• 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
• If intense, post-fight sex scares you, I’m not the woman for you (amateur big-boned cage wrestler, 62). Box no. 8744.

• My last seven adverts in this column were influenced by the early catalogue of Krautrock band, Paternoster. This one, however, is based entirely around the work of Gil Scott-Heron. Man, 32.
• Possibly the last person you want to be stood next to at a house-party you’ve been dragged along to by a friend who wants to get off with the flatmate of the guy whose birthday it is. Hey! Have you ever heard Boards of Canada? They’re amazing; I’ll burn you a CD. Box no. 3178.

• Meet the new face of indoor bowling! More or less the same as the old face, but less facial hair and better teeth. M, 28. Box no. 3377.

• The celebrity I resemble the most is Potsie from Happy Days. What feels so right can’t be wrong. Man, 46. Box no. 2480.

• 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.

• Philanthropy is my middle name. It’s just a name though so don’t be expecting any free rides. You can call me Mr Wallace. My first name is none of your business. Applications to box no. 9741.

• I have a mug that says ‘World’s Greatest Lover’. I think that’s my referees covered. How about you? Man. 37. Bishopsgate. Box no. 8763

• 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.

• All humans are 99.9% genetically identical, so don’t even think of ending any potential relationship begun here with ‘I just don’t think we have enough in common’. Science has long since proven that I am the man for you (41, likes to be referred to as ‘Wing Commander’ in the bedroom). Box no. 3501.

• 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.

• 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.

• All I need is the air that I breathe and to love you. And a five-door saloon (fully air-con). And minimum income of £55K per annum. And two holidays a year (Latin America plus one other of my choosing). If you can meet these requirements, apply to ‘Evil Dragon Lady, Breaker of Men’s Constitutions’ (37), box no. 3685.

• You’re a brunette, 6′, long legs, 25-30, intelligent, articulate and drop dead gorgeous. I, on the other hand, have the looks of Herve Villechaize and an odour of wheat. No returns and no refunds at box no. 3321.

• If I could be anywhere in time right now it would be 17 December 1972. I have my reasons. Man, 57. Box no. 1553.

• The usual hyperbole infuses this ad with a whiff of playful narcissism and Falstaffian bathos. But scratch below the surface and you’ll soon find that I really am the greatest man ever to have lived. Truly great man, 37. Better than Elvis and Gandhi. You’ll never be a genuinely worthy partner, but try anyway by first replying to box no. 7637. Include a full list of qualifications, your aspirations, and a full frontal nude body shot.

• When not in my London city office overseeing the day-to-day business of my successful accountancy firm, I can be found leaning inside taxi cabs, spitting wild obscenities and challenging the drivers to fisticuffs. M, 47. We take the direct route home, we don’t stop at Belisha beacons and we never – and I mean never – leave the impudence of a box junction unquestioned. Don’t expect a tip from box no. 9091.

• OMG! This magazine is the shizz. Seriously, dudes. Awesome! LOL! Classics lecturer (M, 48). Possibly out of his depth with today’s youth. KTHX! Box no. 2680.

• Google-search this: ‘Inherited wealth real estate Bentley’ – that’s me, result 63 of 275. It’ll take 0.21 seconds to find me online, but an eternity of heartache in real life. Save time now by writing to box no. 4511, or by just giving up. Mother says you’ll never be good enough for me anyway. And you carry the odour of your class.

• We’ve all made mistakes. Mine was a cerise pump during London Fashion Week 2004. Style troubadour, (M, 35). WLTM similar, or appropriately dour fag hag. Box no. 8643.

• The toughest decision I ever had to make was choosing between soup and fish in a Brighton café in 1987 (I went for the fish, though later regretted my decision when I discovered the cod had been over-seasoned). Now, however, I’ll have to pick one of you delicious women. The selection procedure will involve a four-part interview, along with an aptitude test and multiple-choice questionnaire. Apply now for full details to stupid man, 45. Box no. 6821.

• Remember when all this was open fields, and you could go out and leave your door unlocked? Woman, 24. Inherited her mother’s unreasonable and utterly unfounded nostalgia (and her father’s hirsute back). WLTM barber with fondness for Sherbet Dib-Dabs and Parma Violets. Box no. 8486.

• God appeared to me in a dream last night and spoke your name in my ear. He gave me the winning lottery numbers, too, though, so you can understand where my priorities lay when I raced to grab a notebook and pen. Man, 37, living on hope and the next seven weeks’ bonus balls seeks woman whose first name begins with S, or maybe F, and rhymes with chicken, and has a surname that’s either a place in Shropshire or the title of a 1979 Earth, Wind and Fire track. Shicken Boogiewonderland, I know you’re reading this. Write now to box no. 5729.

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