No sooner does MobyLives make note of the whacky literature perpetrated by Brit wits on Amazon.co.uk (see this post from last Thursday) than a reader tips us off to the even more daft — and wonderfully written — content of the personal ads of the London Review of Books.

To wit (ahem), some examples:

Possession is nine tenths of the law. Unless it’s possession of an A class drug, in which case it’s up to seven years, or an unlimited fine, or both. I’ll be out in 18 months though, probably, until then why not write to M.31 better at optimism than he is at transporting the Persians.
box no. 18/06

Without my grandfather’s contribution to agricultural reforms in 1912, this nation would currently have to import its turnips. While you think about that I shall remove my clothes. Man. 55.
box no. 16/02

In 2004 I was a love machine…now I’m just an affectionate blender. Whirrr.
box no. 18/02

I cast a magic spell on you. And now you are reading this advert in a literary magazine that exists only in your mind. Soon you will fall in love with me. When we meet, the odour will not concern you. Mr Mesmer: amateur hypnotist, professional shrimp-farmer (M, 51). Also available for weddings and birthdays.
box no. 16/05

Slim, good looking, literary blonde, slightly higher maintenance (37) seeks affable and well educated man, 30 – 40, for irrelevant witty emails before possible meeting. Unless you miss an email that is. I like them twice daily, one at 9.30am and a second at 4pm. Both must make me laugh out loud for hours. Neither must compromise wit, depth, literary allusion or flattering remarks at any point, even if you’re involved in a complex task for a difficult job at a time of precarious employment during a terrifying recession.
box no. 16/19

Like every pícaro, I’ve suffered the degradations of an apparently infinite exile with resilience, but sometimes I wonder if this bathroom will ever be fully tiled. Rugged bachelor with roughish charm (think Rico Dredd on a penal colony made from grout) seeks literary fangirl to 34. box no. 18/01

This advert is exactly what happens when you ignore the label’s warning and actually do ingest the Listerine. Idiot man, 38.
box no. 16/17

And there we have it, proven conclusively. The Brits are funnier than we are, hands down. At least on paper. They still can’t touch us for stand-up, though.