They Call Me Naughty Lola

by David Rose

  ‘Look, Mother, I’m sorry for failing my medical exams, but not being a doctor doesn’t make me any less of a son.’ Tired of partners who talk in their sleep? Meet insomniac woman (51), who’s heard it all before. If you sleep like a log, or currently take lots of medication after 10 p.m., write to me and we can both get some rest. Box no. 4312.

  Too much sex, not enough vitamin B12.2 Vegan love-god on the brink of mental and physical collapse (M, 26) seeks pallid, calcium-deficient F for nights of apathy, depression and headaches whilst touring the moral high ground. It’s all faux-fur, acrylics and rehydrated soya at box no. 7633.

  Take the last train to Clarksville and I’ll meet you at the station.3 Unless the 10.15 to Watney4 has been delayed. In which case I’ll get the bus–meet me at Morrisons, by the front entrance. If you can’t find your way there, get a taxi and I’ll give you the fare when I arrive, but make sure you take some change with you. If you don’t have any change, take a trumpet so that you can busk for some. Woman, 38, burdened by the need to make contingency plans, seeks well-ordered man to 45. Or woman to 50. Or anyone to 60. Write to box no. 3485. If you can’t find stamps, place an ad here and I’ll get back to you. If the office is closed, email it. If you can’t write, send a taped voice message. Etc., etc.

  Woman, 56, much happier now. Currently at peace with herself and the world. Seeks dependable significant other who doesn’t mind listening. Must like cats and darkness. Box no. 7322.

  Menopause made me subscribe to this magazine, and I haven’t looked back since (although I also came out this morning with no knickers and my bra on outside my jersey). Hormones-a-go-go with flushed woman (54), putting the tins in the fridge at box no. 2534.

  Lessee, whaddwegodheeer??? Looks pretty, smells pretty, and takes me to the places I’ve only ever dreamt of going. Self-prescribing physician of lurve. Come on in, the shroom5 are lovely. Man (that’s Dr Man, lady) 98. Box no. 6319.

  I buy all my goods from catalogues specialising in mock Victoriana and post-war trinkets. And I fully expect you to join me in table billiards, charades and Sunday Bible-reading. Strait-laced, edgy F (42) keeping rationing alive in a jolly nostalgia sense while specialists deliberate the correct course of treatment. Box no. 5312.

  Five things I can’t live without: the smell of lavender in my garden; eagerly awaited summers; the films of David Lean; my subscription to the LRB; my alone time between the hours of 4.30 p.m. and midnight–if you speak during that time I must kill you. Edgy publicist (F, 35) requires a large berth and mucho sedation three out of every four weeks. Box no. 5298.

  Heaven must be missing an angel. If you find her, tell her she bumped my car whilst trying to park her moronic, disco-blaring VW Beetle idiot mobile outside my flat during the early hours of Sunday morning. Insurance details, please, to touchy archivist desperate for a good night’s sleep in N1. Box no. 5897.

  The placing of this advert has less to do with me wanting to find love and more to do with me being an attention whore. Reply now before I’m forced to cartwheel at the next London Review Bookshop reading. Woman, 34. Box no. 7664.

  Checking the winning Premium Bonds on Ceefax6 –that’s as active as my monthly cycle gets. Post-HRT Woman’s Weekly defector and overcautious wannabe gambler seeks herbalist with some knowledge of racing form. Finally the years of wild living have arrived. Box no. 4487.

  Stop that damn whistling! The decorators are always in with hypertensive publishing F (34), on the look-out for evening primrose oil7 smuggler. Box no. 2801.

  1 Lithium-based compounds such as lithium carbonate (Li2CO3) are used in medicines to treat some manic-depressive disorders. Lithium is also sometimes used as battery anode material (high electrochemical potential) and lithium compounds are used in dry cells and storage batteries.

  2 A member of the vitamin B complex. It contains cobalt, and so is also known as cobalamin. Vitamin B12 is necessary for the synthesis of red blood cells, the maintenance of the nervous system, and growth and development in children. Deficiency can cause anaemia.

  3 ‘Last Train to Clarksville’: the first single recorded by the Monkees. Released 1966.

  4 Market in London’s East End. Served by three underground stations: Shadwell, Wapping and Whitechapel.

  5 Psilocybin/psilocin-containing mushroom that produces similar effects to LSD when ingested. Also known as ‘magic mushrooms’.

