Nottingham Forest Codexery

The Forest

A small ground in a small city that once owned Europe.

The Forest

The City Ground is the spiritual home of Nottingham Forest Football Club, the 'Reds,' and one of the oldest continuously used football grounds in England. Tucked into the west side of the city of Nottingham, it has witnessed the club's most glorious hours—the back-to-back European Cup triumphs of 1979 and 1980 under Brian Clough—as well as decades of loyal, working-class football culture that sets Forest apart from the Premier League's flashier rivals.

For supporters, the City Ground is not merely a venue but a living identity: a place where the terraces pack in close, where the red shirts form a sea of colour, and where the East Midlands Derby against Derby County still carries the raw, generational heat of a rivalry older than most of the modern game. It is modest by today's standards, intimate by design, and fiercely protected by the community that built it.

Club founded
1865
Home ground
The City Ground, Nottingham
European Cup wins
1979, 1980
FA Cup wins
7 (including 1959, 1961, 1972, 1977, 1978, 1979, 1999)
First Division / Premier League title
1978
Legendary manager (golden era)
Brian Clough (1973–1981)
Nickname
The Reds

Lore & Background

The City Ground has been the beating heart of Nottingham Forest since the club's early decades, evolving from a modest field into the intimate, terraced fortress that defines the club's character. When Brian Clough and Peter Taylor arrived in 1973, they inherited a club without a league title and a ground that could hold perhaps 25,000. What they built in the dressing room and on the touchline transformed a mid-table side into continental champions, and the City Ground became the stage for two of the most improbable European Cup final victories in the competition's history—beating Marseille in 1979 and Malmö in 1980.

The ground's modest scale is a point of pride, not embarrassment. Forest fans will tell you that the closeness of the terraces to the pitch, the way the noise rolls off the concrete and into the players' ears, is part of the identity. There is no corporate anonymity here; the atmosphere is communal, almost familial. The red shirts, the simple and direct songs, the unapologetic working-class tone—these are the textures that make a matchday at the City Ground feel like a neighbourhood gathering rather than a broadcast event.

The East Midlands Derby with Derby County, played across the M1 motorway, adds a layer of tribal intensity that predates the modern professional era. On those afternoons the City Ground becomes something almost primal: a place where generations of Nottingham families have passed down their loyalty, their songs, and their grudges. The rivalry is not about trophies alone; it is about who belongs to the city, who carries the red, and who answers when the other side dares to look down the motorway and sneer.

In Their Own Story

The floodlights hum to life over the West Bridgford end as the November drizzle settles on the terraces. A man in a faded red anorak—his father's, he'll tell you later—presses his forehead against the cold concrete of the lower tier and watches the players jog out. The ball bounces a little long on the wet turf. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman starts the old call-and-response, and three thousand voices answer before she's finished the first line. The referee checks his watch. The keeper taps the ball back. And for ninety minutes the City Ground is the whole world, and the whole world is red.

Reader's Guide

Walk into the City Ground on a Saturday afternoon and the first thing you notice is the proximity. The terraces lean in over the pitch, and you can hear the studs scuffing the grass, the keeper's shouts, the thud of a thigh against the ball. There is no vast bowl of silence here; the noise is physical, a low roar that builds and releases with every phase of play.

The kit is simple and uncompromising: red shirts, white shorts, red socks. No gradients, no sponsor-driven colour shifts. A Forest fan in a red shirt on the terraces looks exactly like the player at the far end of the pitch, and that visual unity is the point. The scarf, the anorak, the flat cap in winter—these are not merchandising; they are uniform.

The songs are direct, repetitive, and sung by everyone at once. You do not need to know the words; you feel the rhythm in the chest and add your voice. On European nights the atmosphere shifts into something almost reverent, a hush that breaks into a roar when the ball finds the net.

And then there is the Derby. The M1 between the two grounds is a border. On those days the City Ground smells of wet wool and spilled ale, the air is thick with shouted names, and the simple act of a Forest player winning a header feels like a small act of territorial defence. It has been this way for a century, and the fans intend it to stay this way.

Did You Know?

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