No Sex Please, We're British

A lovely little place I like in London is the London Review of Books bookshop. It has a great cafe, yummy cakes, good coffee, and plenty of copies of the LRB for free perusal. I probably shouldn't admit that the first thing I turn to in the LRB is the personals section, but it's definitely the most entertaining bit of the mag. It had never occurred to me that other people might find the personals section of the LRB as entertaining as I do until I saw a columnist for the Guardian post a selection of his favourites. I'm never really sure if these are meant to be taken seriously or if they are submitted for readerly entertainment, but either way they make me laugh and so I thought I'd share a few of the best:

Not only will this advert win me the woman of my dreams (25, tall, brunette, fun, likes late nights, computer games and Pop Tarts), it also wins me a place at the grown-ups’ table. Errant son, 18, swapping Dad’s Hustler subscription for this crap for the last two years.
box no. 31/02

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

If you’re reading this hoping for a mini-biopic about battles with drugs, cancer and divorce, talk to the guy above. But if you want to know about historical battle sites in Scotland, talk to me. Alan, 45. Scottish historical battle expert and BDSM fetishist.
box no. 31/06

I make my own sexual lubricant. The secret ingredient is Bovril. Man, 56. Congleton.
box no. 31/07

I put the phrase ‘five-header bi-sexual orgy’ in this ad to increase my Google hits. Really I’m looking for someone who likes hearty soups and jigsaws of kittens. Woman, 62. Bury.
box no. 31/08

[and my personal favourite]
I hate you all. I hate London. I hate books. I hate critics. I hate this magazine, I hate this column and I hate all the goons who appear in it. But if you have large breasts, are younger than 30 and don’t want to talk about the novel you’re ‘writing’ I’ll put all that aside for approximately two hours one Saturday afternoon in January. Man, 33.
box no. 31/04