  6 Teletext information service provided by the BBC. The name stems from a phonetical representation of ‘see facts’.

  7 Nutritional supplement and a member of the essential fatty acid (EFA) group. Rich in Omega-6 fatty acids including gamma linolenic acid (GLA), which has certain medicinal properties that may act as an anti-inflammatory for conditions such as arthritis, eczema, high blood pressure and hypertension. Evening primrose oil is also believed to help alleviate cramps associated with pre-menstrual symptoms, though this has yet to be scientifically proven.

  “Golden nutritious

  wheat in a rotting

  column

  of chaff”

  I have created an Excel spreadsheet to document all the lovers I’ve had in my lifetime; the duration of each relationship; and how much each affair cost me in financial terms. I’d like you to be cell A2; forty years; nothing–we’ll have independent incomes. IT consultant (M), 34. Box no. 7322.

  The far-too-clever-by-half personal ad. I won’t pretend to think you understand. And neither should you (easily impressed woman to forty who knows when not to question a man’s Latin and knowledge of sea-bass mating seasons).1 Box no. 2753.

  Unashamed triumphalist male for the past 46 years. Will I bore you? Probably. Do I care? Probably not. Box no. 4002.

  I once found the perfect match in this column, but it turned out to be an ad I’d written two years earlier that they’d forgotten to publish. Still, you have to admire my consistency. Man, 43. Consistent. Admiring. Admirable. Box no. 4321.

  Christmas all alone? Unwrapping presents you gave yourself? Bernard Matthews oven-ready? Your troubles are over in the shape of obnoxious, drunkard uncle for hire (62). Belches the national anthem in three octaves, scratches inappropriately and is seemingly never satisfied by your very best efforts. Is dinner ready yet–and if not, why not? December will be magic again at box no. 5610.

  Bastard. Complete and utter. Whatever you do, don’t reply–you’ll only regret it. (Man, 38.) Box no. 2817.

  Without love, it doesn’t matter if you have all the qualifications in the world. Which I have. Please write for full list. I also have all the money in the world and look like Jude Law. Yes, I can provide a photo. M, 71, Ottershaw. When named I am the man apart. Box no. 4319.

  Narcissistic man, 32. If you’re better-looking than me (and I doubt it), why not write? Box no. 6511.

  True love travels on a gravel road. Not in Cardiganshire–it travels on dirt tracks up unfeasibly steep hills littered with sheep shit. There’s my house, right at the top. Come on in, the fire’s warm and the roof’s just been replaced (it carries a five-year guarantee against leaks). Simple man, 58, of simple means. Don’t expect a welcoming party. Box no. 3290.

  Google-search this: ‘Inherited wealth real estate Bentley’–that’s me, result 63 of 275. It’ll take 0.21 seconds to find me online, but an eternity of heartache in real life. Save time now by writing to box no. 4511, or by just giving up. Mother says you’ll never be good enough for me anyway. And you carry the odour of your class.

  In June 2001, Laura Buxton released a balloon during her grandparents’ golden-wedding anniversary celebrations in Staffordshire. She’d attached to it her name and address along with a note asking the finder to write back. Ten days later she received a reply. The balloon had been found by another Laura Buxton in Wiltshire, 140 miles away. Both Lauras were aged 10 and both had a three-year-old black Labrador, a guinea pig and a rabbit. The replies to my personal ads are of a very similar nature, always coming from people who share my name and major characteristics of my life. The only distinction is
that my replies do actually come from me. It’s not because I have a poor memory and respond to adverts I don’t remember placing, but because I’m so damned attractive I find me irresistible. You will too, but if you don’t own a three-year-old black Labrador, a guinea pig and a rabbit I won’t reply. Man. Gorgeous man. 37. Lovely. Kettering. Adorable. Yummy. Reply soon. Of course I will, you silly little pussycat. Box no. 2541.

  Ah–to return to student days! Private Tuscan villas, carefree womanising, yachting and riding the horses on Father’s orchard. Moneyed M (51) will make you aware of it at every opportunity, and then blame you for his downfall and current penury. Are you proud of dragging me down to your level? Maybe not now, but give it a month or so after you’ve replied to box no. 4736.

