouth, are you?). Box no. 8563.

  Love is strange–wait ’til you see my feet. F, 34, wide-fitting Scholl’s. 3 Box no. 5973.

  You’re a brunette, 6’, long legs, 25–30, intelligent, articulate and drop-dead gorgeous. I, on the other hand, am 4′10″, have the looks of Hervé Villechaize and carry an odour of wheat.4 No returns and no refunds at box no. 3321.

  This personal column has been poorer without me, so here I am again–hairy-backed Wiltshire troll with definite Stig of the Dump influences (M, 56, jam-jar windows, a fridge made of bike parts, and a sensitive grunt during only the most intimate moments), still searching for that special lady with no sense of touch or smell, and a capacity for overwhelming compromise in certain lifestyle choices. Box no. 3732.

  Tonight, femaleLRBreaders to 90, I am the hunter and you are my quarry. 117-year-old male Norfolk Viagra bootlegger finally in the mood for a bit of young totty. Which realistically could be any one of you with working hip joints and a minimum 20% lung capacity. Hopeful right through the Complan and Horlicks main course at box no. 3112.

  You were reading the BBC in-house magazine on the Jubilee Line (12 November), I was coughing hot tea through my nostrils. Surely you can’t have forgotten? Write now to smitten, weak-kneed, severely burned, bumbling F (32, but normally I look younger). I’ll be quite a catch when my top lip has healed. And this brace isn’t for ever. Box no. 7432.

  If we share a bath together I have to insist on wearing verruca socks. Woman, 36, still reeling from a school swimming incident in 1975 (six months of padded plasters isn’t easy to get over). Box no. 3186.

  I’ll see you at theLRBsingles night. I’ll be the one breathing heavily and stroking my thighs by the ‘art’ books. Asthmatic, varicosed F (93) seeks M to 30 with enough puff in him to push me uphill to the post office. This is not a euphemism. Box no. 4632.

  Mature gentleman (62), aged well, noble grey looks, fit and active, sound mind and unfazed by the fickle demands of modern society seeks…damn it, I have to pee again. Box no. 4143.

  These ads try too hard to be funny. Not me, I’m a natural. Juggling, monkey-faced idiot (M, 36). Box no. 5312.

  Toilet duties. That’s where you come in–buxom, 22-year-old, blonde stereotype not shy of adjusting the surgical stockings of 73-year-old misanthrope with poor bladder control. Failing that, just send care-home brochures to box no. 0278.

  Join me for sit-ups in Dairy-Free week! M, 42, big-boned. Box no. 6421.

  Hoxton salad-dodger (42–my age and my waist; M–my sex not my coat size, that’s strictly XL) WLTM LRB chubster with an interest in red meat and mustardy dressings. Free first Tuesday of every month, Slimmer’s World every Wednesday. Box no. 1275.

  My animal passions would satisfy any woman, if only it weren’t for the filibustering of this damned colon. And the chafing of these infernal hospital sheets. Write now to M, 83, for ward visiting hours and a list of approved solids. Box no. 2377.

  I am the literary event of 2007, or at the very least the most entertaining drunk on my ward. Please visit (Mon–Thurs, 5–7 p.m., bring chocolate, and gin). F, 41. Box no. 4365.

  I wonder if Clive James5reads these. And if he does, would he find me attractive enough to write to? Hope not, I’m after an early-twenties stud-muffin capable of obscene bedroom gymnastics. Woman, 74, living in perpetual hope (and a care home in Pendle), WLTM nearest thing in an Easy-Up-Chair-equipped bungalow. Box no. 4321.

  Every Christmas, without fail, theLRBproduces 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. 0563.

  If dreams were eagles, I would fly, but they ain’t, and that’s the reason why. Spend New Year singing into your hairbrush with the Goombay Dance Band and me, bitter publishing marketing exec. (F, 33), too drunk at the office party to keep all my slobber behind my teeth. Golden star that leads to paradise. Like a river’s running to the ocean I’ll come back to you four thousand miles.6 Box no. 6308.

  Most vegetarians complain about missing the taste of bacon. Not me, I complain about my liver disease. And rural postal services. Man, 40. Box no. 3143.

