They Call Me Naughty Lola

by David Rose

  Always the bridesmaid. Cross-dressing art-history lecturer (M, 37). Surbiton. Box no. 0486.

  I intend to spend the summer stewing over failed relationships. You can join me if you like, but know now that you’ll never live up to Sandra, Jackie, Dawn, Helen, Karen or Peter. M, 37. Bitter, bi-curious, Bebington. Box no. 4762.

  When, oh when will they remakeFalcon Crest?10 Man, 43. Obviously gay. Duh! Box no. 3721.

  Tonight I’m off to the Baton Rouge to have sexual intercourse with Josephine Baker. Tomorrow I’ll be back in Chichester waiting for Holby City to start. Archaeologist and perennial folie du jour seeks F to 98 for high-kicking, sequined frolics. Box no. 2654.

  This Christmas, I’m hoping for surgical breast enhancement. Man, 45. Join me pre, post, and every pier between. Box no. 7001.

  Yes, sir. I can boogie. Man. Academic. 62. Quite possibly gay. Box no. 3631.11

  Gay, wasted Cambridge dandy (M, 48). There are things in this column that toluene-sniffing afternoons just can’t give. They are all you: Spanish matador, 21, rural, church-educated mute, body toned by early-morning farm work in the delicate dew-soaked rays of Solaris. Box no. 6313.

  Do you have a body like March in the 1997 Pirelli calendar? Or like February in Kwik-Fit 1985? Either way, November from New Left Review 1963 would like to hear from you to discuss pit stops, pressure absorption, Habermas’s vision of Europe and bras. Box no. 2731.

  It only takes a minute, girl. Not to fall in love, but to realise how futile it is to expect a normal relationship from these ads. With that in mind I’m after a juggling, trombone-blowing F in the finest gold lamé this side of Elvis (you’re not a day older than 97). Box no. 1379.

  Don’t make our love seem light, the future isn’t just one night–it’s written in the moonlight and painted on the stars.12 Military historian (M, 47). As queer as teeth. Box no. 6172.

  1 Columnist, author, lecturer and Emeritus Lord Northcliffe Professor of Modern English Literature of University College, London. In 2005 he was Chair of Judges for the Man Booker Prize.

  2 Thinsulate: insulated clothing brand.

  3 ‘Shot by Both Sides’: début single by post-punk band Magazine, released 1978. Reached number forty-one in the UK charts.

  4 Fitness routine based on jazz dance.

  5 ‘Fate decreed that the cloak should become an iron cage.’ From The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism by Max Weber.

  6 Susannah Constantine and Trinny Woodall. Hosts of the BBC’s What Not to Wear, a TV series that takes members of the public regardless of shape, height or age and forces them into re-evaluations of their fashion decisions.

  7 Venus in Furs, 1870 novella by Leopold Ritter von Sacher-Masoch, 1870. Published as part of a larger body of fiction, The Testament of Cain. The book details the infatuation of its central character, Severin, with his mistress, Wanda. His desire is to be enslaved and dominated by her, giving rise to the term ‘masochism’, coined by nineteenth-century psychiatrist Krafft-Ebing.

  8 Male genital hoop piercing.

  9 Loch set in the middle of the Cuillin Mountains on the Isle of Skye. ‘Rarely human eye has known/ A scene so stern as that dread lake,/ With its dark ledge of barren stone.’ Sir Walter Scott, The Lord of the Isles, 1815.

  10 American TV soap opera broadcast between 1981 and 1990 about the feud between two rich Californian wine families, the Channings and the Giobertis.

  11 ‘Yes Sir, I Can Boogie’: single released by Spanish duet Baccara in 1977. Sold sixteen million copies worldwide, reaching number one in various countries and resulting in the duet’s being listed in the Guinness Book of Records that year as the highest-selling female musical group.

  12 Taken from ‘Don’t Give Up On Us’–single released by David Soul. Reached number one in the UK charts in 1976.

  “My last chance

  to get a man

  fell in autumn,

  1992”

  This is the first time in my life I’ve appeared in any font other than Courier New. That’s because my best work is still in my head, as are my years of financial stability, my buff physique, the respect of my peers, and my ability to trim sea bass. What were you expecting–Saul Bellow? Man, 34. Takes what he can get, as will you. Box no. 1763.

  I know, this is neither the time nor the place to mention marriage, but I’ve always loved you. Whichever one replies first. Man, 56. I’ve left a space on the mortgage for your name. Are you ready for children yet? Box no. 8221.

