The Bianconeri. The Old Lady. Juve. The big boys of Italy. Whether gracing the Stadio delle Alpi in the now-legendary black and white (which came via a Notts County fan incidentally), or swanning about the Allianz in delicious bright pink numbers, they’ve looked the mutt’s nuts for ages. Here are the best kits from those connoisseurs of classy Calcio.

1983/84 Away


One way to prove you’re the king? Take all of Europe’s cup winners, stick ‘em in a big old Royal Rumble and let ’em fight to the death / play a structured football competition. Juve strolled to the 1984 Cup Winners’ Cup final with Messrs Vignola, Tardelli, Rossi, Boniek and Platini in tow, and beat Porto in this slick yellow and blue number. Block yellow. Blue deets. Fucking lovely. Even more lovely when bookended by black boots and voluptuous moustaches. 

2015/16 Away

Source: Adidas /

Is pink good? Pink is good. 

1973 Home

Well Offside

It’s Fabio. Our Fabio. In a plunging V-Neck with beautiful details and a premium cotton feel. He’s stealing your girlfriend. He’s stealing your boyfriend. He’s stealing fashion for the autumn and taking it to the hills of Turin.

1997/98 Home

Source: Well Offside

Kappa changed up the stripes for this beauty, moving them closer to a modern version of a timeless classic. Look at the collar; you could wear that to ping in forty yarders in the afternoon, and wear it to a dinner in the evening. Despite the change, the 1997/98 season was as dominant as the previous—but who cares. The reason this glorious shirt will live long in the memory is it was worn by some of the greatest to have ever played for the Old Lady, including the Le Maître, the 6-foot French duke who ruled with an iron thwack in a velvet Predator: Zizou Zidane. Alessandro Del Piero also bagged a career-best 21 goals in the shirt, as Juve carried on their path of Scudetto-snagging wanton destruction. It’s got Mini Disc on it. Mini Disc. Sick.

1961 Training

Source: Well Offside

Jesus wept. Juventus were doing logo-heavy quarter-zips before Supreme made that one you tried to buy last spring. Sensational.

2008/09 Away

Source: Well Offside

“I’m sorry? You want a… satin gold away shirt? With a sponsor that’s named after a second-hand car dealership from an industrial estate in Burton-on-Trent?” 

“Yep, exactly that please Nike representative. Trust us; it’ll look class—we’re fucking Juventus, of course it will.” 

1957 Home

Source: Well Offside

It’s that shirt you tried to wear at the beach this summer. The one you tucked away all nice in your hand luggage specific-built suitcase. The one you took out and put on and looked at in the mirror and decided “stripes are for me”. The one you spilt gelato all over on the first day. It’s in the bin now. 

1992/93 Home

Source: Well Offside

Here at Mundial HQ, there are a few players who all of us unwaveringly adore. One of those? Bobby Baggio, the rat-tailed rascal who, for five seasons, strolled around Turin like he owned it while wearing this suave, Kappa-crafted equivalent of a tailored Italian suit. One of his 30 goals in the 1992/93 season was a glorious solo effort against Milan, mugging Sebastiano Rossi off to such a degree that he must’ve questioned what it meant to be a keeper. It seems Juve just binned off their badge for this one, instead taking two lovely stars from an army general’s sleeve and painstakingly stitching them on. Danone, another food company incidentally, plastered their name across the front of this one—remember them? Chewing down those grim Actimels as a kid, your mum desperate to get some vague resemblance of fruit into your gut. Simpler times.

1995/1996 Away

And perhaps the best, naturally, is saved ‘til last. This rich blue and yellow beauty stirs something inside we can’t quite describe. Was it that Ravanelli goal in the 1996 Champions League final where, while falling flat on his arse, somehow squeezed the ball into the far corner? The yellow stars stitched across each of the shoulders? The yellow and blue collar, each colour fighting for neck room like some silk neckerchief hand-sewn in the Tuscan hills? The boxed out names on the back? Or was it the ethereal glimmer of the Stadio delle Alpi floodlights bouncing resplendently, and ever-so playfully, off the bright bald head of Attilio Lombardo? Probably. It probably was.


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