Next seasons kit

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Given what you've said, and that Adidas will give us an existing big team template, do we the kits on this link will be both our home and away kit?

Here's the River Kits - with a black 3rd third for good measure

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I’m 100% certain we won’t have any kits with the adidas trefoil on.
Unless you're the guy I'm talking about, I wouldn't be so certain. If it is Adi next season, the guy facilitating is a big blade, so we could get a few favourable options. If you are the guy I'm talking about, text me back, you twat.
 



Unless you're the guy I'm talking about, I wouldn't be so certain. If it is Adi next season, the guy facilitating is a big blade, so we could get a few favourable options. If you are the guy I'm talking about, text me back, you twat.
Well just continue the chat on here Rob. SUFC won’t commit financially to the package that includes the more premium things - the trefoil kits being one.
 
Looks good but then they all look good with that silhouette.

If you consider that perhaps 50% of purchasers might be slightly more rotund, how would the shirt look then🤣😉.

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Can you imagine what slides out of his bowel each day?

The rich, meaty, compacted clay could be weaponised and put in the tips of missiles fired by the Ukrainians against Putins lot

His digestive tract is basically a fully-fitted out biological weapons factory, sustained by an ugly, deluded human who possibly eats Herries Road into a famine.

Just think, for one splendid moment. You are Dr Walid Kahn, a Wadsley Bridge GP in one of those godawful griefhole medical centres with joyous infoposters on community healthcare KPIs, how to examine your scrotum for lumps and nits. There's still a load of '2m Social Distancing' marks about and every Wednesday the place is shut for training. You press the 'next patient button' and out in the waiting room, with one butt-cheek on each of two chairs, he rises in his stinking jeans and football shirt, which has gravy stains running through the white bits onto the Chupa Chups logo.

He comes through the door and the sun goes in. You can see he already is uneasy because he'd rather be seen by a pretty nurse than 'one o'them'.

"Mr Fan ..." you say. "Come in ... sit down."

"Oreyt, pal," he grunts. There is a stench of onions. Something is troubling him, and he sits with a wince and gasp, holding onto your desk.

"Now, Mr Fan. Just a few data protection questions if you don't mind," you say, looking at the wad of case notes on your failing PC which has almost crashed the system. "First Name?"

"Pete," he gasps. He must have run here.

"Post code?"

"S6 1PG" he replies.

"Okay, that's good. Now what seems to be the problem?" you ask, dreading the worst but hoping it is just a cold.

"Its me arse," he says. Yup. Thought so. You think that your years of A Levels, University, Medical Training, Junior Doctoring and tending to stab victims in the Hallamshire have led you to this place with this ... man and his sphincter.

"What is the problem?" you ask, looking at hell itself opening up.

"Me piles. Me fuckin' piles," he says and adjusts his sitting position, again wincing. He inhales and exhales deeply in pain and you can smell Honey Barbecue Vape.

"Okay, what's wrong with them?" You feel like you're trolling him now, but hoping this might not lead to ...

"They've popped. They've fuckin' popped! I'm fuckin' bleedin', mate. When I shit, it's red. And I can't wipe me arse!" Mr Fan looks angry. It's someone else's fault is this, and they're gunna get a reyt fuckin' kickin', thanose.

You brace, and compose yourself.

"Okay, Mr Fan. Let's have a look. Up on the table please." The man looks puzzled, then angry, then scared. His eyes are actually dampening. Tears gather in the lower lids. He blinks them away. He inhales and exhaled deeply again before struggling to his feet and you steer him across ... at a distance ... to the table. He backs onto it, after three goes hops his ruined rear onto it with a yelp, and under instruction, he lies back. "Just pop your trousers down, please," you say and again, he looks fearful, frightened, violated. He hasn't even undone his struggling belt buckle yet.

"Want me to help?" you say.

"Neyaw. Fuck off!" he grunts and undoes the belt and unbuttons his jeans, slides down his voluminous, stained boxers and a sour stench fills the room. It is the smell of the countryside, freshly sprayed manure, cheese and open graves.

"Okay, slip onto your side, please," you say, snapping on lilac-coloured medi-gloves. You also snap on another set on top just in case, and swallow, holding down your breakfast. You say, "now, just hold open your buttocks so we can have a look ..."

He does this. What faces you makes you say, "can you just hold that there for a moment please?"

You turn, leave the room quietly, get your coat and snap tin, go to the car park, start your vehicle, drive home, put the telly on and write your resignation letter to the BMC.
 



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