  Woman who wanted to marry my dad–you didn’t give me any contact details. Don’t play games with the desperate. Box no. 1721.

  Speak a foreign language? Evidently I do. Let me try plain English. Me: woman, 38. You: man, not older than forty, not covered in prison tattoos and not currently hospital resident. Savvy? Photos (clothed only) to box no. 5236.

  At Feltham Station turn right on to Hounslow Road. Take the first left on to Hanworth Road, then the third right into Ashfield Avenue. At the second tree on the pavement on the left, next to the red Vauxhall Astra with the out-of-date tax disc, that’s where the Spaniards buried the lost treasure of Moctezuma–start digging. You won’t find it, but you’ll have a better chance at that than of finding love in this column. Trust me, this is my fifth (and final–all my credit cards have been cancelled) outing. It’s always one last throw of the dice for desperate but easily persuaded F, 45, at box no. 6202.

  LRBpersonals are my only mistress. Night my only friend. I learned that the hard way. But not before I’d paid 80 pence a word for this beauty. Man, 34. Knocking firmly on the door of failure for neither the first nor the last time in his life. Box no. 0378.

  Placing this ad doesn’t mean I’m desperate to find a mate. Offering respondents £15 in book tokens, however, does. Man, 37, offering £15 in book tokens to all respondents (must include full résumé, medical history, and proof of being brunette with the same first name as my mother; offer subject to availability and the Child Support Agency not finding out that I have £15 of book tokens in a drawer at home). Box no. 0843.

  My last chance to get a man fell in autumn, 1992. The current window closes four weeks and two days from the publication date of this issue. Hurry up and write. Box no. 1432.

  Allele, anatta, arrear, arrere, bedded, bettee, breere, caccap, ceesse, cobbob, cocoon, deesse, dolool, doodad, effere, emmele, emmene, ennean, essede, feyffe, gaggee, giggit, googol, gregge, hammam, hummum, hubbub, jettee, kokoon, lessee, lesses, mammal, mammee, mossoo, mutuum, nerrer, ossous, pazazz, pepper, perree, pippin, powwow, reeder, reefer, reeffe, refeff, retree, seasse, secess, seesen, sensse, sessle, settee, sissoo, tattee, tattoo, tedded, teerer, teeter, teethe, terrer, testee, tethee, tetter, tittee, treete, unnung, veerer, weeded, zaarra. Six-letter words with one occurrence of one letter, two occurrences of another letter and three occurrences of another letter. By Christ, I need a woman. I’m 41, but if you’ve got a pulse, cable TV and a smoothie-maker you’ll do. Box no. 4290.

  Your buying me dinner doesn’t mean I’ll have sex with you. I probably will have sex with you though. Honesty not an issue with opportunistic male, 38. Box no. 1898.

  My Christmas Day TV schedule includes a pause in transmission at 3.52 p.m. for me to cry into the sleeve of the cardigan I bought myself. Unless you want to meet up and have crazy post-turkey sex? No? No? Man, 34. Box no. 3287.

  I gambled my reputation, marriage and house on equine hoof-magnets being the only sure way to provide electricity once fossil fuels have run out. The least you could do is gamble on the cost of a second-class stamp to see if I’m really a 6´ tall Adonis-like superbrain (which I am, regardless of what my mother and ex-wife say). Man, 47. Cute as teeth. Derby. Box no. 0175.

  Despite your listing 34 French erotic novels as your favourite reads, I liked you. Then you went and ruined everything by spending an hour ordering continental ales in the voice of Yoda.1LRB-reading men, there is surely something for you all to learn from this. I reluctantly accept, however, that most of you will take no
thing from today’s lesson. Woman, 35, seriously considering going gay unless the standard of replies from this column improves. Box no. 8963.

  Once the excitement of placing this ad has died down, I’ll have to face up to the cruel realities of a second mortgage, liver disease and a direct debit that ain’t going away. At least I have all those replies to look forward to. Man, 51. Teetering on the edge of the abyss that your cruel silence is going to push him into. Box no. 5732.

  With the money from my article I bought myself a mobile home, so at least I could get some enjoyment out of being alone.2 They say one swallow doesn’t make a summer, meet last winter’s ostrich (M, 35, Brentford). Once hopeful bon vivant, now genuine fish out of water, one-time (and I mean one-time) LRB contributor (it was back in 1986–I’m hanging all my hopes on you remembering it). It didn’t get a single mention on the letters page, but you can change that. Write now to box no. 0442.

