As I recall it was late April 1977. I had a university pal called Zippy who looked like the bass guitarist out of The Bay City Rollers. He was a keen Glasgow Rangers fan. Someone had let him down so he asked me if I would like to travel up to Aberdeen with him to watch his team in an end of season match. Loving football and having never been to Aberdeen before, I agreed.
We went up by train on the Friday afternoon. It was one of those clear springtime weekends when the sky is as blue as a robin's egg and the sun sharp but slightly honeyed . We stayed in a student house near The Granite City's university.
At 3pm on Saturday afternoon, we were in Aberdeen's Pittodrie stadium along with several thousand Rangers supporters who both outsung and outnumbered the host club's fans. Many were steaming drunk. In Glasgow, football has always been a kind of religion. Downtrodden workers from the mean streets of Easterhouse, Maryhill and Clydebank look to football for escape, joy and the fulfilment of dreams. It's not just about watching twenty two men kick a leather ball around.
I remember little of that match except that Aberdeen won 2-1 and that Rangers had the great John Greig in defence and the almost equally great Derek Johnstone on the wing. Surrounded by seething, frothing Glaswegians, Zippy and I made our way back to the railway station, pleased that we wouldn't be on one of the notorious football specials. No, we would be taking the slow train - a service train that would eventually bring us to Stirling after numerous stops.
Of course we reported the incident to an official at Stirling railway station. He took our names and addresses and a few other details but that was the last we heard about it. And we never saw the pretty girl from Stonehaven again but if by some remote chance she is reading this I would like to say how very sorry I am that I didn't do something to protect you and also how sad I am that your adult life has undoubtedly been blighted by your memory of that terrible journey.