Porsche Man The English Premier West Ham

Earlier in the week Porsche Man received a tempting luring golden letter telling the surprise success story that since she was in the top four a party was going to be held on her property. Immediately she dialed the toll-free number and confirmed the engagement.

“I am hosting the Global Music Festival and famous bands are going to play in my courtyard,” she dreamed, seeing the accomplishment turn reality.

Saturday soon arrived and the bubble machine was working, “I know I am getting at least one goal,” the American theatrical tease thought when the doorbell rang. Rushing to the entry she opened it and the citizens stood there patiently, “welcome to the top four,” they screamed, “you are now an elite, ready to host parties!”

“Well, things are heating up, right now,” Porsche Man informed the guests, “outback Sgt. Pepper is entertaining lonely hearts, and they still have a second half, but I do say those wolves are keeping them mellow yellow.”

“Wolves, huh,” the public critically commentated.

Then other citizens entered, and one group brought red-hot chili, “Well thank you very much,” Porsche Man acted grateful, “it is our pleasure, welcome to the elite four.”

Going back outside Porsche Man noticed Sgt. Pepper took back control and despite displaying a little drama their night ended happily.

“That was nice,” Porsche Man thought slipping away, finding a small ward where she reflected upon the proud, valiant and brave opportunity, achieving a goal.

“This is going to work,” Porsche Man stayed confident when the event reached its halfway point, and she graced the top spot looking down. Returning to the excitement the American grabbed a plate and tried the red-hot chili. Due to her popularity the situation turned to a crowded stand still,

“How does it feel to be an elite four?” Porsche Man could hear someone question.

“I guess,” she tried to answer, “great.”

Escaping into fresh air, Porsche Man found out another group took to the stage, “citizens seem to be very happy; they must have found a goal.”

Seeing the mass attendance chuckle, in a certain way, made Porsche Man nervously wonder, “is this what it means to be in the higher level?” Porsche Man’s inquiry ended up overheard. “Do not worry about it darling, we citizens nailed another goal, you are no longer in the elite group,” the drunken voice slurred.

Before everything wrapped, the citizens amazingly notched a third goal in the same way Sgt. Pepper spent a day in his life, friendly socializing. “Excuse me?” Porsche Man hoped everyone would vacate her premises.

When the last guest prepared a take home plate. Porsche Man kindly offered, “you can keep the plastic container.”

“I can say it came from Porsche Man, the west ham who is from the United States,”

“Yes, you can,” Porsche Man agreed.

“You must admit the red-hot Chili was good.”

“And Sgt. Pepper was also hot,” Porsche Man bolted and locked the gate.

Leaning up against the blockade, “I have got to clean this place,” she whimpered before pausing, “in the morning.”

Catching a few hours' sleep Porsche Man recounted, what exactly happened, “I was at the peak for nearly a half hour,” she remembered, “then I do not have a clue.”

Sitting in the kitchen she reviewed her date book schedule, “I have a meeting next week at Sgt. Pepper’s location.” Cell phone in hand Porsche Man dialed the number securing the appointment, “Yes, of course, we are still on for next Sunday,”

“Do you know what happened last night?” Porsche Man honestly searched for an answer, “I was hammered.”

“Porsche Man,” Sgt. Pepper stated, “just let it be. You had great red-hot chili.”