  Ploughing the loneliest furrow. Nineteen LRB personals and counting. Only one reply. It was my mother telling me not to forget the bread on my way home from B&Q. Man, 51. Box no. 3708.

  Dancing on the table impresses no one. Except my mother, but she’s in a home and not allowed to watch the news. Strait-laced guy with low aspirations thinks you’ll do. Box no. 2078.

  Things I won’t do for love include replacing corroding soil pipes and trepanning at home. Everything else is A-OK. Eager-to-please woman (36) seeks domineering man to take advantage of her flagging confidence. Tell me I’m pretty, then watch me cling, at box no. 3286.

  Celebrate 37 years of me this coming 20 October! Send cash, candles and intimate items of underwear to lonely Libran lawyer, Leicester, struggling with some of life’s cruellest alliterations. Box no. 5180.

  LRB-reading women to 40! Save money on your new subscription by becoming the lover of 38-year-old man who has already signed up for next year. I’m only thinking of you. Box no. 4207.

  East, west, slate is best! Bored roofing-materials manufacturer looking for a bit of joy in the pages of the LRB. Obviously I failed. In desperation I turn to you, single ladies to 50 with more than a passing interest in gutterings, fascias and polyvinyl sheet edging. Box no. 1296.

  The pressure exerted on your body if you tried to read this advert in the hadal regions of the ocean3 would be enough to turn you into a hideous slime-thing with brains dripping out of your ears. Publicity exec. (F, 28) seeks any type of happiness afforded by this cold, desolate planet before, without food, without hope, and with too many Nick Hornby4 book endorsements to collect, I fall asleep for ever. Could be gay for the right woman. Box no. 5212.

  LRB-reading women to 40! Save money when considering soup for dinner by becoming lover of 38-year-old man who buys plenty of soup but can never finish the whole tin. I’m only thinking of you. Box no. 1385.

  Will you sleep with me? Knowing is half the battle. Man, neither the time nor the inclination for subtleties. Box no. 2574.

  Die Rhabarbermarmelade die ich selbst gemacht habe ist unerreichbar. Was ich brauche ist ein Mann der gut mit Einmachglasern umgehehen kann. Du solltestausserdem selbstgemachten Wein geniessen. Und du wirst mich heiraten sobald du erfährst dass ich schwanger bin mit deinen Zwillingen. Frau, 56.5 Box no. 3229.

  Some chances are once in a lifetime. Not this one–I’ve been in the last 12 issues. Either I strike gold this time or I become a lesbian. Man, 43. Box no. 8504.

  Don’t speak, you’ll only destroy my already low opinion of you. And put your pants back on. And your wig. Terminally disappointed woman (38, Barnstaple) WLTM a man. Form a queue, then I’ll negotiate the criteria. Box no. 2106.

  MaleLRBreaders. Drawing little faces on your thumbs, getting them to order meals, then shouting at them for not being able to pay is no way to win a woman. You know who you are. Men to 40 with working credit cards, reply to once-bitten, twice-bitten, three-strikes-and-you’re-all-out F, 35. Box no. 1379.

  If I was a gambling man, I’d bet you’d be blonde, 30, passionate, impetuous and writing poetry. If I trusted my instinct, you’d be brunette, 35, a little cynical, preparing for that year-out sabbatical and writing that first novel. If I left it to fate, you’d be 67, bald and a man with sclerotic arteries. The intuition my mother handed down and my collection of county court judgments suggest that placing an ad in this column puts you firmly in the last category. Resigned M (52, Colchester6 ) finally embracing defeat and anything else that comes along at box no. 4176.

  1 Jedi Master.

  2 Echo of ‘Levi Stubbs’ Tears’, single released by Billy Bragg, 1986. The original lyric is ‘With the money from her accident she bought herself a mobile home/ So at least she could get some enjoyment out of being alone’.

  3 Deep sea trenches beginning 6,000 metres below the surface of the sea and deeper than the abyssal regions (4,000 to 6,000 metres deep). An extreme environment in which animal life is scarce.

  4 Author.

  5 ‘The quality of my homemade rhubarb marmalade is unsurpassable. What I need is a man who is good with pickling jars. You should also be able to enjoy homemade wines. And you will marry me as soon as you realise I am pregnant with your twins. Woman, 56.’

