They Call Me Naughty Lola

by David Rose

  My only academic achievement was contaminating the water supply in class 2C by sneezing over the beaker tray. It caused the biggest outbreak of conjunctivitis ever known at Sutton Primary. I wasn’t sorry then and I’m not sorry now. Bitter PR exec. (F, 34) WLTM man to 40 who enjoys living on the edge (of Putney). Box no. 8370.

  The footballing genius of John Sutherland,2 the academic prowess of Wayne Rooney: if you think I’m screwed up you should see my wardrobe. Queer eye for a straight guy (or mid-forties coaching expert with breasts and a doctorate) sought at box no. 6279.

  Not all female librarians are gay and called Susan. I, however, am and would like to meet non-librarian gay women to 35 with names such as Polly, Kate or Demeter. Chichester. Box no. 5208.

  University lecturer in Russian Literature (male, 57). Great legs. Box no. 1344.

  If you want to, I’ll change the situation. Right people, right time, but the wrong location. Dennis Waterman of UCL’s darkest corridors seeks Renaissance Studies’ own Rula Lenska for crazy East London gang-related shenanigans. I could be so good for you at box no. 2290.3

  Lecturer in Contemporary Dance (M, 47), but you might remember me as the frontman of the only UK touring Spanish doo-wop combo of 1982 (Catalan-A-Ding-Dong; we reached number 104 June that year with Uma Floridablanca). Catch my rehashed revival act, Franco-Shoop-Shoop, at all fringe festivals this summer, but mostly at box no. 5437.

  Brunhilde of Stockport, desperately waiting for hunky bloke to 40 to pull her from ignominious fire of full-time lecturing. Must have some understanding of the vagaries of womanhood and the engines of S-reg Polos. Box no. 2902.

  My list of top 100 intellectuals begins and ends with Bernie Clifton.4 If you have a fake ostrich and a slim-jim tie, you could shoehorn yourself in there and gain a place in my heart to boot. Radical biologist/ slapstick comedian (M, 57). Box no. 8552.

  Sure, I could spend all day trying to shoehorn Slavoj iek5 into a personal ad, but when we finally get to meet I’m going to spend the whole time just staring at your breasts. No illusions at box no. 9623.

  I never got a chance to see him, never heard nutin’ but bad things about him. Momma, I’m depending on you (funk-laden, trippy woman with soul, 40–45) to tell me the truth. Papa was a lecturer in Renaissance Studies at box no. 5576.6

  Finished with my woman ’cos she couldn’t help me with my mind. Midlands M, 46. Wanted Lacan, got Black Sabbath. And that, Adam Phillips, is analysis.7 Box no. 8379.

  Child prodigy and Slade genius (M, 52). Leonine looks, condescending only when the moment demands it, and prone to bouts of severe creativity. Catch me now–in the corridors of the Carré d’Art, slightly past my peak–before tuberculosis, pleurisy or Brian Sewell creeps in. The absinthe is on me at box no. 8334.

  Chippy little maths teacher (in a mental-breakdown sort of way). Male, 43, you know the shirt and the hair already. WLTM flamboyant drama-type F for irritating discussions about the value of science over art, then strip Cluedo. It’s Reverend Green in the lounge with the spanner; now let’s make love like pussycats. Box no. 7286.

  Resident Flemish biologist typical in a North West family (consisting also of mother, father, overbearing grandparent and fourteen siblings). Would like to hear from women in similar situation. Box no. 0544.

  I like you because you read magazines with big words. And you’ve got great booblies. I can live without the first. But the second is non-negotiable. Shallow man, 34. When I say ‘shallow’, I mean, damn. Box no. 7742.

  If his status ain’t hood I ain’t checking fo’ him. Classics lecturer (F, 53), wishes she had Beyoncé’s stomach, bling and movement. Though not necessarily her appreciation of lyric poetry. I want a soldier, or else any sane man within M25, at box no. 9521.8

  Module 1: provide evidence to show that you have read a literary magazine; provide evidence to show that you have experience of setting up a direct debit; provide evidence to show that you have spent considerable time alone and don’t look likely ever to have sex again without spending some serious money and/or changing your pants (M, 32). Awaiting the results of my NVQ in Desperation at box no. 3111.

  I use this column principally as a sounding board for my radical philosophical theories. This time, however, I’d like some sexual intercourse. Radical philosopher and occasional lust monkey. M, 41. Box no. 4088.

  Like the ad above, but better educated and well-read. Also larger bosoms. Man, 38, Watford. Box no. 2712.

