"67-year-old dissatisfied flâneur picking my toothless way through the urban sprawl, self-destructive, sliding towards pathos, jacked up on Viagra and on the lookout for a contortionist who plays the trumpet."
No surprises there. Romantic hopefuls in the London Review of Books personals drolly dis themselves routinely, boasting that they are, among other things, older than 100, infertile, flatulent, "big-boned" and look like "Hervé Villechaize and carry an odour of wheat." David Rose of the London Review collected gems such as the one above in They Call Me Naughty Lola (Scribner, 2006).
This article was originally published with the title Nervy Sex Appeal.
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