He was a mortgage adviser from Kent, She was a footballer's wife.
They met by the punch at the shareholder's lunch, half-cut and horny and bored with a life
So unwild and weary, they lingered by the fag machine
No childish fancy, he whipped her off to Gretna
Green was the colour of all that he offered and blue was the colour of her eyes
Red was the bed where she led him astray, that spelt danger y'know but they misread the signs
Cliched romancing, picking off all the forbidden fruit
It's like Sid and Nancy in a suit
They'd skip work on Mondays and listen to Whitney, by evenings they'd stroll in the park.
He'd the soul of a poet, and lord she would know it. He showed her the portrait that he kept in the dark, but oh he got lazy, oh yeah that portrait stayed inside, and she got lazy, needless to say the romance
Died on its arse in a blaze of crap fast food dinners and scratch card defeats.
All that was left was the washing-up mess, now the romance is dead so get back in your seats
No my fair lady, oh no he ain't no Mr Right
It's whatever gets you through the night
Too much TV, not enough story
Spilling out your secrets, drunken fury
Sit down concerts, cut price fashion
Mellowing passion, filthy beatnik
Cocktail parties, laminate flooring
Fixed-rate mortgage, baby in the backseat
Weekend retreat, bedside valentine
Brat-spawn punch-up, planning for the home
Oh, Monday repeat, revamped re-write,
Repressed ego, counting down the daylight
In parallel fate we could be dead
In parallel fate we could be lonely
My arms, your lips, your hair, squeeze well
Sharing cookbooks and dirty looks
These are the tokens of our love
These are the trophies of our love