  Call for papers: ‘London Review of Bookspersonal ads: an exaggeration or a rejection of the dominant cultural norm?’ Send proposal to gay, anorexic, flamenco-dancing M, 36, baby-blue eyes, blond hair, and pesto recipes to die for. Box no. 1369.

  LRBreaders. You are all just English lecturers who like Björk.9 Get over it, then make love to me. Each and every damn one of you. Man, 98, Berks. Box no. 3752.

  Stroganoff. Boysenberry, Frangipani. Words with their origins in people’s names. If your name has produced its own entry in the OED then I’ll make love to you. If it hasn’t, I probably will anyway, but I’ll only want you for your body. Man of too few distractions, 32. Box no. 2576.

  What is your favourite preserved body part? Mine is the diseased bladder of Italian biologist Lazzaro Spallanzani10 (currently on display in the Scarpa Room in the University of Pavia). This and many more conversation killers available from librarian and failed travel agent, F, 32, Northampton. Box no. 4279.

  OMG! This magazine is the shizz. Seriously, dudes. Awesome! LOL! Classics lecturer (M, 48). Possibly out of his depth with today’s youth. KTHX! Box no. 2680.

  If John Sutherland were a soul disco diva, would he sing Barry White?11 Hopeful author of new OUP modern philosophy series (read my pilot, ‘Who would win in a fight between Proust and Marvin Gaye?’). Man, 37, WLTM woman to 40 who would be Wuthering Heights read by Rose Royce if she were a 19th-century novel given to a ’70s supergroup. Box no. 3579.

  1 Canadian rock group formed in 1973. Hits include ‘You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet’, which reached number two in the UK charts in 1974.

  2 See p. 71, n. 1 and p. 124, n. 11.

  3 The advertiser is referring to the popular British television series Minder, which ran from 1979 to 1994 and starred Dennis Waterman as Terry McCann alongside George Cole as Arthur Daley, a wheeler-dealer figure with low scruples. The show’s theme tune, ‘I Could Be So Good for You’, was performed by Waterman and included lines cited in the advert. It reached number three in the UK charts in 1980. Waterman married Rula Lenska in 1987. They divorced in 1998.

  4 St Helens (Merseyside) comedian famed for riding a fake ostrich on stage.

  5 Slovenian cultural critic and author.

  6 ‘Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone’: single released by the Undisputed Truth in 1972, reaching number sixty-three in the US charts. Later a number-one hit for the Temptations and winner of three Grammy Awards in 1973.

  7 The lyrics quoted here are taken from ‘Paranoid’, a single released by Black Sabbath in 1970. Jacques Lacan: French psychoanalyst whose work influenced many fields including linguistics and critical theory. Adam Phillips: psychotherapist, essayist and author.

  8 The ad refers to the song ‘Soldier’, by Destiny’s Child, whose lineup includes the singer Beyoncé Knowles.

  9 Singer/songwriter, formerly lead singer with the Sugarcubes.

  10 Italian biologist (b. 10 January 1729, d. 12 February 1799) whose work on the theory of the spontaneous generation of cellular life proved that microbes come from the air and can be killed through boiling. He also proved that animal reproduction requires both sperm and ovum and was the first to perform an artificial insemination (a dog was used). His most renowned body of work, however, was the Dissertationi de fiscia animale e vegetale (1780), in which he proved that the process of digestion is one not simply of trituration but of chemical solution produced by the action of gastric fluids.

  11 See p. 71, n. 1 and p. 119, n. 2. The advertiser is here referring to Sutherland’s publications Is Heathcliff a Mur
derer? Puzzles in Nineteenth-Century Fiction; Can Jane Eyre Be Happy? More Puzzles in Classic Fiction; Who Betrays Elizabeth Bennet? Further Puzzles in Classic Fiction and Henry V, War Criminal? and Other Shakespeare Puzzles (with Cedric Watts). All books originally published by Oxford University Press.

  “The harsh realities

  of my second

  mortgage”

  I’ve got money to burn! Also my receipts for the last eight financial years, but that’s another story. Pensive man, 36, seeks diligent lawyer/lover/chef/priest/ whatever. Box no. 2821.

  Your clothes are all made by Balmain, and there’s diamonds and pearls in your hair.1 My clothes are all Next red-dot jobs, and I’m completely bald. Think about the possibilities. Can you lend me a tenner? Yes you can, yes you can. Man, 35. Box no. 8532.