  Either I’m desperately unattractive, or you are all lesbians. Bald, pasty man (61) with nervous tick and unclassifiable skin complaint believes it to be the latter but holds out hope for dominant (yet straight) fems at box no. 1075.

  You’ll regret replying to this ad–its owner smells of peas. But if you too live in a care home where the quality of the shower water is poor and access to the bath hoist is determined by an inadequate monthly rotation schedule, then write to flaky 72-year-old man with no recollection of where any of these stains have come from, box no. 4220.

  1 A normal average sperm count is 20 million.

  2 Sherbet Dib-Dab: square lollipop in a small packet of sherbet, usually licked and dipped. Parma Violet: traditional perfumed violet candy.

  3 Scholl: shoe-manufacturer specialising in comfort footwear. Formed in 1904 by Dr William Matthias Scholl. In 1912 Scholl founded the Illinois College of Chiropody and Orthopaedics.

  4 Hervé Jean-Pierre Villechaize. Born 23 April 1943 in Paris, France. Diagnosed with an acute thyroid condition at the age of three, he reached a full-grown height of just under four feet tall. Studied painting and photography at the Beaux-Arts museum in Paris. At the age of eighteen he became the youngest artist ever to have his work displayed in the prestigious Museum of Paris. Moved to New York at the age of twenty-one and became an actor with roles that included Beppo in The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight (1971) and Nick Nack in the 1974 James Bond film The Man with the Golden Gun. Failing to capitalise on these roles, Villechaize eventually found fame playing the role of Tattoo opposite Ricardo Montalban in ABC’s TV show Fantasy Island, where his catchphrase ‘de plane, de plane’ entered the lexicon of American popular culture. Married Donna Camille in 1980; the couple divorced in December 1981. Villechaize was dropped from Fantasy Island in 1983 after demanding more money and fell into severe financial difficulties. By 1990 his health had deteriorated and he suffered frequent bouts of depression. In 1993 he found work in an American Dunkin’ Donuts commercial in which he asked for ‘de plain, de plain’ doughnut. After attending a screening for The Fugitive at the Directors Guild Theater in Hollywood with his partner, Katherine Self, Villechaize was found on 4 September 1993 with a self-inflicted gunshot wound in his chest. He was pronounced dead at 3.40 p.m. by doctors at the Medical Center of North Hollywood.

  5 Writer, poet, essayist and critic. Born 1939.

  6 From ‘Seven Tears’, single released by the Goombay Dance Band, which reached number one in the UK in March 1982.

  “I’ve divorced

  better men than

  you”

  Get out of my space. And quit touching. Otherwise friendly F, 42 (publicity director), wants to get to know you.
Box no. 4213 (please include full CV, medical records, five recent bank statements, photo and proof of signature).

  Tired of feeling patronised by the ads in this column? Then I’m not the woman for you, little man. Today you may be benighted and insignificant, tomorrow you will be more so. Now off you go. Box no. 2912.

  Blah, blah, whatever. Indifferent woman. Go ahead and write. Box no. 3253. Like I care.

  Disreputable, mean, ruthless, perverse, hateful wretch. But what do divorce lawyers know? Woman, forties, marketing director for major international publishing firm, London/SE, you’ll soon find that I’m the finest fellow breathing. Just take time out to get to know me. Box no. 5313.

  Don’t send me any poems. Woman, 34. Fed up of getting poems. Box no. 4253.

  Beneath this hostile museum curator’s exterior lies a hostile museum curator’s interior. We meet at the coat check and never–and I mean never–deviate from the mapped route. Zone one: Ancient Egypt. Zone two: The Treasures of Greece. Zone three: guided tours only, keep your hands where I can see them. F, 38. Box no. 3452.

  You should know that by placing this advert I’ve lowered my expectations considerably. Now even you’re in with a chance. Don’t blow it by mentioning your mother and your predilection for bluestocking NAAFI-types.1 Woman, 46, accustomed to disappointment, but not that much. Box no. 2541.

  Your age is immaterial, your looks irrelevant. Your bank balance, on the other hand–let’s not joke about with that. Grabbing F (28). Box no. 3652.

  I know you like me–you’re just too self-conscious to do anything about it. I blame your overbearing mother. And your lazy eye. It was me you were flirting with, wasn’t it? Loving, considerate F (34). Box no. 5324.

