its mental aint itAll this because some people think the kit is naff
if he wanted an authentic account
he could have posted a year ago
or a few months ago
New Kit?
- Thread starter NaNaNa
- Start date
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if he wanted an authentic account
he could have posted a year ago
or a few months ago
its mental aint it
if he wanted an authentic account
he could have posted a year ago
or a few months ago
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Really weird you two replying to each other on here whilst sitting a yard apartits mental aint it
if he wanted an authentic account
he could have posted a year ago
or a few months ago
i like kalman as poster, but ill never meet him
but yes, keep trying to distract from you never making a single post until this **** oxen kit launch
like i said
at least make a bit of effort ffs
what does this even mean?
so if i lost in a race to lee jenkinson in a 100m race
i will suddenly have some spite against him?
ive never heard of him until this tinpot oxen became a thing
hull city is a proper club
and its a shame we have this ****e
Having shirts on sale well in advance of the new season is actually a positive
It's a pretty low bar but still a positive compared to recent seasons
Yeah you’re right, sorry palwhat does this even mean?
so if i lost in a race to lee jenkinson in a 100m race
i will suddenly have some spite against him?
ive never heard of him until this tinpot oxen became a thing
hull city is a proper club
and its a shame we have this ****e
the city speaks poem by shane rhodes is ****ing amazing though
shane deserves so much credit, its genuinely amazing
lets not give oxen credit for it
they had nothing to do with it
it was the poem that opened the city of culture in 2017
Words come from a room within a room.
This history of this place has layers.
The centre is the edge, so peel away.
Peel and peel and peel.
Peel ‘til something resonates, ‘til something gives.
Peel back the writer and you have a filleter.
Peel back the filleter and you have a trawlerman.
Peel back the trawlerman and you have a trawlerman’s dad.
Peel back the trawlerman’s dad and you have a stowaway.
Before the three coronets were stamped
We punched our gold with H for Hull.
Before the gaslights we ran on oil.
Oil for making paint and soap, hemp for old ship’s rope.
From hollowed boat to sail to steam.
Latchlifter to another dream.
Round here we can make bones speak.
Peel another sheet and look inside.
The wool, the salt, the grain and hides,
The bow, the stern, the wine and stone.
A sailing needle, a scrimshaw tooth.
Tattooed maps guide a sailor home.
There’s a mulberry tree in William’s garden.
His words still ringing round the house.
“So much misery, condensed in so little room”.
Peel another skin. We are all guilty.
What does the strange fruit taste of?
It tastes like fireworks in the mouth.
Through the smallest window Amy’s plane coughs vapour trails
Like a Spirograph across the blue expanse.
There’s hope beyond the stars.
And if you could go there in your metal moth
I’m sure you would.
More than once I tried to leave you,
But your familiar voice brings me back.
I travel across or under the harp and know I’m home again.
Wrapped in these layers, out on an alluring limb.
Put your shell-like to the floor.
Listen to the building breathe.
The city speaks.
It speaks of rust and silver that became a street,
That became a land of green ginger,
A King’s town then a city.
Down the alley to the Plotting Room.
The final thin veneer falls away and reveals the moon.
In its light, a tree silhouetted,
Too big to uproot and plant again.
Tough and weathered where days rotate and remain.
At the core there’s a crack
Where the horizon meets the sky,
Where a tug floats like a lolly stick
On the cold hot chocolate of the Humber
While in the distance, Trinity’s bells
Peal and peal and peal.
NOTHING TO DO WITH ****TY OXEN
shane deserves so much credit, its genuinely amazing
lets not give oxen credit for it
they had nothing to do with it
it was the poem that opened the city of culture in 2017
Words come from a room within a room.
This history of this place has layers.
The centre is the edge, so peel away.
Peel and peel and peel.
Peel ‘til something resonates, ‘til something gives.
Peel back the writer and you have a filleter.
Peel back the filleter and you have a trawlerman.
Peel back the trawlerman and you have a trawlerman’s dad.
Peel back the trawlerman’s dad and you have a stowaway.
Before the three coronets were stamped
We punched our gold with H for Hull.
Before the gaslights we ran on oil.