  Ladies: apply now for opportunity to make love with Roman gladiator (bankrupt publisher, 5´2´´, but every bit a man). Box no. 5890.

  Junoesque, blonde, 52-year-old provocative sex moggy (still with own fur, fully inoculated and house-trained) seeks similar male to scratch under her chin at night. Must be able to write own name (on own cheque book a bonus). Previous applicants need not apply. Box no. 4069.

  Bastard son of Dean Friedman. Do you still love me? Are you still angry? Are you between 45 and 55 with a healthy portfolio of stocks and shares? Then write to bearded freak at box no. 6290.2

  I’m square E4 of the London miniA–Z (colour edition). I really need you (M, to 40, solvent, slightly awkward but appreciative of the opportunity for a regular sex life after all these years) to be in E3. Over-mortgaged F, 35. Box no. 3027.

  Your place or your other place? Woman, 32, needful of the finer things in life seeks stinking-rich bloke, 80 to 100. Must be willing to fibrillate his ventricles when he becomes tiresome or bankrupt or both. Also interesting thirty-somethings for illicit and immoral affair to be conducted concurrently with the above. Box no. 1597.

  Less-than-successful gambler and author of niche, print-on-demand business titles (American, M, 55) WLTM attractive, docile UK woman, willing to pay up-front for 312 copies of Synergy or Competition: Distribution and Dissemination of Financial Reports to Non-Financial Company Middle-Management Tiers in the Terrifying New Dawn of Interdepartmental Co-operation or Everything You Wanted to Know about Non-Accountable Revenue Channels but Were Too Afraid to Ask (Volume 3). Must know how to calm a hysterical and broken man with only the next race to live for (but I’ve got a great tip from Ed in the bar–it’s a sure thing, honey). Box no. 5275.

  God appeared to me in a dream last night and spoke your name in my ear. He gave me the winning lottery numbers, too, though, so you can understand where my priorities lay when I raced to grab a notebook and pen. Man, 37, living on hope and the next seven weeks’ bonus balls seeks woman whose first name begins with S, or maybe F, and rhymes with chicken, and has a surname that’s either a place in Shropshire or the title of a 1979 Earth, Wind and Fire track. Shicken Boogiewonderland, I know you’re reading this. Write now to box no. 5279.

  Credit-card debt? Bills getting on top of you? Reminders arriving daily through your letterbox? Consolidate your debt into one convenient loan, then write to dodgy-endowment-

  selling M, 37, Bedfordshire, at box no. 3753. CCJs, mortgage arrears, refused past credit, all accepted. Your home is at risk if you do not keep up repayments.

  Reply to this advert, then together we can face the harsh realities of my second mortgage. M, 38, WLTM woman to 70 with active credit cards. Box no. 8624.

  If you don’t open the letters from the credit-card company, it’s just like they never asked for their money back. Woman, 36, would like to hear from any men (professionals, blond, to 45) for whom this defence has worked in an actual court of law. Box no. 1780.

  You’ll write; I’ll probably enjoy your letter and write back. After corresponding a few times, several phone calls, we’ll arrange to meet. We’ll meet again and become more intimate, eventually dating regularly. We’ll form a relationship, start leaving things at each other’s apartments. We’ll spend weekends together. Sometimes whole weeks. We’ll have lazy Sundays lying naked in bed together, reading the supplements and not leaving the house. Sometimes we’ll disagree. The disagreements will become rows. We’ll see each other less in the week. You’ll come around one evening to ‘collect some things’–we both know what it means. You’ll go back to your place and cry like you used to do on cold, wintry evenings. I’ll drink more and cultivate a fetish for Kirsty Wark trouser suits.3 We’ll regret six lost months–possibly a year–wasted on yet another emotional cul-de-sac. Let’s save us both the pain–just send me a Christmas card and a nice gift (cash preferred, donations of £20 and above) and we’ll call the whole thing quits now. Insolvent bookie and amateur psychotherapist (M, 43). Box no. 4782.

  1 The advertiser is referring to the song ‘Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)’, single released by Peter Sarstedt in 1969 (reached number four in the UK charts and won the Ivor Novello Award).

  2 The advertiser is referring to both ‘Lucky Stars’, sung by Dean Friedman and Denise Marsa, a top-ten UK hit in 1978, and ‘Bastard Son of Dean Friedman’, sung by Birkenhead band Half Man Half Biscuit (1986).

