THESE may be words uttered about as often as a Celtic man praises the tax-efficient nature of an Ibrox EBT, but this really is a time to be envious of Aberdeen and St Johnstone supporters.

 

Tommy Wright, of course, has described the Perth side's trip to Armenia to meet Alashkert in the first qualifying round of the Europa League as a "nightmare" and it may well be so for the staff, but such possibility and adventure awaits those who negotiate the 3000 miles to the Pink City of Yerevan purely to cheer on their team.

Aberdeen's destination of Skopje - to play Shkendija - is a little more accessible with the decision to move the match from Tetovo to the Macedonian capital to the eternal benefit of all Red Army conscripts heading east.

Skopje, dear Skopje. Two pretty sketches of the stone bridge that crosses the River Vardar still adorn the walls of Keown Towers almost seven years on from popping in en route to the shimmering beauty of Lake Ohrid on the Albanian border to see Scotland make one almighty ricket of it in a World Cup qualifier.

There are few more congenial places for the visitor.

On the north bank, the Muslim enclave around the Old Bazaar, many a mellow afternoon was spent smoking shisha in a charming cafe with a shaded courtyard. With mint tea, rose-flavoured molasses and the judicious use of sweetmeats, exoticism can be an effortless business.

Across town, the hospitality was equally splendid. Locals would, as a matter of routine, usher you into their homes on the stroll back to the billet for one last serving of mastika and merriment. Even the Ultras, gentlemen of some repute called 'Komiti', opened the doors of their office on a breathlessly lively riverfront walkway to offer souvenirs, refreshment and invitations to join them at an evening basketball match.

We chose to attend a medieval festival inside the city's Roman amphitheatre instead. All candlelight, costumes and unusual musical instruments.

For some time afterwards, a very sweet lady encountered there would send me out-of-focus photographs of various types of birds in flight.

No attached note. No explanation. It was all, contrary to what you may think, rather endearing.

Chances are there will be more Aberdeen fans in Skopje than St Johnstone sympathisers in Yerevan. Being part of a small travelling support, though, is to be cherished.

Many moons ago, my friends and I made our way to Orebro, an unremarkable Swedish city, to watch Scotland's Under-21 team. The away end contained 10 people. There is a photograph to prove it.

The sheer novelty of our presence was enough to attract all manner of propositions. Many of those photographs have been conveniently misplaced.

We left town after time-up that night to attend a bonfire in Eskilstuna. It was just one stop-off on a trip that started in a Gothenburg casino in the company of some Kenyan girls being stalked by their ex-boyfriends and ended on the pitch at half-time during an amateur game in the southern hamlet of Perstorp drinking home-distilled white spirit and enjoying a kickabout with the manager's sons.

Talented as the boys were, that was not my favourite kickabout on a trip abroad. On working business in the Turkish port of Trabzon, the day before Dundee United played Trabzonspor, the handful of away fans who made the journey joined us reporters in enjoying a game of 'crossy' on one half of the pitch in the crumbling Huseyin Avni Aker Stadium while Tommy McLean put his players through their paces on the other.

Some English chap from a governmental body visited shortly after our arrival to advise us not to leave the hotel. Ignoring his advice completely, all present had a whale of a time with Sieb Dykstra, United's Dutch goalkeeper, making the venture so much more memorable by asking the referee to stop the game in mid-flow because the call to prayer from the nearby mosque was putting him off.

One of the greatest joys of football, you see, is that it offers the perfect excuse to go off the beaten track and break bread with the most amusing people.

How could one forget the joys of an unspoilt, post-Communism Prague when Rangers played Sparta there in 1991? What fun we had at that bohemian house party in Rennes with the mime artist and the lead singer of the Wanking Noodles (yes, honest).

My colleagues and I can even laugh when recalling those fraught moments in which we had to scrape together a couple of hundred quid at gunpoint at Batumi Airport in Georgia to pay a mysterious bill and get Celtic's charter flight to Istanbul off the ground before sundown.

There will always be the occasional bump in the road while on manoeuvres abroad. One eventful sojourn in the ever-dreadful Riga, for example, lost a little of its sparkle when some bloke whacked me in the mush with a baseball bat.

It was only on returning to Blighty from further travels in the Baltics, concerned by leakage from my nose, that an X-ray revealed he had fractured my skull. Och, well. Boys will be boys.

To all the lads and lassies on their travels this week, do not be dissuaded. Go forth, make merry and enjoy every moment. It would be so nice to come with you.