Lonely Hearts in the London Review of Books
by Stuart Clark
There’s something quite compelling about the lonely hearts section in newspapers and magazines. It’s like people watching in miniature. The ads are like windows into other people’s lives. And I must confess I’m quite nosy, so for me they make compulsive reading.
It’s mainly because I think they must be really hard to write. For a start, there’s the stigma. Letting the world know you’re (oh God) single and looking for love seems like an admission of failure – as if you’re saying “yes, it really has got this bad.”
Plus, it’s a pretty tough copy brief when you think about it: sum yourself up in 30 words, in a way that makes you irresistible to your target audience. I mean, where do you start?
Well just like writing a commercial ad for a real product, it’s no use resorting to tired old clichés or standard lonely hearts acronyms. For one thing you’ll just sound like everyone else that’s advertising themselves. But for another no one will believe you anyway.
GSOH? Yeah, right. Anyone who feels they have to point out that they’ve got a good sense of humour almost certainly hasn’t. Bubbly? You mean fat and annoying, surely? Girly? That means you can probably tell me everything I really don’t need to know about Cheryl Cole’s latest handbag – but you haven’t got the foggiest who the Prime Minister is.
No ta, love.
You’ve got to be fresh, original and innovative, approach the brief from a slightly different angle. Like the lonely hearts who place ads in the London Review of Books.
Instead of the standard guff where you attempt to talk yourself up, the LRB advertisers use their 30 words to talk up their foibles and idiosyncrasies. Here are a few of my favourites…
ADS PLACED BY MEN
Normally on the first few dates I borrow mannerisms from the more interesting people I know and very often steal phrases and anecdotes from them along with concepts and ideas from obscure yet wittily-written books. It makes me appear more attractive and personable than I actually am. With you, however, I’m going to be a belligerent old shit from the very beginning. That’s because I like you and feel ready to give you honesty. Belligerent old shit (M, 53). Box no. 6378.
My finger on the pulse of culture, my ear to the ground of philosophy, my hip in the medical waste bin of Glasgow Royal Infirmary. 14% plastic and counting — geriatric brainiac and compulsive NHS malingering fool (M, 81), looking for richer, older sex-starved woman on the brink of death to exploit and ruin every replacement operation I’ve had since 1974. Box no. 7648 (quickly, the clock’s ticking, and so is this pacemaker).
I celebrated my fortieth birthday last week by cataloguing my collection of bird feeders. Next year I’m hoping for sexual intercourse. And a cake. Join my invite mailing list at box no. 6831. Man
They call me Mr Boombastic. You can call me Monty. My real name, however, is Quentin. But only Mother uses that. And Nanny. Monty is fine, though. Anything but Peg Leg (Shrewsbury Prep, 1956, ‘Please don’t make me do cross-country, sir’). Box no. 0473.
I like my women the way I like my kebab. Found by surprise after a drunken night out, and covered in too much tahini. Before long I’ll have discarded you on the pavement of life, but until then you’re the perfect complement to a perfect evening. Man, 32. Rarely produces winning metaphors.
To some, I am a world of temptation. To others, I’m just another cross-dressing pharmacist. Male, 41.
If clumsy, unfeeling lust is your bag, write to the ad above. Otherwise write to me, mid-forties M with boy next door looks, man from U.N.C.L.E. charm, and Fresh Prince of Bel Air casual insouciance. Wikky wikky wick yo. Box no. 2851.
ADS PLACED BY WOMEN
Your stars for today: A pretty Cancerian, 35, will cook you a lovely meal, caress your hair softly, then squeeze every damn penny from your adulterous bank account before slashing the tyres of your Beamer. Let that serve as a warning. Now then, risotto?
Attention male London Review of Books readers: ‘Greetings, earthling — I have come to infest your puny body with legions of my spawn’ is no way to begin a reply. Female, 36 — suspicious of any men declaring themselves to be in possession of a ‘great sense of humor.’
I’m just a girl who can’t say ‘no’ (or ‘anaesthetist’). Lisping Rodgers and Hammerstein fan, female lecturer in politics (37) WLTM man to 40 for thome enthanted eveningth.
Mentally, I’m a size eight. 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. Box no. 5115.
I vacillate wildly between a number of archetypes including, but not limited to, Muriel Spark witticism-trading doyenne, Mariella Frostrup charismatic socialite, brooding, intense Marianne Faithful visionary, and kleptomaniac Germaine Greer amateur upholsterer and ladies’ league darts champion. Woman, 43. Everything I just said was a lie. Apart from the bit about darts. And kleptomania. Great tits though. Box no. 2236.
Tags: Advertising, Advertising Agency, Cheryl Cole, Copywriting, Digital Agency, Digital Marketing Agency, Direct Marketing Agency, Fresh Prince of Bel Air, Germaine Greer, GLasgow Royal Infirmary, London Review of Books, Lonely Hearts, Marianne Faithfull, Marketing Agency, Muriel Spark, NHS, Prime Minister, U.N.C.L.E