  6 Town in the east of England. Ordnance Survey grid reference TQ995255. Population 104,390.

  “I’m not a vet, but I

  do enjoy volunteer

  work”

  I’m everything you need times by six and a half. Divide it by two, now subtract your age, add my birthday and multiply by the first three digits of your phone number. That’s right–3´7´´ unemployed children’s Maths-Magic entertainer seeks woman whose age, height and Barclaycard PIN number are all multiples of 7. Failing that, you’ll do. Box no. 3658.

  My diagnosis? A broken heart. And my prescription? A poultice of German love. Misunderstood homeopathic practitioner (M, 38). Anything involving hands requires my lawyer to be present. Box no. 6210.

  Today we are kittens, but tomorrow we are tigers. Confused zoologist (F, 34). Box no. 0539.

  None of these things ad up. Rubbish accountant (M, 48). Box no. 0279.

  This column is neither funny nor entertaining. I should know. Clown and corporate entertainer (M, 94) seeks filthy woman to 25 with no small degree of familiarity with Leichner make-up. Box no. 3802.

  I’ve done my sums and the mean average age of male advertisers in this column since 1998 is 15. Failed mathematician (F, 28) hoping to find love with mature gent to 30 (sorry, boys) for slightly longer than my current two-week relationship record. Box no. 0992.

  I’ll spend Valentine’s Day giving enemas to constipated goats. I’m not a vet, but I do enjoy volunteer work. Man, 31. Box no. 1869.

  Employed in publishing? Me too. Stay the hell away. Man on the inside seeks woman on the outside who likes milling around hospitals guessing the illnesses of out-patients. 30–35. Leeds. Box no. 3287.

  Depressed, oversensitive, edgy tax inspector (F, 35, 13st. 10lb). Accident waiting to happen at box no. 2780.

  Spirit the bluestones1of Stonehenge back to Pembrokeshire’s glorious Preseli mountains with part-time Carreg Glas archaeological terrorist (full-time on-board caterer for Baltic cruise ships, M, 43). What we miss out in direct action, we make up for in impotent revenge fantasies. Welsh-speaking, bitter females to 50 used to confined quarters and restricted movement write to box no. 9532.

  My lounge is like a disco; my kitchen is like the cocktail bar of a yacht. My garage is like an art museum, but my bedroom is like the Batcave. That’s because at night I prowl the city, fighting crime and ridding the streets of evil. Multimillionaire cunningly disguised as mid-thirties IT exec. from Stepney, still living at mum’s. Either it’s a dippy egg or that aeroplane doesn’t get anywhere near Mouthy Airport at box no. 2170.

  To some, I am a world of temptation. To others, I’m just another cross-dressing pharmacist. M, 41. Box no. 3661.

  Many are called, few are chosen. Telemarketeer (M, 25) wondering where it all went wrong and when can I get my money back (thanks for nothing,
UCL). Box no. 2387.

  The first thing this column teaches you is not to struggle. The more you try to break away the tighter those knots become. If you can, make Silence your friend. Sure, laughter will help pass many a lonely hour, but the Silence always returns. Faithful. Steadying. And when you stare into that darkness, let Silence embrace you as you yourself embrace the last forgotten rumours of your life. Drink is a mistress who will always love you. And I have loved her in return, drinking of her sweet, fragrant lies–letting her soft whispers of affection stream through my blood. But when she is gone, Silence returns and we hold each other like lovers reconciled after damnable affairs. Hold me, oh Silence. Keep me close to thy heart that I may find succour in thy hating breast. Children’s entertainer (M, 56) WLTM nubile F to 25 for sharing of the lunch bill and tours of the north-west party circuit (your tasks will include loading the van and inflating balloons). Box no. 2507.

  Blowzy, mousy, and my hair is always lousy–standard F publishing exec. (36). Does what it says on someone else’s tin. Box no. 8754.

  I am not an accountant. Box no. 7542.

  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. 1380.

  My calculator is scientific, my set square is sound. They both tell me that all the angles in my house are out and it’s driving me crazy. That’s why I’ve spent the last 24 years of my adult life tearing out the skirting and ripping down partitions. But now I’m finally ready for love. If your doors hang properly, and you know how to steady a spirit level, why not write to obsessive, over-anxious, debarred architect (M, 42)? The windows don’t rattle on my house because I’ve had them all bricked up. Box no. 3679.

  Don’t reply to this ad if you are now or have ever been a TA2reservist. Orienteering is neither big nor clever, and no one in your department at work ever calls you Captain. You know who you are. F, 36. Box no. 5794.