I was full of youthful anticipation as I left the house.
Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. I was going to Wembeleeee. Que sera, sera.
It was Friday, May 20, 1988 and dressed in gear that only a mother could love–although mine didn’t particularly do so–it was off to London with my pals to see Scotland play England.
The four of us had planned everything down to the finest detail.
A car would be hired and we would have an overnight stay in Worcester, where we would be put up by the auntie and uncle of my mate Jim.
So it was with a tartan scarf around my neck, ticket in my pocket and a spring in my step that I went out to be collected by the lads.
Then, to my horror, I saw it.
The bright orange Chevette car.
It could politely be described as vintage and more accurately called an old banger.
No one had thought to mention it to me but the car hire plan had been scuppered because of cost–well, we were skint 18- and 19-year-olds at the time–so it was Jim’s own car or nothing.
Being, Scotland fans we went above and beyond the call of duty to follow our team, just as Tartan Army members do now.
So off we went, with our most experienced driver at the wheel of his pride and joy, and duly made it down to Worcester about 12 hours later, having expertly escaped from some hostile English fans at a service station just over the border.
A fine night was had in town–including a thirsty race against the draconian pub closing time–before we set off for Wembley the next day..
Smoke started pouring out of the engine somewhere along the M40 and the speedo decided to pack up then work, pack up then work.
However, such trivial matters did not deter us.
After several stops to peer both puzzled and concerned under the bonnet, by about one o’clock we were in the car park at the famous old arena eagerly awaiting kick-off.
As is often the case following the national team, the best bit comes before the football and we were singing and dancing with our fellow Scotland fans on Wembley Way, having a ball.
The only trouble between supporters that I saw occurred inside the ground when it became clear that several English fans were situated near us but thankfully it didn’t develop into anything too nasty.
That Scots side was packed with top talent, including Richard Gough, Willie Miller, Alex McLeish, Paul McStay, Ally McCoist and Maurice Johnston.
However, the game didn’t live up to standard set by the rest of the trip and a Peter Beardsley goal gave England a rather too deserved 1-0 win.
The journey back north was done in one go, with our heroic Chevette slowly and not so surely delivering us back to the safety of Dundee.
I can’t recall exactly how long it took us but we set off when it was daylight and arrived when it was daylight.
Was is it all worth it? Looking back, I give it a resounding yes.
It was exciting, enjoyable and a little bit irresponsible all at the same time.
Now I am heading back to Wembley all these years later, albeit the new version of the stadium, to see the Scots take on England in the Teenage Cancer Trust international match.
This time I will be working and will undoubtedly be a wee bit comfier sitting in the Press box rather than being crammed in behind a goal as was the case 25 (eek!) years ago.
Hopefully, my journey down will be a bit smoother.
The butterflies in the belly will still be there as the teams come out, though, just as they were in 88.
Maybe, just maybe, the score will be kinder on Scotland and the feelgood factor from the win in Croatia will help boss Gordon Strachan and his players get one over on the Auld Enemy.
It’s not the done thing in my line of work to take sides but I might look out the old tartan scarf and stick it in my pocket–just for old times’ sake.