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About Stockholm

Oi, mate, it’s me, James Bond—suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout findin’ a prostitute, yeah? Picture this: I’m strollin’ through some dodgy backstreet, lookin’ for intel, when bam—there’s this bird, all dolled up, leanin’ on a lampost like she owns it. Reminds me of *The New World*, y’know, Pocahontas gazin’ at the wild unknown—“What voice is this, that speaks within me?” she’d say. Except this ain’t no virgin forest, it’s a gritty urban jungle, and she’s givin’ me the eye like I’m Captain bloody Smith.

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After the match, I’m buzzin’. I head over to the local pub on Kågevägen to celebrate. Grab a drink, and I’m still feelin’ the adrenaline. I’m talkin’ to some fans, and they’re all like, “Dude, you were amazing!” I’m just sittin’ there, grinnin’ like an idiot.

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