  From now on I’m only going to reply to my own ads. That’s because I’m funnier and better-looking than any of you. Publicist F, 29. Box no. 5132.

  I’ve divorced better men than you. And worn more expensive shoes than these. So don’t think placing this ad is the biggest come-down I’ve ever had to make. Sensitive F, 34. Box no. 6322.

  5 September is the anniversary of my divorce. So too are 17 November, 12 January, 8 March and 21 June. Summer is usually much quieter–take advantage of the sunshine and lawyers’ vacation periods by dating impatient, money-grabbing PR senior (F, 39). Box no. 2582.

  I butchered three volumes of Seamus Heaney2 to produce this ad. Publicity exec. (F, 31). Box no. 2561.

  Meet the new me. Like the old me only less nice after three ads without any sexual intercourse. 42-year-old fruitcake (F). Box no. 2611.

  If you really wanted to get to know me, you’d fly me to Riobamba.3 Tickets and flight itinerary, please, to advantage-taking woman, 41, Staffs. Box no. 2612.

  I’m a Pisces–which makes you and me a bad match, but how about your good-looking friend? Noncommittal, easily-distracted, fly-by-night F (35). Sorry, I think I just heard my phone ring. Box no. 2541.

  Jarns, nittles, grawlix and quimp!4 This column gets more profane with every issue. Strait-laced, bluestocking F seeks to establish higher standard with well-heeled gentleman to 60 with some degree of euphemistic dexterity when the moment demands it, and a liberal application of silence when it doesn’t. We sleep in separate rooms and never share a towel at box no. 5321.

  Arty, well-read, gorgeous, blonde woman (29), currently working in publishing, WLTM intelligent, sensitive man to 35. Thumb this ad with nervous excitement any more than you already are and you’ll end up with a yeast infection. Box no. 6212.

  Male readers of the LRB: trawling for sex as your opening gambit doesn’t really work. Talk to me about your favourite author; the painting that means the most to you; what smells remind you of your childhood; the day you first saw your parents differently; your first holiday; your favourite place to read; the last recipe you followed; the most recent newspaper clipping you kept; the name of a lover you most recently remembered; your favourite stretch of water; what you like most about Paris or Rome or London; the last time you fed ducks on a pond. Actually, I’m short on time, go ahead and trawl. Woman, 39. Publishing. Get on with it. Box no. 5201.

  Every time I read these ads I cringe with the knowledge that they are all me. And some are you. And we’ll probably end up liking each other very much. But let me tell you now, you’re not the sort of man I’d normally get off with (he’s reading the Condé Nast Traveller). You’ll do for now, though, but no tongues, and careful where you put those hands. Box no. 7231.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘this is comedy,’ and threw the biscotti–and his skinny mocha latte–right back in his face. Edgy, humourless F, 41, banned from most train-station Costas. Strangely alone at box no. 6323.

  CONGRATULATIONS! You are the thousandth reader to pass this ad by. Your prize is to pay for dinner and listen to me bitch about my university colleagues until pub turfing-out time.5 And no, you don’t get sex. Ever. Ever, ever, ever. Sensitive F, 38. Box no 7382.

  1 NAAFI: Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes, created in 1921 by the British Government to run recreational establishments for Armed Forces personnel and to sell goods and services to servicemen and their families.

  2 Irish poet and lecturer, born 13 April 1939. Heaney has published fifteen volumes of verse, five volumes of translation, six volumes of essays and two plays.

  3 A city in Ecuador, 200km south of the capital, Quito. It has a population of 130,000 and an economy based primarily on agriculture.

  4 Squiggles used to represent curses in comic books.

  5 11.30 p.m. in the UK before the introduction of new licensing laws in November 2005.

  “Last time I had

  this much fun,

  I was on forty

  tablets a day”

  Man, 42, suffers severe mood swings. You’ve got to laugh. On second thoughts, don’t. Box no. 7535.

  Today just isn’t my day. Neither was yesterday. Tomorrow will be worse. I’m putting all my money on Thursday week. Also my ex-wife’s car and my children’s tuition fees for 2005–08. Compulsive gambler (M, 53) seeks either love or sound racing tips. Or both. Though strictly speaking the latter generally results in the former. Do we kiss now or later? Box no. 3698.

