quote: Come hither, you berry of my desire, my dearest friend to be, find me, you seeker of heavenly horizontal galloping, the one to walk through life with, hand in hand, it is you I wait for, you monster of lip munching. I will be the good in your life, the Pepsi Twist on your lips, the firecracker in your pants, the most enthusiastic partner, your saddle-less bike. Come join me in a love parade for two, for long walks in dark alleys, come stand on bridges with me where we hold hands, cry together and let tears drop on traffic passing by below, and then we laugh. Come marry me!
I point blank refuse to believe this isn't exactly what you'd write in a personal ad Ganje.
Luckily there's always the Belgian chocolates.
[irksome little round yellow beaming face/]
Posts: 8490 | From: London | Registered: Sep 2003
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For some reason, I couldn't do this one at all. So, instead, I think I shall share some choice cuts from the personals in this fortnight's London Review Of Books.
"I cannot guarantee you'll fall in love with me, but I can promise you the best home-brewed beetroot wine you've ever tasted. Now, if that doesn't sound like a fermentation bucket of yummy syphoned lustness I just don't know what does. Man, 41. Stupid like wow!"
"Mentally, I'm a size 8. Compulsive-eating F, 52, WLTM man to 25 for whom the phrase 'beauty is only skin-deep' is both a lifestyle choice and a religious ethos."
"When I inevitably read this ad again in a 'laugh-out loud' follow-up volume of 'hilarious', 'quirky' and 'endearing' lonely hearts ads, it will be like opening a time-capsule of despair on the emptiest period of my pathetic existence. Unless you write now and agree to marry me. No pressure from 'winning', 'charming', best loo-read' F, 38."
"My success as a lover is matched only by my success in the field of astronomy. Man, 47, WLTM woman to 40 with eyes as big as those stars that come up over the trees opposite my house at about 9pm every night, then every 15minutes or so. You know the ones. I call them the Regular Magic Tree Stars. They may be comets. Or planes. Or something. Whatever. Write, we'll have sex, you'll love it."
Posts: 1670 | From: London | Registered: Feb 2006
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I was doing online dating for several years, with varying degrees of intensity ...but only one constant degree of success! :-(
Thus, I should just put my own personals blurb up here. In case you're wondering, my Myspace blurb is almost identical.
Posts: 7428 | From: such drivers' ed films as 'Alice's Adventures Through the Windshield Glass' | Registered: Aug 2005
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quote:There was an ad in the Guardian personals once in the Women seeking Women section. I happened upon it while on a boys weekend on a narrow boat on the river Wey.
Is there a different River Wey to the one I'm thinking of, hobbes? It must've been a fucking riot if there isn't, as the river Wey in Dorset is about six miles long and for two-thirds of its length you could jump across it.
Posts: 1456 | From: nowhere near you | Registered: Feb 2005
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Hello, my name is Ian Hall and I live with Showaddywaddy, the famous 70's singing group, who had hits with Some Girls Do, Some Girls Don't, Some Smell of Sprouts and Rub That Hamster On My Groin. My interests are chess (both flourescent and mint-flavoured), looking at bacon in a funny way, pointing at small ugly children, economical hemorrhoids, throwing vicars into a ravine and then filling the ravine with clotted cream.
My favourite music is spoff, acid-spoons, cumpersod and Verity Lambert, and I'm a big fan of the folk-midget band, Val Doonican's Act of Sodomy, which is now finishing a world tour they started in 1921. Since then they've performed at many venues along the way, accidentally starting World War II and providing the solution to the Cuban missile crisis by telling JFK to repeatedly and seductively hit Arthur Askey across the face with a haddock. I also like classical music, my favourite composers being Mozart, Bach and Tony Gubba (I never tire of listening to his concerto 'They Put The Commentary Hours After The Game Has Finished, You Know'),
What about myself, I hear you ask? Well, I'm 42, and of slight-to-mountainous build, with a generous mane of fair hair (you could see it if my underpants weren't in the way), and a face that from one angle looks like Brad Pitt and from the other resembles Catford Municipal Swimming baths. I do like to look my best when I'm in court, so I wear all the finest lables like Grope, Massivetarts and Gangrene of Mayfair. I do favour shirts of supreme quality and I'm quick to choose the best, just as I'm quick to make a run for it out of M&S with a couple. Don't go to the Birmingham one - those assistants look small and petite but they've got Mike Tyson's grip. I've only just stopped talking like Donald Duck.
