While these ads may reveal the undeniable erudition of their authors, do they actually get anyone laid? Sciolistic female, fifties, ponders.
Easily distracted cytogeneticist (F. 53) seeks anyone capable of enacting quinacrine banding during their turn at charades. Is it a book? A film? A song? No – it’s a mitotic inhibitor being added to a cell culture. Please hold me.
My ideal man is King Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden. But as long as you don’t leave the door open during toilet moments and adopt the so-called ‘eco-friendly’ maxim ‘if it’s yellow, let it mellow’ then you’ll do. Historian F, 37. Has long since learned not to expect much from this column, but would like a guy who flushes.
Play your cards right and I’ll marry you. Compulsive gambling F, 41, seeks non-judgmental M to whatever with fully functional credit cards, easily remembered pin number, and desperately poor tolerance of alcohol. Also seeking lateral thinking lawyer with track record of successful implausible embezzlement defence claims.
Ravish Me, Mr. Caveman. Gracile, fast-running Pleistocene female, 42 — Raquel Welch's legs, soul, fur miniskir t— seeks bestial but non-smoking Homo Erectus to drag me behind a bush. Let's see what evolves: wordless love, cranial expansion, extensive use of your primitive tool? Morphology open, but be 40's, a primal, yet stand-up, guy. No old fossils. Higher order cerebral functions unnecessary, but have enough cunning and cash flow to migrate to new habitat in Americas. Interested? Don't take a million years to write.
From the London Review of Books