  Shy, ugly man, fond of extended periods of self-pity, middle-aged, flatulent and overweight, seeks the impossible. Box no. 8623.

  Mignonette is the most beautiful word in the world and I’ll deck anyone who says it isn’t. Edgy yet playful poet (M, 38). Box no. 7975.

  Leather trousers? Rides on the backs of motorbikes? Bleached hair? Implausible bikinis? Toy boys? It’s the menopause–get a grip. Bald male help (53) at box no. 3201.

  I only enjoy this paper when I’m drunk. Teetotal male, 41. Sober since his first (and last) direct-debit instalment three months ago (I’ve had tattoos and shotgun marriages I’ve regretted less). Box no. 8200.

  I write the best literature this country’s ever seen. Then my spell-checker tells me to kill, kill, kill. No sudden movements with highly-strung F, 38, Reading. Box no. 3627.

  Don’t let distance come between us. Or metal bars. Or restricted access. Or the magic sweeties that make the night terrors go away. Write now to bubbly (others say ‘Maximum Security’ but what do they know?) F, 34, before the clowns tell her to do things that clowns shouldn’t do. Box no. 7635.

  Last time I had this much fun, I was on forty tablets a day. It’s all downhill from here, so reply to edgy woman, 36, before the good times come to an abrupt halt and the prescriptions finally dry up. Box no. 2596.

  Literary agents! Save time when considering a manuscript by not bothering to read it all. Instead, set two beetles to race across the front page–one, a crippled, three-legged blind beetle named ‘Accept’, the other a steroid-taking model of beetle athleticism, wearing the very best beetle roller-skates, being pulled by a team of 16 beetle-sized horses and called ‘Destroy Every Dream This Man Ever Had’. Whichever beetle wins decides the fate of the author. For a full set of rules and a licence to play (patent pending), write to sobbing, separated, newly alcohol
ic, chain-smoking man, 38, on pills for his nerves. Box no. 3524.

  Beer Barrel Polka, Pennsylvania Polka, Rain Rain Polka, Mountaineer Polka, Please Help Me, Three Dollar Polka, Who Stole the Kishka Polka, Oh God Help Me, Johnny’s Knocking Polka, Two Step Czardas, Somebody Please Help, Parobek Czardas, Matka Waltz, Sailor Boy Polka, In The Name of God Won’t Somebody Help Me, Horse Horosza, Young Years Polka, Silver Slipper Polka, Please Anybody, Ferry Boat Polka, My Garden Polka, Please, Clarinet Polka, Hu La La Polka. Box no. 3698.

  We brushed hands in the British Library, then again in the London Review Bookshop, reaching for Musil. And then once more on the tube, getting off at Ladbroke Grove. Serial random hand-brusher (F, 32, publicity exec.) demands attention, followed by more attention, followed by extended periods of self-pity. It’s all me, me, me at box no. 8537.

  Publishers! Save time when considering new book recommendations by submerging literary agents completely in water. Those who drown will have been essentially good souls and should be prayed for, whilst those who live will be witches and must be burned at the stake. Lonely man, too poor to buy food, his own children refuse to talk to him, 38, on pills for his nerves. Box no. 6322.

  Medication-free after all these years! Join me (anxious, overweight, self-harming flautist, F, 34) for congratulatory drink (or seven) in side-ward of the nation’s finest. Box no. 4425.

  So many men to choose from, so few vitamin supplements. Arthritic F, 73. Box no. 6133.

  There’s enough lithium in my medicine cabinet to power three electric cars across a sizeable desert.1 I’m more than aware that this isn’t actually a selling point, but none the less it’s my favourite statistic about me. Man, 33–officially Three Cars Crazy. Box no. 2609.

  I always begin theLRBat the personals. Then I drink. Then I weep. Then I move on to the articles. I drink some more. I weep some more. Then I hit the letters page. You can see where I’m heading here? That’s right, it’s straight to the claims court and if these personal ads don’t get any better I’m going to sue each and every one of you. Depressed, anxious, alcoholic M (41) means business, so too does his legal representation (M, 38, cha-cha enthusiast, and M, 42, bit of a chubster but cute to boot). Box no. 6334.