  3 Kirsty Wark (Aquarius): presenter of BBC’s Newsnight.

  “This column reads

  like a list of

  X-File character

  rejects”

  Cut out the headlines from every essay in this edition of theLRB. Remove each occurrence of the letter O. Now rearrange the remaining letters into groups of vowels and consonants. Add up the number in each group. Now multiply those numbers by the nearest higher prime number to each. Divide the numbers you’re left with by the number of the page in this issue on which the word ‘station’ first appears. Write both of those numbers on separate pieces of paper, with the word ‘Mesmer’ written in pencil beneath each. Now dig a hole in your garden exactly 11 feet deep and put those pieces of paper in it. Fill the hole back up and return to it at the end of June, which just happens to be the sixth month of the year. Coincidence? I think not. M, 57. Box no. 6138.

  In the year 2273, dogs will walk on their hind legs and eat at tables with men. The tables will float in the air, propelled by some sort of anti-gravitational force–assuming there’ll still be gravity. Which I doubt very much, because in the year 2128, fish-like creatures will invade the earth and drink its gravity like hot soup. But tomorrow you and I (M, 32) will love each other, and caress our hair like the gentle Koala-Men of Graaaxxux-9.1 Box no. 1302.

  This column is a ziggurat of heartache and I am its High Priest. Pork Belly-Eating Champion, Stroud, 1981 (M, 47). Box no. 8821.

  Leading a ragtag fugitive fleet on a lonely quest for a shiny planet known as Earth.2 Join me–I may want to meet more of your kind. Ridiculous M still dependent on his mother after all these years (43 of them). Make sure it’s a chucky egg or I won’t eat it. For centuries we have travelled, etc., etc. Box no. 6231.

  Using advanced quantum mechanics and some bits from an old Breville sandwich toaster, I have been to the future and witnessed its glories. They say men will never be able to hover like wasps, but I tell you they haven’t witnessed our many bounteous unions with the delightful Wasp People of Ruislip’s as yet undiscovered subterranean caverns. Join me, and let us be the first to offer up our bodies and secure majestic wasp-like hovering abilities for generations to come. Man, 63. Possibly ingesting medicines that shouldn’t be taken orally. Box no. 2268.

  Open your heart to the impossible! One day, men will possess psychic tentacles capable of reading the minds of our lovers and satisfying their every desire. Until then, you’ll just have to put up with accident-prone biological researcher (M, 35). I’m all fingers, thumbs, and whatever the hell this thing growing on my elbow is. Box no. 8545.

  A chicken laid an egg. And when that egg hatched a chick appeared. That chick grew up and in its turn laid an egg. When that egg hatched, sure enough a chick appeared and fed and grew and in its turn
laid an egg. The egg hatched. And the chick that hatched from that egg fed and grew and loved and laid an egg. But when that egg hatched, they found this ad inside! 42-year-old chemical-ingesting loon (M). Box no. 4731.

  This advert is the thinnest in the paper. As such, it offers little burning potential should a disaster strike the earth and fuel become unavailable to those other than the most powerful. Burn the other ads instead, and sleep with mine under your pillow, dreaming of what might have been had you actually replied to it rather than making contingency plans for the end of the world. Woman, 39, seeks man to 45 who isn’t prone to bouts of panic buying or nervous rashes. Box no. 0886.

  ‘Regarding the cerebellum, there is a culture and a presentation. Both hold sway.’Andromeda-fixated3 thirty-something poof. Damn sure I’m not the only one in here. Fairly certain, however, that I do have the finest frontal lobes in the tri-galaxies and would look hot as fusion in a bikini. Please help me. Box no. 5553.

  When American scientists tried to forge ahead in the space race by adapting the alien technologies they had recovered from the crashes in the Nevada desert during the fifties, they overlooked me. That’s because I’m not a scientist, know nothing about spacecraft or alien technology and come from Burnley. In other respects, I was the ideal man for the job. You may want to consider this when looking for a well-groomed, articulate, handsome, educated late-twenties blond gentleman. Man, 45, beard. Box no. 6421.

  I have a recipe for space cakes. My theory is that, when they’re eaten, the human body no longer needs oxygen to survive for as long as the cakes are being digested. The key ingredient is a derivative of a plant used by inhabitants of the Pacific islands thousands of years ago that enabled them to dive for extended periods whilst fishing. Once made stable, this ingredient lasts longer in the human body, making longer, less cumbersome space-walks possible. What I currently lack, however, is the money to make this venture happen. That’s where you come in: big-chested 21-year-old rich totty with fondness for 62-year-old loons. Write quickly–time, and the nurses, are against me. Box no. 2133.