I always thought my perfect date
would go like this (well more or less):
we'd fly to Paris in his jet,
he'd wear a tux, I'd wear a dress
by Calvin Klein or Lagerfeld,
to-die-for shoes by Jimmy Choo,
and nestled snugly round my neck
Tahitian pearls - a string or two.
We'd dine at Le Palais Royal
our faces lit by candlelight
he'd order lobster thermidor
and feed me, bite by perfect bite.
And after dinner we'd track down
La Fontaine de la Lumière.
We'd make a wish and then we'd kiss,
his fingers running through my hair.
We'd walk together hand in hand
across Le Pont Louis-Phillipe.
Below, the waters of the Seine
would lay the stars beneath our feet.
And when the Sun rose in the east
and sister Moon sank in the west
I'd watch the city shrink below
and lay my head upon his chest.
Then yesterday I met a man
who asked me out, and I said yes.
We drove to Northwich in his van,
he wore a fleece from M & S,
I wore my oldest pair of jeans.
I had no time to wash my hair
or even put my make up on.
Sounds crazy, but I didn't care.
We opted for a Maccy D's
and sitting on the plastic bench
ate greasy French fries with our hands
(the only thing remotely French).
And afterwards we went to see
Tom Hanks in 'The DaVinci Code'.
The Paris captured on the screen
was beautiful, but left me cold.
And when the ushers chucked us out
we walked together arm in arm
along the Macclesfield canal.
Who'd think old junk could hold such charm?
And when the dawn broke in the east,
and stained the clouds in peach and red,
it found us in his basement flat
sardined into his single bed.
I can't recall a thing before
last night. It's all gone up in smoke.
Forget about the perfect date,
I'd rather have the perfect bloke.