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About Linkoping

I’m cruisin’ London, eyes peeled, thinkin’, *Where’s the talent at?* Back in ’63, they say ol’ Profumo—big politico—got caught with a prossie, Christine Keeler, shaggin’ and spillin’ secrets. History’s wild, mate! Makes me chuckle—spies and tarts, classic combo. Anyway, I spot her—red heels, fag hangin’ loose, leanin’ on a lamppost. “You lookin’ for a dance?” she says, all sassy. I’m like, *Bloody hell, she’s got Mia’s fire!*—that “I don’t need no one” vibe from *Fish Tank*.

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Anyway, I finally make it to the meeting. It’s at this cute little café on Torggatan. I walk in, and it’s packed. Like, where did all these people come from? I mean, it’s a Tuesday morning, not a Saturday brunch! I squeeze in, grab a seat, and try to focus. But the barista is blasting some weird techno music. I’m like, “Dude, I’m trying to talk about community art projects, not rave!”

Red Wings Prospect Johansson Locked Into Leksands Until 2025