‘Naughty Emily’
Woman, 38. WLTM man to 45 who doesn’t name his genitals after German chancellors. You know who you are and, no, I don’t want to meet either Bismarck, Bethmann Hollweg, or Prince Chlodwig zu Hohenlohe-Schillingsfürst, however admirable the independence he gave to secretaries of state may have been.
So, the below article, by Erin Bealmear, was fun and interesting.
I think a certain amount of her confusion as to what kind of person would be interested in dating the person behind a fake Emily Dickinson profile would be best answered by reading the following two books by David Rose.
They Call Me Naughty Lola … and … Sexually, I’m More Of A Switzerland.
You ¹ should read them too … most especially the second one ² … but not in the same place as people who are trying to sleep — they won’t thank you for it.
I am more like Grand Duke Nicholas Mikhailovich of Russia than anyone else who has ever advertised here. Man, 54. Box no. 5349.
You’re Helen Mirren. I’m Will Self. One half of this century’s übercouple-to-be seeks tousled fems to 50 for weekends full of recondite wines, obscure blandishments, and winning references to abstruse 11th century sexual practices. No loons. Box no. 7936.
Normally on the first few dates I borrow mannerisms from the more interesting people I know and very often steal phrases and anecdotes from them along with concepts and ideas from obscure yet wittily-written books. It makes me appear more attractive and personable than I actually am. With you, however, I’m going to be a belligerent old shit from the very beginning. That’s because I like you and feel ready to give you honesty. Belligerent old shit (M, 53). Box no. 6378
If fate brings us together, destiny will probably tear us apart. Kismet may see us off in the morning. Causality might cook dinner. Hubris will almost certainly iron my trousers. Determinedly deterministic man, 37. Mostly leaving everything in the hands of Royal Mail and a box number reply-forwarding system that made no sense whatsoever when Louisa at the LRB tried to explain it. Box no. 8522
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
I celebrated my fortieth birthday last week by cataloguing my collection of bird feeders. Next year I’m hoping for sexual intercourse. And a cake. Join my invite mailing list at box no. 6831. Man
Philanthropy is my middle name. It’s just a name though so don’t be expecting any free rides. You can call me Mr Wallace. My first name is none of your business. Applications to box no. 9741.
If I could be anywhere in time right now it would be 17 December 1972. I have my reasons. Man, 57. Box no. 1553
The usual hyperbole infuses this ad with a whiff of playful narcissism and Falstaffian bathos. But scratch below the surface and you’ll soon find that I really am the greatest man ever to have lived. Truly great man, 37. Better than Elvis and Gandhi. You’ll never be a genuinely worthy partner, but try anyway by first replying to box no. 7637. Include a full list of qualifications, your aspirations, and a full frontal nude body shot.
Tall, handsome, well-built, articulate, intelligent, sensitive, yet often grossly inaccurate man, 21. Cynics (and some cheap Brentwood psychiatrists) may say ’pathological liar’, but I like to use ‘creative with reality’. Join me in my 36-bedroom mansion on my Gloucestershire estate, set in 400 acres of wild-stag populated woodland. East Ham. Box no. 0620.
Remember when all this was open fields, and you could go out and leave your door unlocked? Woman, 24. Inherited her mother’s unreasonable and utterly unfounded nostalgia (and her father’s hirsute back). WLTM barber with fondness for Sherbet Dib-Dabs and Parma Violets. Box no. 8486.
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. 5729
Woman, 51. Not good at parties but tremendous breasts. Box no. 5436.
Yesterday I was a disgusting spectacle in end-stage alcoholism with a gambling problem and not a hope in the world. Today I am the author of this magnificent life-altering statement of yearning and desire. You are a woman to 55 with plenty of cash and very little self-respect. When you reply to this advert your life will never be the same again. My name is Bernard. Never call me Bernie. box no. 31/01
Nothing says ’I love you’ in a more sincere way than being woken with champagne and pastries and roses. Apart from a dog with peanut butter on the roof of his mouth. Write, we’ll meet, sleep together and in the morning, just before my friend’s wife tells me to get off their sofa and get out of their house I’ll show you Winston’s trick. It’s hilarious. You’ll have to bring the peanut butter though — they’ve put locks on all the kitchen cupboards. Man, 26. Box no. 6433
If you think I’m going to love you — you’re right. Clingy, over-emotional and socially draining woman, 36. Once you’ve got me, you can never ever leave me. Not ever. Prone to maniacal bursts of crying, usually followed by excitable and uncontrollable laughter. Life is a roller coaster; you’ve just got to ride it, as Ronan Keating once said. Buxton. Box no. 0617
Your stars for today: A pretty Cancerian, 35, will cook you a lovely meal, caress your hair softly, then squeeze every damn penny from your adulterous bank account before slashing the tyres of your Beamer. Let that serve as a warning. Now then, risotto?
