Porsche Man: The English Premier West Ham

Pulling outback style quesadillas from the Microwave oven Porsche Man let the half-priced appetizers take home bag contents cool down when suddenly the doorbell rang.

“Hold on,” she screamed remembering an afternoon engagement scheduled, “coming right there.”

Opening the wooden gate immediately Chelsea the blues player stood there ready for action, “Lionesses had no goals today,” she sadly expressed acknowledging the disappointment event down under.

“I know,” Porsche Man agreed, “why don’t you and your guitar come in, we can talk about getting goals.”

Following her professional escort Chelsea entered the kitchen taking a smell, “something really seems to be cooking.”

“It’s left over half priced appetizers from the American franchise I went to the other night,”

“Feeling homesick? Porsche Man,”

“No, just need to find goals and knew there would be men at work, then reminded myself why I came to this side of the pond,”

“To find a goal?”

“Well, I am a talented West Ham,”

“And you hammer away, trying to get goals,”

“True,”

“Well thank you for letting me play the blues today in your outdoor courtyard,” Chelsea gratefully gestured taking the snack towards the patio.

“You're welcome.”

“Well, I have the Mad Hatter coming Friday and they are furious.”

“Tell me about it,” Chelsea laughed, “but isn’t that the reason they are called Mad Hatters?”

Shrugging her shoulders Chelsea added, “actually, their stage is not ready for our top tier, and even sacrificed a wine delivery this weekend”

“That is too bad, and after your TGIF mental health invitation I have a diplomatic meeting over at the Mad Hatter place,”

“You will set things straight, you are Porsche Man, the American theatrical tease."

“That is right and i already have a goal today,” Porsche Man carefully worded her accomplishment, “I made before you started singing the blues.”

Finished with the complementary catering Chelsea picked up her instrument and started to set up for her solo concert. After doing a sound check, she started strumming and singing, appreciating Porsche Man appearing holding the teacup which the mad hatters would probably twist and shout. Between lyrics Chelsea decided to confront a bothersome issue, “I know I am well off, I am a billionaire’s daughter, you know, and I just wanted to let you know I have a goal, I sing the blues.”

“That you do,” Porsche Man clapped positively.

Near the ending to the first set Chelsea spoke up a second time, “you fouled me saying I needed free food.”

“I was being hospitable,” Porsche Man defended stopping the verbal shot from not reaching its expected destination.

“Wait a minute you are encroaching on my affluent lifestyle,” Chelsea continued complaining angrily still level with the colonist.

“Who does she think she is? Serving me corporate leftovers.”

Hearing the displeasure Porsche Man returned to her private performance audience position. Giving a glare Chelsea could see another goal rolling in Porsche Man’s go-getting eyes and the reality shook her agenda stage. During extra time which dragged longer than calculated the talent’s exhausted behavior caught up and she committed a foul leading to Porsche Man goal difference padding,

“With that I am debatably in the top five,” Porsche Man boasted.

“I guess you are rising in the charts,” the musician observed.

“Yup,”

Calling it a day Chelsea packed up her equipment, “Friday will be here soon enough, and I will meet with those Mad Hatters.”

“To be honest I am going to the beach next weekend,”

“Sounds like fun and you won’t be getting any goals there,” Chelsea smirked knowing the Mad Hatters could breed a nice goal total and draw her close with the stars and stripes, “and if the Mad Hatters are still not prepared, a postponement defines no easy goals gifted.”

“Shrewd, thinking Chelsea,” Porsche Man showed her out.