Middlesbrough vs Nottingham Forest 1980

In this article we go back to a tense encounter between Middlesbrough and Nottingham Forest in September 1980, which unfortunately led to tragedy. Let’s hear the stories.

The boro’ frontline story

First we have Middlesbrough Frontline member Ralph who told us…“You always knew when a big mob was coming to Ayresome. Word travelled faster than the Gazette ever could. Early that morning, blokes were already saying Forest had booked themselves a “battle bus” under some daft false name. Proper firm, no colours, all attitude. That told us everything—this wasn’t a casual away day. They were coming for trouble. But this was Middlesbrough. And we weren’t having anyone strolling into our streets thinking they could take the piss. I met the lads near the Speedway about half-eleven—Stevie, Chalky, Big Gaz, all the usual faces. Everyone kept pretending they were there for a quiet pint, but you could feel the charge in the air. Little comments flying around:“Forest reckon they’re the best travelling mob in the country.”
“Not on Costa Street they’re not.”
“They’ll find out what Teesside’s like.”

“By one o’clock there must’ve been fifty, sixty of us drifting up and down Linthorpe Road, waiting to catch the first Forest scouts. It didn’t take long. A half-dozen of them appeared near the shops—red and white scarves hidden, clothes proper casual but the walk giving them away. They looked confident until they saw the wall of Boro boys spreading across the pavement. One of them tried to play polite: “We’re just looking for a pub, lads…” A daft thing to say on matchday. It sparked instantly—no build-up, no ballet, just fists and boots and bodies slamming into parked cars. I caught one of theirs in the ribs, Gaz dropped another with a forearm, and within half a minute they were sprinting back the way they came. Warm-up done. A proper welcome to Teesside. The police spotted us soon after and scattered us, which suited us fine. The main Forest mob wouldn’t be hanging around in groups of six—they’d be marching up later, looking to make a statement.”

The Mood Turns nasty Inside the stadium

“Inside Ayresome Park the atmosphere was tight as a drum. Forest had their section packed, all mouth and noise, taunting across the fences. You could tell they fancied themselves. We just stared back, letting them know without words that they were penned in, and the streets outside belonged to us. The match itself was a blur—0–0, scrappy, nothing to write home about. But we didn’t come for the football. Half the ground felt the same. As soon as the whistle went, everyone spilled out into the narrow streets around the Clive Road and Costa Street end. And straight away we heard it—shouts, running feet, that unmistakable thud of bodies and boots colliding somewhere ahead. Forest were trying it. We pushed through the crowd, past families heading home, past old blokes muttering about the score. Further down, Costa Street was heaving—maybe two hundred bodies surging and swirling. Boro and Forest mixed together like a storm cloud. It looked chaotic, the kind of scrap where you just throw yourself in and hope your own lot are beside you.”

“We moved toward the noise to get stuck in properly, but before we reached it, a breakaway lot of Forest skinheads came tearing out of a side alley. About fifteen of them—jackboots, braces, shaved heads, the whole look. That was more our style. We met them head-on. The first clash was brutal—quick, sharp, heavy. I got grabbed by the jacket and slammed into a wall. Someone swung a boot at me, but Chalky barged in and sent the lad flying. Gaz threw a Forest lad over the bonnet of a car so hard the alarm started blaring. It felt like ten seconds and ten minutes at the same time. Then the police arrived—batons out, screaming at us to get back, grabbing whoever they could. We scattered, half exhilarated, half annoyed we couldn’t finish it properly. It wasn’t until later, when the dust settled slightly, that we realised something was wrong. We saw people running, not in that charged, eager way but panicked—looking behind them, shouting for help. Someone yelled that there was “a lad down the road not moving.” Another said Forest had split off and attacked a small group near Costa Street, catching someone on their own. We didn’t know who. Didn’t know how serious.”

“We weren’t anywhere near it—we were dealing with the skinheads around the corner. But you could sense the mood change instantly. Sirens got louder. Police started locking off streets. The whole place felt wrong. Later that evening we heard the truth. It wasn’t one of the lads from the firm. It wasn’t anyone looking for trouble. It was a 17-year-old Boro fan—Craig French. Quiet lad, by all accounts. Just walking home with his mates. He’d got separated in the stampede. Caught in the wrong place, wrong second, surrounded by idiots treating the street like a battlefield. That hit the firm hard. We expected scrapping, we expected daft injuries, broken noses, even stabbings in the worst cases. But a kid? A quiet, harmless kid who just came to watch the Boro?”

“No. That crossed a line. The talk that night in the pubs was different—angrier, quieter. Forest had always been tasty, always game, but what happened that day cemented something deeper. The Frontline wasn’t going to forget it. None of Teesside would. We weren’t saints. We knew what we were. But that… that wasn’t the code. That wasn’t the game. And it turned Forest from just another firm into something else—an enemy in the truest sense. Every lad who walked the streets after Ayresome Park that day carried that weight. And none of us ever looked at a Forest scarf the same way again.”