My hobbies include crying and hating men. F, 29. Box no. 8620.
Some incidents in life are blacked-out for a reason. Much as I shudder to recall an incident at Dulwich in 1968 involving a goose, a penny whistle, and the local priest, so you will probably twist in the wind whenever, in years to come, you’re forced to relate a tale about how you once replied to a personal advert in a flurry of misplaced appreciation for what you regarded at the time as a heightened and sophisticated sense of irony. Man, 40. Hates geese. And priests. And penny whistles. Box no. 7793.
Blah, blah, whatever. indifferent woman. Go ahead and write Box #3253 Like I care.
Most partners cite the importance of having a loved one who will listen and understand them. I’m here to rubbish this theory. F, 38.
I’d like to dedicate this advert to my mother (difficult cow 65) who is responsible for me being single at 36. Man. 36. Single. Held at home by years of subtle emotional abuse and at least 19 fake heart attacks. Box # 6207
A girlfriend isn’t a girlfriend unless she makes my mother cry with grief every time she visits. For two years now she’s sat, contented, in front of the TV with not a care in the world. That’s where you come in. Professional M, 38, seeks, heartless common slut with no small knowledge of sheltered-housing application procedures.
I’m not afraid to say what I feel. At this moment in time I feel anger, giddiness, and the urge to forage for berries at motorway hedgerows. Man. 38 Box #3632.
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.
Gynotikolobomassphile (M, 43) seeks neanimorphic F to 60 to share euneirophrenia. Must enjoy pissing off librarians (and be able to provide the correct term for same).
Beneath this hostile museum curator’s exterior lies a hostile museum curator’s interior. F, 38.
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.
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 outpatients.
They say you are what you eat. I’m eight Panadols, a few daily Seroxats, a couple of Senokots, a whole clutch of Nuvelles and — since I came around this afternoon — three crayons and a Maxi Pad. Dizzy historian (M, 54) seeks woman for whom the terms ‘good times’, ‘tracking device’ and ‘A&E’ aren’t always a million miles away from each other. Box no. 3235.
My ideal woman is a man. Sorry, mother.
It takes a real man to wear a dress. It takes a revolutionary to wear those shoes with that blusher. Box no. 3194
Emmdee-Emmay: to you it means nothing but to me it opens the door to wealth beyond your wildest imaginings in the form of a herbal tablet found in my son’s wallet that transforms an aging, withered man (64) into an Asian dancing beauty with tremendous breasts! Patent (and bail) pending. Look at my fingers! They’re moving like wondrous vipers!
Romance is dead. So is my mother. Man, 42, inherited wealth.
My finger on the pulse of culture, my ear to the ground of philosophy, my hip in the medical waste bin of Glasgow Royal Infirmary. 14% plastic and counting — geriatric brainiac and compulsive NHS malingering fool (M, 81), looking for richer, older sex-starved woman on the brink of death to exploit and ruin every replacement operation I’ve had since 1974. Box 7648 (quickly, the clock’s ticking, and so is this pacemaker).
Shy, ugly man, fond of extended periods of self-pity, middle-aged, flatulent and overweight, seeks the impossible. Box no. 8623.
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.
Reply to this advert, then together we can face the harsh realities of my second mortgage. M, 38, would like to meet woman to 70 with active credit cards. Box no. 8624.
This advert formally ends the period of my life I like to jokingly refer to as ‘the years I spent a lot of money on drugs’ and begins the phase I hope will be known in the very near future as ‘the weekend I had sex with that guy’. Woman, 32. Box no. 9830
Mature gentleman, 62, aged well, noble grey looks, fit and active, sound mind and unfazed by the fickle demands of modern society … Damn it, I have to pee again.
Bastard. Complete and utter. Whatever you do, don’t reply — you’ll only regret it.
Save it. Anything you’ve got to say can be said to my lawyer. But if you’re not my ex-wife, why not write to box no. 5377? I enjoy vodka, canasta, evenings in, and cold, cold revenge.
To some, I am a world of temptation. To others, I’m just another cross-dressing pharmacist. Male, 41.
Love is strange — wait ’til you see my feet. F, 34, wide-fitting Scholl’s.
The complete list of my sexual conquests: 1994–1995 — 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; 2003–2006 — Evil Satanic Bitch Whore; 2007 — the Internet. [London Review of Books]-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 and have children. Writing’s a good start though. Man, 31.
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¹ Yes … you — let’s face it, if you were half as funny as these personal ads are, you wouldn’t be crying yourself to sleep every night in your lonely bed-sit or mansion 😜
² I laughed so hard that my own review of it was “Oh, dear … I think I just soiled myself.”
