Where do you go to my lovely?

Recently, on facebook, a pal indicated her displeasure at her friend's habit of spoiling Peter Sarstedt's best known hit by singing "I want to look into your shed". I felt sorry for him, so I took it upoin myself to spoil the entire song. Here it is:

You talk like Janet Street Porter And you dance like you have two left feet
Your clothes are all made by Asda
And there's headlice and nits in your hair, yes, there are
You live in a council apartment
Miles away from the strand
Where you keep your Susan Boyle records
And an old friend of Russel Brand, yes, you do

But where do you go to, my lovely
When you're alone in your bed?
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your shed, yes, I do

I've seen all your qualifications
You got from the I.L.E.A.
And the picture you stole from Ikea
Your silliness brightens my day, yes, it does
When you go on your summer vacation
You go to Butlins Skegness
With your chinese designed primark swimsuit
You get a snow white tan on your back, and on your legs
And when the snow falls you're found in Blackpool
With the proletariat
And you sip your Weatherspoons lager
But you don’t think it will make you fat, no, you don't

But what do you keep on those shelves love
I remember full well what you said
Won't you tell me what you’ve stashed in there?
I want to look inside your shed, yes, I do

Your name it is heard in high courts
You know the local dustman
He gave you an old donkey jacket
And you keep it just for fun, for a laugh, ha-ha-ha
They say that when you get married
It'll be to a millionaire
But they don't realize where you came from
And I wonder if they really care, or give a damn

Where do you go to, my lovely
After you’ve ‘et your kebab?
You bring up the phone app for Uber
and order a flounder and dab

I remember the back streets of Hackney
Two teenagers begging in rags
Both touched with disfiguring acne
And sporting electronic tags,
So look into my face now Bianca
And remember just who you are
And though you call me a wanker
I know you still bear the scar, deep inside, yes, you do

I know what you’re up to, my lovely
When you're alone in your shed
moody goods and soft drugs surround you
Where they came from is better not said