When finally we get to meet,

perhaps if you one day turn round in the street,

I will woo you and whisk you away

for a year and a day.

For I love a cliché -

so I’ll wine you and dine you too.

And I’ll pay.

I’ll impress you with my repartee.

We’ll cuddle up on the settee.

Just you and me

and Sky TV

and Chicken in a Bucket for three.

I treasure my clippings of you,

I stick them in an album with glue.

Though they’re pointing out your

expanding Hips.

Too many chips

They say when they’re debating which is sexier -

That or anorexia.

I know you’re a little bit fatter

than when you were in that Soap

But to me that doesn’t matter.

As long as I can still carry you

when we finally elope.

Why do they have to point their cameras right

up your skirt? So they can tell you might

have problems with Cellulite?

Or got no pants on tonight?

Then they can put it on a dodgy internet site?

You can live at my house.

Now that my mum’s dead.

We can be wed

We can sleep in my bed.

Under my Sheffield United bedspread.

You can dump your rich fiance

Who I read once shagged Beyonce

Behind your back

And hers. Dirty get.

That goal scoring Brazilian

earns about a half a million

a week or something, so they say.

But I reckon he’s gay, anyway.

So you’ll be well rid.

Our love will be strong once we’ve met

Although that hasn’t happened as yet

It’ll be great when we do

‘Cos it’s fate me and you

I’ll say Hello

Which will be ironic

‘Cos that was where I first saw your face

All those years ago.