  This ad is not an attempt to find a partner. It is a Guinness attempt at a record number of rejections. Realistically, however, I’ll probably fail, being as I’m the most gorgeous man in here, have better hair than everybody else, and am fluent in seventeen languages (of which half are no longer in use). Man, 32. Golden nutritious wheat in a rotting column of chaff. Box no. 7552.

  You’re not the hottest property on the party circuit. You’re a simple-minded publicity bint like all the other girls in the room. But, damn it, don’t your eyes just sparkle beneath those tinted one-day Acuvues? Man, 28. Box no. 4789.

  I like my women the way I like my kebab. Found by surprise after a drunken night out and covered in too much tahini. Before long I’ll have discarded you on the pavement of life, but until then you’re the perfect complement to a perfect evening. Man, 32. Rarely produces winning metaphors. Box no. 5632.

  Damn it. Do all relationships have to end with a trip to the emergency room and a tube of Savlon? Romantic man, 36, seeks pretty little lady to cook the dinner, bring him beer, and surrender her right to orgasm. Box no. 3741.

  Man (53) in 16th year of having relationships with women whose name forms part of a song title WLTM anyone called Eloise, Renee, Delilah, Clementine or Black Betty.2 Age unimportant, but a photo, a birth certificate and a place on the electoral roll most certainly are. Box no. 8631.

  Slip your hand into two top corners of the sheet. With one hand inside each of the top two corners, fold the sheet (right sides together). Slip each of the top corners into one of the bottom corners. Lay sheet on bed or table. Arrange and fold the corners neatly. Turn in selvages enough to make four straight sides. Fold in half, then in half again. (All four corners will be stacked together, and sheet will be in a long strip.) Then fold the long strip in half, then in half (or thirds, depending on the size of the sheet) again to make a square. Sheet should be a compact, neat square. Smooth and place on shelf. After that, dinner; then I may consider foreplay. You can call me Brigadier. M, 62. Likes things just so. Box no. 7441.

  In a certain light I look like Robert Mitchum. In a certain light you look like Kim Novak. More usually I look like Shrek. More usually you still look like Kim Novak. Yes, you’re very unlucky. Now pass me the Doritos3 and get over it. Box no. 3917.

  Perennial Teletext-letter writer (M, 43, Lancs). There’s more sex in that statement than you could possibly imagine. Tonight, tomorrow night, and every night for the rest of your life (the red button if you have Fastext). Box no. 9461.

  I’m the one that you want. Unfortunately, though, I fancy your mate. Could you give her my number? Box no. 9573. Cheers.

  Tell me your dreams. I’ll laugh at them all, you silly little pussycat, and quickly prove how unlikely you are to achieve them. You won’t need to–I’m the most successful and handsome man you’ll ever be lucky enough to meet. Now be a dear and put the kettle on. Box no. 8362.

  Commit your fondest memories to tape. Then discard them all, you harlot–I should be all you need. You come baggage-free or you don’t come at all. Obsessive, jealous, paranoid nut-case (M, 58). Otherwise quite decent and happy at box no. 9375.

  When you do that voodoo that you do so well, I invoke 16th-century witchcraft laws and have you burned at the stake. No shenanigans with Quaker M, 39, at box no. 2741.

  Whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it in any of these other ads. But if you like early-morning trips down the Thames, Sunday-morning pastries, Saturday afternoons in Richmond Park and spur-of-the-moment trips to Scotland, then join me, sensitive M, 48. I won’t be participating in any of these sojourns, because most of my time is spent journaling the activities of my neighbours for the daily reports I submit to my local council as part of my ongoing war against sound pollution and overhanging conifers. But you should be made aware of the options open to you if my vigilance becomes inexplicably tiresome to you. By that point, of course, it will be too late and you’ll have become one of Them. It’s only a matter of time before you have your own paragraphs in my report. The pencil is always sharpened at box no. 9390.

  You are going to be alone this Christmas. That’s because nobody likes you. I, however, will provide you with a basic meal and some pleasant company on the understanding that you do not criticise my collection of antique medical implements. Tidy man, 51. Size 9 slipper.4 Box no. 7314.

  I laugh at my own jokes. They’re all about you. Many levels of arseholery with publishing M, 43. Box no. 8946.

  Romance is dead. So is my mother. Man, 42, inherited wealth. Box no. 7652.

