TWENTY-FIVE years ago my three-year-old son asked me:

"What happens in there?" He was dragging me along a street in Stirling. I told him that this was Annfield, home of Stirling Albion, adding: "It is where big men play football."

Okay, so I was wrong on so many levels but the next day we were both at Albion v Montrose. This traumatic experience has led to his lifelong fascination with football and to my appearance at a subsequent social work inquiry on a charge of child cruelty.

To celebrate the jubilee, Ally took me to a football game the other week. Real Madrid v Sevilla in the Bernabeu.

I know what you're thinking. He is an ungrateful wretch but, in mitigation, Albion did not have a midweek fixture.

At first he wanted me to go to Real Madrid v Hercules but I said they were just a one-man team.

So it was decided it would be Sevilla. We were accompanied by Andy, his mate, as Ally, a keen pugilist, was not allowed his punching bag as carry-on luggage.

Andy, a sprightly 27, brought his endearing curiosity - a sort of natural whit? - his dinosaur pyjamas, a note from his mum saying he slept with the light on and a Brian Laudrup-laminated wallet containing four euros.

Ally brought me.

There were moments of confusion in Madrid. I spent most of the first day on what I believed was a slow-moving open-top bus only to be informed that I was part of the workforce putting up the Christmas lights.

The walk around the city, too, was illuminating. There was the beauty of Plaza De Espana, Plaza Colon and, my favourite, the Plaza De Long Intestine.

Then it was out to Bernabeu. Our seats were so high they were sponsored by the Medellin cartel. The climb to the top was hampered by having to step over exhausted Sherpas on floors 12, 19 and 31. When we reached our seats, I did not know whether to park my bum or plant a flag.

There was a sign declaring: Vomitorio. This is Spanish for passage-way but I suspected it also served as a warning against altitude sickness.

The match was as spectacular as Joe Hart juggling chainsaws. There were 10 goals, three penalties, one sending-off, a hat trick for Ronaldo, two goals for Gareth Bale, his first in the stadium, and the half-time entertainment of a mermaid riding a unicorn playing polo against Elvis on a woolly Mammoth.

A sort of special night, methinks. There was even a special Real nod to Glesca with a 7-3 scoreline.

The whole experience, however, may have been slightly tainted for Ally and Andy by their proximity to a man who kept referring to Real as Franco's works team, who stood and applauded when Sevilla scored the best goal of the match and who smelled ever so slightly of a fault in a sewage line. Namely, me.

They were kind, however, about guiding me back down the stairs, using the tips of their expensive trainers. I fell as often as Ronaldo in the box.

They repaired to the pub. While I just went in for repairs.

The next day was left to explore more of Madrid. Mostly, in their case, shops selling football strips. There was one moment of shared, unbridled joy. Andy, while scouring for an Ajax top - or scouring with Ajax on a worktop, I forget which - suddenly let out the sort of cry of ecstasy he normally reserves when discovering someone else is buying the round. Again.

Amid the gaudy tops bearing the crests of Corinthians, Boca, Porto, and Napoli, he plucked out a Dunfermline strip. We all had our picture taken with it much in the same spirit as Lord Carnavon with a Tutankhamun artefact.

We became so excited we almost bought the shirt until Andy pointed out that one could purchase the club for considerably less.

They then headed back out to Bernabeu for a stadium tour, with crampons and a reliable guide, I presume. I chose to visit the Museo Nacional Del Prado, which I took to be a third division club but was a first division art gallery. Therein I gazed in silence at The Third of May: the Executions on Principe Rio, Goya's chilling recreation of the scenes in Leith after yet another Hibernian cup final defeat.

This reflection on a beautiful Madrid day led me back to Annfield of 25 years ago and the afternoon when a boy and his dad went to the big fitba' for the first time.

It reminded me that fitba' is for life. And that is a magic thing.