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January 14, 2008



I have many a time scented the aromatic representation of Tottenham Hotspur. It is what you get as you approach the ground from the High Road and sniff the air on which waft the famed greasy burgers (tm) and fried onions, while the programme sellers vend their slim glossy carnets of matchday news. And in the long-lost mid-to-late-1980s, at least, it was also the whiff of smoke that would go up as the punters rubbed their hands and shook their heads in satisfied or disappointed finality, lit up their red glows and headed out down the white stairs, past the navy gates and into the messy streets again.

Some of probably awkward's editors might also like to know what it smells like in the Tottenham dressing room. But on this last my discretion must prevail.

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  • If Ayn Rand and Walter Benjamin got in a cage fight and then made up over foie gras, single malt scotch and indie pop, you'd have the delightful adventures of "That Was Probably Awkward." Plus or minus the single malt and foie gras, depending on the week's finances. But always the indie pop. Sad, stirring indie pop. And a decent happy hour.

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