  List your ten favourite albums. I don’t want to compare notes, I just want to know if there’s anything worth keeping when we finally break up. Practical, forward-thinking man, 35. Box no. 8089.

  People who use museum postcards instead of letter paper; people who own garden composters; ticket collectors who cannot accept the idea of the bloke in the kiosk at the station disappearing to the toilet at the exact time you’ve arrived to buy your fare; mechanics called Andy who get stroppy over the phone if you call during their lunch hour, fully expecting you to know that they take lunch between 10 and 11 in the morning; Islington intellectuals who have named their children ‘Billy’ or ‘Eddy’ despite knowing full well that they will never spend any time in William Hill’s waiting to hear what the going is like at Haydock; people from Bellway estates in Swindon who have named their children ‘Mariella’ or ‘Giles’ despite knowing full well that they are going to spend most of their adult lives in William Hill’s waiting to hear what the going is like at Haydock; people who shoehorn obscure French novelists into any conversation; people who take oversized stroller pushchairs on the Northern Line at rush hour and get shirty when other passengers refuse to dislocate their limbs and fold themselves up in the corner to make room; newspaper supplement journalists who begin every article like they’re writing a novel in the hope that a literary agent will snap them up; literary agents who snap up newspaper-supplement journalists believing that their opening paragraphs would make an excellent start to a novel; the girl at Superdrug who never tells me how much my items come to but expects me to succumb to the power of her mind and makes me look at the little screen on her till instead; postmen who make a concerted effort to bend packages with ‘DO NOT BEND’ clearly stamped across the front; people who go to public schools named after German saints and attend Rocky Horror Picture Show-themed leavers’ parties at the end of their final term, then bore everyone they know for years to come about what a ‘seriously good larf’ it was; thirty-somethings who listen to Radiohead, believing that Thom Yorke’s depressing introspection has revolutionised the British music scene and made rock energetic once again without realising that Dire Straits fans were saying exactly the same thing about them in the early eighties; people who buy organic mushrooms; people who subscribe to magazines and get excited every time a new one lands on the doormat; people who have doormats; people who applaud the linesman’s offside flag; people with espresso machines bought from Index for £19.99 who make you drink the stuff whenever you go round, then go on about the difference in quality and how you can ‘really taste the bean’ although it’s no different from Mellow Birds but takes four times as long to produce; people with more than one cat; people who have bought ra
diator covers; people who frame museum postcards sent by people who use them instead of letter paper; people who own a copy of Michael Palin’s Pole to Pole on DVD. Everybody else write to man, 37. Box no. 6879.

  1 Spring (UK, offshore).

  2 ‘Eloise’: released by Barry Ryan, 1968; ‘Walk Away Renee’: originally recorded by the Left Banke in 1966, then a hit for the Four Tops in 1968; ‘Delilah’: a hit for Tom Jones in 1968; ‘Clementine’: the advertiser is thought to be referring here to Tom Lehrer’s version appearing on the album An Evening Wasted With Tom Lehrer, 1959; ‘Black Betty’: African-American work song often credited to Huddie “Leadbelly” Ledbetter, notable recordings include those by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds (1986) and Tom Jones (2002).

  3 Corn-based crisp snack.

  4 9.5 US equivalent.

  “I once came

  within an ace of

  making my own

  toothpaste”

  Thorium is a radioactive metallic element used in X-ray tubes, photoelectric cells and sunlamps. Its isotope thorium-232 is used as a nuclear fuel in breeder reactors. The guy no one wants to be faced with in Scrabble (48) seeks hopeless Kerplunk and Buckaroo contestant to make my superiority at board games complete (I happily concede at Twister, although, strictly speaking, that’s not a board game).1 Box no. 8647.

  Huge frontal lobes and hyperactive Broca’s area,2 in cute casing, seeks non-mutant XY genotype (forties, fifties) with intact cortico-limbic connections and own teeth. Box no. 8064.

  Burned by the nuclear reactor of love, bruised by the capacitor of reason, chafed by the nylon seam of romance. Passion’s own engineer (that’s you, emotionally strong F to 50, own 4x4 and love of Timberland stores) needed by the mechanic of shame (that’s me–timid M, 45, Ethel Austin undergarments and moccasins slightly worn under the left sole owing to a camber developed in my calliper-wearing years at St Bede’s Elementary). Box no. 8543.