The London Review of Books is a shitty, trifling scrap-rag consisting of ill-considered one-dimensional appraisals of contemporary best-sellers written by senile pseudo intellectuals and superannuated garreteers. However at the very back of this hebetate publication is a page called 'Classifieds' where one can post a personal ad in hope of finding someone doltish enough to reply to it. Here are some of the aforementioned for your amusement.

I rule the reader comments section on my blog with an iron fist. In the bedroom I allow my sensitive nature to come out. Between these two versions of the same reality, you'll find perfection manifested in the form of a 46 year old gay male podiatrist and freelance juggler.

I have a dream. And that dream is to try on every pair of shoes in the world. That's where you come in: brusque, butch, fem cobbler to 55 with expansive collection of animal skins and a strap-on. Man, 76.

Without my grandfather's contribution to agricultural reforms in 1912, this nation would currently have to import its turnips. While you think about that I shall remove my clothes. Man, 55.

This advert is so bitter that the paper supporting it will yellow and being to mulch within moments of your reading it's malevolently kerning. Each sentence has been diabolically parsed and set upon a sepulcher of 666gsm Hellspawn papyrus, which will collapse and entomb its author's sense of dignity, hope and joy. If however there should be a genuine kind-hearted lady to 31 out there whose hobbies do not include 'ripping of devoted still-beating hearts from the breasts of the jaded-in-waiting', then please write to 30-something M (likes Hawksmoor churches and crab rolls). Otherwise consign me to the compost crypt in your sulphurous garden of broken boughs and bladed grass.

Man 56. Impervious to the effects of pepper spray, as discovered at a recent London review bookshop subscriber evening. In my own dimension, this is not unusual, but here it pretty much makes me a superhero. WLTM easily impressed, unarmed woman of any age and any camber.

I cast a magic spell on you. And now you are reading this advert in a literary magazine that exists only in your mind. Soon you will fall in love with me. When we meet, the odour will not concern you. Mister Mesmer - amateur hypnotist, professional shrimp-farmer (M, 51). Also available for weddings and birthdays.

The sweet smell of apples in the orchard carried on the warm, gentle breeze. A hushed moan, the curtains swish softly. Slowly my breasts come in to focus. The goat bleats. The shackles tighten. And then the chanting starts again. Scary woman, 52, looking for a very specific type of 'perfect Sunday.'

In the dive bar of the forsaken, I am a workhorse whiskey and every woman I have ever fallen in love with has been a surprise Britvic mini. After eight years of being down with cheap larger we were briefly united, but alas, you'd settled. It brings a tear to my eye and puts a lump in my throat. Also three shots of tequila, a slice of lemon, half a cruet set and a long bitter tirade involving endless misquoting of the 'Whitsun Weddings' addressed to a skipping juke box over which I stand sentinel. Two thirds empty half cut literary barfly (M, 72) seeks a better bottling up rota from Love's bartenders. No gingers of bitter lemons.