Oil for making paint and soap, hemp for old ship’s rope.
From hollowed boat to sail to steam.
Latchlifter to another dream.
Round here we can make bones speak.
Peel another sheet and look inside.
The wool, the salt, the grain and hides,
The bow, the stern, the wine and stone.
A sailing needle, a scrimshaw tooth.
Tattooed maps guide a sailor home.
There’s a mulberry tree in William’s garden.
His words still ringing round the house.
“So much misery, condensed in so little room”.
Peel another skin. We are all guilty.
What does the strange fruit taste of?
It tastes like fireworks in the mouth.
Through the smallest window Amy’s plane coughs vapour trails
Like a Spirograph across the blue expanse.
There’s hope beyond the stars.
And if you could go there in your metal moth
I’m sure you would.
More than once I tried to leave you,
But your familiar voice brings me back.
I travel across or under the harp and know I’m home again.
Wrapped in these layers, out on an alluring limb.
Put your shell-like to the floor.
Listen to the building breathe.
The city speaks.
It speaks of rust and silver that became a street,
That became a land of green ginger,
A King’s town then a city.
Down the alley to the Plotting Room.
The final thin veneer falls away and reveals the moon.
In its light, a tree silhouetted,
Too big to uproot and plant again.
Tough and weathered where days rotate and remain.
At the core there’s a crack
Where the horizon meets the sky,
Where a tug floats like a lolly stick
On the cold hot chocolate of the Humber
While in the distance, Trinity’s bells
Peal and peal and peal.
NOTHING TO DO WITH ****TY OXEN
Doesn't us having a totally unique and not a template shirt make us stand out in the whole of the 92? I think it does.
Spurs have Pony, who are they, Everton, Castore, nope, Wolves Sudu, no again,. Palace, Joma not exactly stand out names are they?
Adidas have 8, Nike 3 and Umbro 2.
Wait until you see the shirt.
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this is far more inspiring
without the ****ty oxen ****
this is what it actually means to be from hull
Words come from a room within a room.
This history of this place has layers.
The centre is the edge, so peel away.
Peel and peel and peel.
Peel ‘til something resonates, ‘til something gives.
Peel back the writer and you have a filleter.
Peel back the filleter and you have a trawlerman.
Peel back the trawlerman and you have a trawlerman’s dad.
Peel back the trawlerman’s dad and you have a stowaway.
Before the three coronets were stamped
We punched our gold with H for Hull.
Before the gaslights we ran on oil.
Oil for making paint and soap, hemp for old ship’s rope.
From hollowed boat to sail to steam.
Latchlifter to another dream.
Round here we can make bones speak.
Peel another sheet and look inside.
The wool, the salt, the grain and hides,
The bow, the stern, the wine and stone.
A sailing needle, a scrimshaw tooth.
Tattooed maps guide a sailor home.
There’s a mulberry tree in William’s garden.
His words still ringing round the house.
“So much misery, condensed in so little room”.
Peel another skin. We are all guilty.
What does the strange fruit taste of?
It tastes like fireworks in the mouth.
Through the smallest window Amy’s plane coughs vapour trails
Like a Spirograph across the blue expanse.
There’s hope beyond the stars.
And if you could go there in your metal moth
I’m sure you would.
More than once I tried to leave you,
But your familiar voice brings me back.
I travel across or under the harp and know I’m home again.
Wrapped in these layers, out on an alluring limb.
Put your shell-like to the floor.
Listen to the building breathe.
The city speaks.
It speaks of rust and silver that became a street,
That became a land of green ginger,
A King’s town then a city.
Down the alley to the Plotting Room.
The final thin veneer falls away and reveals the moon.
In its light, a tree silhouetted,
Too big to uproot and plant again.
Tough and weathered where days rotate and remain.
At the core there’s a crack
Where the horizon meets the sky,
Where a tug floats like a lolly stick
On the cold hot chocolate of the Humber
While in the distance, Trinity’s bells
Peal and peal and peal
even though i dont live in hull anymore
this poem makes me proud and i show it to all
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best thing ive ever seen, i once wrote my ex gfs name in the snow in that square in the middle of the night
30foot letters 2012
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