They Call Me Naughty Lola- Personal Ads from the London Review of Books PDF
Preview They Call Me Naughty Lola- Personal Ads from the London Review of Books
SCRIBNER 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 Copyright © 2006 by the London Review of Books All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Originally published in Great Britain in 2006 by Profile Books UK Published by arrangement with Profile Books UK SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of Macmillan Library Reference USA, Inc., used under license by Simon & Schuster, the publisher of this work. Designed by Sue Lamble Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available. ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-4504-0 ISBN-10: 1-4165-4504-2 Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.SimonSays.com This book is dedicated to Molly Parkin, Jamie Carragher, Evel Knievel and Nicola. Contents Introduction Love is strange–wait ’til you see my feet I’ve divorced better men than you Last time I had this much fun, I was on forty tablets a day Golden nutritious wheat in a rotting column of chaff I once came within an ace of making my own toothpaste Vodka, canasta, evenings in, and cold, cold revenge They call me naughty Lola My last chance to get a man fell in autumn, 1992 I’m not a vet, but I do enjoy volunteer work My mind is a globe of excitement Must all the women in my life take the witness stand? Like the ad above, but better-educated The harsh realities of my second mortgage This column reads like a list of X-File character rejects Failure? Pah! I invented the word Evel Knievel / chronology of jumps and injuries Index Introduction The London Review of Books personal ads began in October 1998, with the simple idea of helping people with similar literary and cultural tastes get together. We hoped the column might be a sort of 84 Charing Cross Road endeavour, with readers providing their own versions of Anthony Hopkins and Anne Bancroft finding love among the bookshelves. The first ad we received was from a man ‘on the look-out for a contortionist who plays the trumpet’. In truth, there are few people who can adequately summarise themselves in the thirty or so words that make up the average lonely- heart ad. There are few products or concepts that can be summarised in the same space, so it’s unreasonable to assume that a description of all the complexities and subtleties that make up a person can be trimmed down to a couple of abstract sentences. Add to this the many inherent psychological issues at stake in the placing of a lonely heart–guilt, nervousness, fear of rejection–and an ad can be an accident waiting to happen or an anticlimactic event that fizzles out into an episode of one’s life best forgotten. Because of the dangers of looking slightly foolish, and because of the difficulties of being concise when talking about ourselves, lonely hearts ads, appearing in many publications throughout the world usually become fairly homogenous statements that often default to bland physical descriptions. Height, weight, eye and hair colour are all standard, but so too is every clichéd adjective that can be applied to them. Eyes will be ‘dazzling’, ‘bright’, ‘seductive’, but little else. Advertisers will be ‘slender’ or ‘cuddly’, possibly ‘flame-haired’, or all too often inappropriately compared to a celebrity–‘looks a bit like George Clooney’. The main factor in the success of garnering responses with this type of ad is the wishful thinking of the reader, who will fashion an image of the advertiser based on what little information has been given together with what it is they’ve been looking for all these years. The first exchange of photographs, therefore, will often prove disappointing when it’s realised that the advertiser isn’t Angelina Jolie but an arthritic old sailor with scalp problems. There are notable exceptions. The New York Review of Books has a remarkably successful lonely-hearts section, and the demographic of readers is quite similar to that of the LRB–middle-class, well-educated, intellectual. Rather than list physical attributes, typically advertisers in the NYRB pitch incredibly positive aspects of their personality. They use their thirty-odd words to talk about things they like: favourite seasons, favourite authors, beaches they’re fond of or lakeside walks they enjoy. As a model of lonely hearts it is very encouraging, if at times a little starchy. The advertisers in the London Review of Books, however, are rarely inhibited by positive thinking and they don’t tend to suffer the same degree of nervous overstatement found in other lonely-hearts sections. They have pitched themselves variously over the years as ‘bald and irascible’ or ‘dour and uninteresting’ or ‘hostile and high-maintenance’. Such a self-denigrating and all too honest approach carries a distinctive note of charm. It’s hard, for example, not to fall instantly in love with I’d like to dedicate this advert to my mother (difficult cow, 65) who is responsible for me still being single at 36. Man. 36. Single. Held at home by years of subtle emotional abuse and at least 19 fake heart- attacks. Box no. 6207. Monday mornings are a regular harvest time for personal ads. In the natural order of things they follow the lonely heart’s weekend of solitary wine-drinking in front of Taggart on UK Gold. Consequently, the ads in my post-weekend email inbox tend to have more of a hangover about them than others, or the smoky whiff of a solipsistic Saturday night still in full melancholic tilt and hanging heavy in the adjectives. The authors are ‘unbeaten’, ‘down but not out’, ‘fighters’ or ‘terminally disappointed’. By mid-week the ads are much less gin-soaked in tone and much less likely to mention the advertiser’s preferences for adopting naval ranks in the bedroom. Personally I prefer the weekenders. Apart from anything else they’re much chattier when I have to call to say they’ve given the Ceefax recipe page instead of a valid credit-card number.
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