Forest Mad Squad Mob On The March

Nottingham Forest ex-Executive Crew member Colin told us…”Middlesbrough vs Nottingham Forest 1980. We knew before we set off that Middlesbrough wasn’t your average away day. Teesside had a reputation—tight streets, hard faces, and lads who didn’t back down. But at Forest, especially in 1980, our lot travelled heavy. And this one, well… this wasn’t going to be a normal Saturday. A few of the older boys had sorted a coach under a false name—“battle bus” the papers called it later, which wasn’t far wrong. None of us wore Forest colours. That was the fashion back then: blend in, walk among them, then strike when the moment was right. There must’ve been sixty of us on that coach. Skinheads, boot boys, casuals, some proper lunatics who’d been waiting for a trip like this since preseason fixtures. The talk all the way up was the same: “Boro think they run those streets.” “Not today they don’t.” “Frontline’ll be out in numbers.” “Good. Let’s see what they’ve got. We weren’t yet called Forest Executive Crew, most of the lads were still Forest Mad Squad Mob”

“As we rolled into Middlesbrough, the streets looked tight and old-fashioned. Terraces packed together like teeth, corner shops every twenty yards, and people staring at the coach like they could sense something wasn’t right. We got off in smaller groups, spreading out so the police wouldn’t clock us as one big mob. The plan was simple—get close to Ayresome, wait for their lot, and take it to them before the match even kicked off. But Boro were ready. The first group of our scouts ran straight into a wall of them near Linthorpe Road. Six Forest lads turned a corner and suddenly there were forty Boro. It wasn’t a contest. The scouts came running back gasping for breath, saying: “They’re out in force!” “Big mob, proper unit!” “Hard bastards, these!” That only wound us up more. Forest firms never backed off—not in those days. If anything, getting chased only guaranteed a bigger response.”

Inside Ayresome Park

“Inside Ayresome Park, the atmosphere was hostile from the start. Their section was giving it the usual Teesside noise—“BORO! BORO! BORO!”—and staring us down every time we moved. We stood there smirking back, arms folded, knowing full well things would spill onto the streets after the match. And the match itself? A dire 0–0. Nobody cared. It was outside where the real event was waiting. As soon as we poured out onto the surrounding streets, the place erupted. Those tight Middlesbrough streets became a maze of clashing mobs. One minute you were walking past families, the next you were shoulder-deep in fists and boots and the roar of lads charging. A breakaway group of us—maybe fifteen skinheads—spotted a pocket of Boro down a side road and went for it. They didn’t hesitate. They just surged forward. It was instant bedlam. Boots hitting shins, fists smashing into jaws, people slammed into garden walls. I grabbed a Boro lad by his jacket and pulled him down, only for one of his mates to fly in with a kick that nearly took my head off. It was fierce—proper vicious stuff. No posturing, no dancing about. Just raw intent.”

“But then the police came storming down the street swinging batons, and everything scattered in different directions. Some ran back toward the ground, some into alleys, some toward Costa Street where a much larger fight was breaking out. I didn’t make it to that one. None of our immediate group did. We were too busy avoiding arrests. All we heard were shouts, screams, the rush of people running, and the odd thud of someone hitting the pavement. Later—when we regrouped near the coach—we heard whispers. “There’s been a serious one.” “A lad’s gone down.” “Might be dead.” We didn’t believe it at first. Rumours flew every week in them days—someone stabbed in Birmingham, someone brained in Liverpool, someone thrown off a bridge in London. Usually it was exaggeration. But this time, it wasn’t. The papers confirmed it the next morning. A Boro lad. Craig French. Just 17. Quiet kid by all accounts. Got separated from his mates and caught in the stampede on Costa Street. Witnesses talked about a circle of boots, a blow to the head, and chaos everywhere. And that hit us—even the hard lads.”

“Because that wasn’t the code. It wasn’t what any of us travelled for. We came for Boro’s firm, not some kid walking home from a 0–0 draw. The police came down heavy. Raids, statements, mugshots in the paper. Lads were arrested, charged, jailed. And rightly so. Even among hooligans, there are lines you don’t cross. From that day on, Middlesbrough wasn’t just a tough away ground. It became something darker. A rivalry with weight behind it. A reminder of a day that went too far, even by our standards. We fought plenty of mobs in the 80s—but the one we all remembered, the one none of us talked about loudly, was Ayresome Park, 1980. Because no firm wants blood like that on their history.”

Aftermath

We thank Ralph and Colin for their recollections. Tragedies like this always bring home how very unimportant fighting between firms is in reality. What does it achieve? Apart from some very dubious bragging rights. Let’s all learn from these mistakes and let’s have a more relaxed friendly atmosphere at all grounds from now on. Craig French R.I.P.

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