"67-year-old disaffiliated 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."
A glimpse inside the strange world that is the lonelyhearts column of the London Review of Books. These bibliophiles certainly have very detailed requirements:
A woman in the current issue, for instance, specifies that she is looking for a man "who doesn’t name his genitals after German chancellors" (not even, the ad says, "Prince Chlodwig zu Hohenlohe-Schillingfürst, however admirable the independence he gave to secretaries of state may have been.")
...The woman, a 38-year-old local government arts official with an interest in Bismarck, said she been inspired by a disastrous experience with a date who announced over the tiramisu that he called his private parts "Asquith," after the World War I prime minister.