The London Review of Personals

The first of an occasional browse through The LRB's personals:

Bright man, Jew, London, seeks compatible woman; childbearing inclinations

The harlequin of doubt has visited me more than once. Often he his accompanied by the jester of shame. Either of these, however, is preferable to the skomorokh of gender confusion, who visits whenever mother leaves me alone in the house. Divorced pharmacist, M, 53.

My favourite Thundercat was Cheetara, and that’s the way I see you: hand-activated bowstaff, accurate – though limited – application of a psychic sixth sense, and fastest of the clowder. Idiot man, 34.

When the switch is in the ‘T’ position the microphone is disconnected and no sound is heard from the aid because the microphone has been replaced by a pick-up coil. My explanation for 13 years of pweeeeeph sounds coming from my head during periods of sexual excitement. Now Bluetooth enabled and finally ready to love again. Man, 63, wrestling with the wonders of the modern world like a naked Amazonian might wrestle with angry snakes.

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.

No beards. F, 38.

'Scarface’, ‘Mad Dog’, ‘Pretty Boy’, ‘Baby Face’ – if I had an underworld crime nickname it would be ‘Screwed by Ex-Wife’s Solicitor and Currently Sleeping in a Caravan’. Man, 42. Screwed by ex-wife’s solicitor and currently sleeping in a caravan.

In April 1982, a golfer at the City Park West Municipal Golf Course in New Orleans was killed after he threw his golf club against a golf cart in frustration. The club snapped and the bottom half rebounded and stabbed him in the throat. This wasn’t the thing that killed the golfer, however. He was killed when he pulled the club head from his neck, thereby increasing the blood flow and loss from his jugular vein. This, and many more golfing tales, from unemployed after-dinner speaker and part-time pastry chef (M, 58)