Nottingham Forest vs Celtic 1983 Crush

In this article we rewind to Nottingham Forest vs Celtic 1983 and an encounter between two giants of the times.. As usual, we have two stories, each with their own perspective of the serious events that occurred at this match. Let’s hear the stories.

The Celtic Invasion Begins

First up we have Celtic Green Brigade Member,Craig who told us..”I still remember the cold sting of that November night in 1983 as if it happened yesterday. I’d flown halfway across the world from New Zealand just days before—wasn’t meant to be back home till Christmas, but my brother’s wedding pulled me in early. After landing, still jetlagged, I was right back in with the Shettleston Celtic Supporters Club. They sorted me a ticket and a seat on the bus. Less than 48 hours after touching down, I was heading south, bound for Nottingham, wrapped in green and white, singing like I’d never left. The bus trip was your usual chaos—carry-ons clinking with drink, singalongs shaking the windows, and that unmistakable nervous excitement that always builds when we travel in big numbers. We all knew Forest under Clough were no mugs, but we had belief. That old-school, nothing-to-lose Celtic belief. It felt like half of Glasgow was heading down the M1.”

“We pulled up near the City Ground with a couple of hours to spare. That’s when we knew something wasn’t right. Lads with tickets for different parts of the ground were being turned away and redirected to one end—our end. Three bloody turnstiles. That was it. Three. For thousands of us. It started off tense but orderly. Then the crowd began to thicken, elbows in ribs, breath steaming in the floodlight glare. The closer to kick-off, the more urgent it became. The noise turned from singing to shouting. I remember being pinned against a wall near the turnstiles, barely able to breathe. A wave of bodies behind me surged forward. My feet left the ground. Honestly, if one of my old pals hadn’t grabbed me and hauled me sideways, I think I’d have blacked out right there. That’s when the stewards panicked and opened a gate beside the turnstiles. Just swung it open. The crowd surged in like water bursting through a dam. No control, no direction—just chaos.”

“Inside, it got worse. The terraces were already packed. We were sardined in, no room to scratch your nose, never mind move. People kept pouring in behind us. Panic started to creep through the crowd like smoke. You could feel it—fear, not just frustration. Barriers bent and gave way. People spilled onto the pitch and the coppers, clueless, assumed it was a pitch invasion. Out came the riot shields. I’ll never forget the moment Brian Clough threw down the Celtic banner at our dugout like it was our fault. Frank Connor wasn’t having that—lifted the banner back up and marched right after him. But even that madness was overshadowed by what we were living through. Davie Hay saw it too. Came right over to the fans, calm as you like, but you could see the concern in his eyes. He spoke to the senior copper—practically ordered him to open up the side areas and let the fans breathe. Fair play to Davie, that could’ve turned much worse if he hadn’t stepped in. Slowly, they filtered fans into other sections. The pressure eased.”

The Aftermatch Of The Crush

“Still, you didn’t enjoy the match after that. Nobody did. The football became a blur. We should’ve won, I think, but it didn’t matter anymore. On the way out, still shaken, I remember a brief scuffle breaking out near one of the bridges. A few young lads from Forest tried to have a pop—nothing major, more handbags and shouting. A couple of our boys squared up, and it fizzled quickly with a few bobbies wading in. Later, back at the buses, there was another wee flare-up—some bottles thrown, but again, nothing serious. Folk had too much on their minds to go full pelt. We rode the bus back in silence for a good while. Everyone was processing what nearly happened. We’d come for football and nearly ended up part of a tragedy. When I saw the Hillsborough footage years later back in New Zealand, it sent a chill right through me. The pens, the crush, the police clueless to the danger they’d created—it was all so familiar. The only difference was luck. Just luck. That night in Nottingham could’ve been our Hillsborough.”

Ex-Forest Executive Crew member, Neil told us..”You could sense it was going to be a strange night from the moment you stepped out your door. I remember the buzz in Nottingham all day. This wasn’t just a European game—it was a full-scale Scottish invasion. They came in their thousands. I’d heard figures of 15 or 16 thousand Celtic fans, but it felt like twice that. They started arriving Monday morning—Monday, and the game wasn’t till midweek. I was working on Sneinton Market at the time, flogging fruit and veg off a barrow, and the first signs of trouble came just after sunrise. They were already in the Pretty Windows pub at 5:30 in the morning, swigging lager in freezing temperatures like they were on holiday in Magaluf. Full kits, scarves, flags, the lot. Some of them were decent lads, no doubt—but there were others looking for trouble. Me and a few mates had made the Greyhound pub on London Road our matchday haunt. The landlord had warned us the day before: Only regulars with cards. No exceptions. Security on the door. Fair enough. We arrived a few minutes before six and saw the door swinging open like it was just another Saturday. No bouncers. No cards. Inside it was packed to the rafters—with Celtic fans. Singing, swaying, drinking our pints. Couldn’t even get served. One of our lads tried to politely say, “You do know this is a Forest pub, don’t you?” and was met with a look that said “Aye, and what of it?”

Trouble in the city centre

“There were scuffles later, small ones. One broke out near Broadmarsh shopping centre—about a dozen lads from both sides squared up, nothing heavy, a few punches, a bin lobbed, and it fizzled. Another skirmish down Wheeler Gate saw a Forest lad get clipped but nothing to write headlines about. But the tension was everywhere. When we finally got to the City Ground, it was clear something wasn’t right. The pitch looked more like a skating rink—rock solid and glistening white in patches. If it had been any other game, it’d have been called off without hesitation. But with so many Celtic fans in Nottingham and the police wanting to avoid mass chaos, the show had to go on.

We were in the Trent End, and even there, you could see green and white bobbing about. Celtic fans had got into every part of the ground. I’d heard some were buying home tickets just to get in—others just walked through when gates were forced open. The Bridgford End was the worst. Only a few turnstiles were open and thousands of Celtic fans were being funneled into one end like cattle. There was pushing, shouting, then suddenly—you saw the surge. People spilling forward, fans climbing over barriers, others collapsing. A wall gave way and it all spilled onto the pitch.”

Celtic Fans Struggling

“For a moment, nobody knew what was going on. The riot police thought it was a pitch invasion. We thought it was trouble. But then you could see the faces—pale, panicked, gasping. It wasn’t hooliganism. It was survival. The gates should never have been opened like that. The pens were packed, the barriers weren’t strong enough, and the stewards were nowhere. Word spread that Cloughie had told the players before kickoff: “Don’t score—if we do, there’ll be a riot.” Might be one of those urban legends, but it certainly felt like it could’ve been true. Gary Birtles missed a sitter—one-on-one, should’ve buried it. But part of me wonders if he didn’t bottle it for the greater good. The game itself? Forgettable. 0–0. Three-quarters of the pitch was like concrete, and the players could barely stay upright. All I really remember from the 90 minutes is the constant chanting, Celtic banners everywhere, and the freezing cold.”

“But what stays with me most is the madness of it all—the sheer scale. The city was overrun. The stadium wasn’t prepared. The police were reactive, not proactive. And we were lucky that night. Very lucky. It could’ve been our Hillsborough.”

Forest vs celtic 1983 – Tha aftermath

We thank Craig and Neil for their recollections. It’s clear that a disaster of Hillsborough proportions was only just averted. Nottingham Forest vs Celtic wasn’t exactly a small affair, was it now? You would have thought that lessons would have been learnt, but ho no, we can’t have that can we?

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