RITES of passage for the Scottish youth of times past involved more pain than that produced by Marquis de Sade on a boys' night out in Newcastle.

There are tribes who hung their young men from skewers to test their bravery. The Masai warrior is circumcised without anaesthetic, which must sting even just a little bit. Scottish boys left puberty behind by heading to Wembley to watch their country play England. This was not a mere journey but a life lesson.

It is difficult now to describe how the Wembley expedition was held in thrall by successive generations. The planning would start after the survivors retreated home from London to think again. Most were thinking of how to return in two years.

The miles were travelled in a variety of ways. I knew of those who went by train. I knew, too, of a much smaller group who paid to go by train.

Then there were the bus trips. These were splendidly squalid. Passengers were crammed into the spaces left by a selection of kerry-oots that would have sated the thirst of Richard Burton and Olly Reed. For a lifetime.

A period of religious dieting was observed. There are those who went to London every two years and cannot remember eating anything there. Ever.

This produced an atmosphere on the bus that is best described as extraordinarily awful.

A survivor of the Black Hole of Calcutta, travelling once on a supporters' bus from Lanarkshire demanded it be stopped at Shap Fell. "I am getting off, I can't stand the fetid horror of this any more," he said wandering off into the night and a cholera clinic.

The bus trips finally did for me, too. I once came back with a liver so swollen I had to fend off offers from makers of pate de foie Glasgow. My coupon was so yellow I made the last call for auditions for Homer Simpson. My delirium tremens was such that I was used as a cocktail shaker for three days after I returned.

One then decided to travel by car. This was made slightly difficult by the fact I did not have a car. Rather than just sitting on the couch and making vroom vroom noises, I decided to find someone who did have a vehicle.

It was then that the first step was made on the journey to Wembley 1975. My mate Joe had a Toyota Corolla and a brother. We decided to travel in the Toyota and take the brother. A Toyota Corolla was just slightly bigger than its Matchbox replica. By the time the kerry-oot was packed, Joe was hunched over the steering wheel as if he was applying for the bellringer's job at Notre Dame.

His brother and I were assailed by cans of beer every time the car braked or hit a bump. We combated this by drinking as many cans as possible, thus reducing the number of flying objects and numbing ourselves in the process.

London was eventually reached. And, of course, we immediately went for a pint. We needed more drink in much the same way as the airline industry needs another Icelandic volcano.

We left a hostelry and came to a communal agreement: we could not find the car.

This caused little anguish until we realised the match tickets were in the glove compartment. There followed a frantic search for said motor in the back of a car driven by a very helpful policeman.

And the Corolla and tickets were found. There was just time to rush up Wembley Way, having hired four huskies to drag our sled of alcohol. On entry into the ground, one found a bar. Frankly, this was as necessary as a Don't Trust This Man sign hung around Nick Clegg's neck.

Nevertheless, it would have been rude to refuse its offering so we each bought a plastic pint glass of swill and headed up to the terracing. A journey that had been planned for months, had taken the best part of 24 hours to complete, was over and we gazed out on the green sward where our boys marched defiantly on to the pitch to confound the perfidious English.

Within what seemed like seconds we were 3-0 down and the eventual 5-1 drubbing was considered something of an escape as we staggered down Wembley Way.

It is all back next week. But I won't be. Joe's Corolla has failed its MOT. And I mine.