My favourite actress is Richard Widmark.
I like Baccarat. A few sandwiches of the stuff always hits the spot when I'm hungry.
I like lap-dancing. In fact, I saw my old headmaster at a lap-dancing club last week. His tassles kept falling off and his thong didn't fit, but it was good to see him again.
I'm always open to new experiences. I'm currently listening to a CD of Cate Blanchett's belches. Not just a fine actress, but she can sound like a bullfrog with a megaphone when she wants to.
I've been married 15 times - 3 to household appliances and once to the winner of the 2.00 at Newmarket - and have been divorced 24 times, once from the entire cast of Guys and Dolls. But I am romantic in every sense and there's nothing I like better than a night out at an exclusive restaurant, with soft music, candlelight, whispered sweet nothings and a man in the corner relieving himself into a bucket while groaning the words 'fruity badgers'.
I adore Mantovani - stinks up the place a bit, but then grave-robbing has its downside.
I live in a luxurious apartment above a factory that makes sex toys for Bruce Forsyth. It's all very stylish and with all the newest mod-cons, it's just that you'll have to get used to the banging and sawing and cries of 'consignment of dildos for Mr. Forsyth!' a few times. Sometimes I have a postman very unique from all the rest. He hits me. 'Good morning, Mr. Hall!' he announces breezily, handing me my monthly box of disgusting material before punching me in the face. It's reassuring to know that in this day and age, where chaos and disorder take sway, you can still trust your friendly postman to violently thump the living daylights out of you.
What do I want from a partner? Well, she must be good-looking, voluptuous and not cover a two-mile radius. And it helps if she doesn't look like Derek Batey. I once went out with a woman who looked like Derek Batey, and she was awful. She had this medical condition that meant that whenever she talked, she sounded like an ambulance siren. I'd ask her to tell me about herself and she'd go 'Neee-naaar! Nee-naaar!' very loudly. A trial.
Anyway, I'd also ask that my potential partner is educated, informed and can rotate 70 degrees without squeaking. Also, she must be sociable and refrain from roaring and chasing gazelles across the plains of Africa. I once found out that my last partner, Edna Pondscum from Battersea, was, in fact, an African lion by the name of Clough. I got full refund from the dating agency and a rash that can only be cured by rubbing chat-show hosts against you. More trouble than it's worth if you ask me.
So there you are then. Please write in reply to Ian Hall, Things, Orifice, Throb B56£$, or call me on the number frequently used by incontinent car-showroom dealers on the look-out for drugs and pork-scratchings. Or, if you're in the area, emit a strong smell of lard and I'll come straight over. Do not, I repeat do not surround yourself with perpendicular cocker spaniels.
Posts: 9378 | From: Wolverhampton | Registered: May 2002
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Lt. Dub, I'm almost certain hobbes meant the River Wye . But I'm pissing myself thinking about narrowboating on the Wey, too.
Posts: 15858 | From: this corner of the bar you can only see half of the big screen | Registered: Aug 2003
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Bitter, old-before-his-time, underachiever, terrible sense of humour, wouldn't like to meet same for long, melancholy walks across blasted moors. He does plenty of that on his fucking own anyway. In fact, stop reading now. You won't phone. They never phone. Bitches.
[ 13.01.2007, 16:31: Message edited by: Super Sharp Shooter ]
Posts: 18241 | Registered: Oct 2003
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