By the time you read this I will be en route to Munich, because even after “accompanying” the Scotland footy team to several unsuccessful World Cups this is the latest instalment of A Triumph of Hope Over Experience.

The friend and neighbour who has joined me on this Mission Probably Impossible assured me once we'd qualified that tickets for tomorrow’s match would be in the 'breeze' category, provided we didn’t draw Germany, the host nation. I mean, with all these teams involved, and all those groups, how likely is that?

Of course, we drew Germany.

We are thus in the unforgiving gaze of the entire footballing world as we join the hosts for the opening game of the Euros. And, natch, we do not have tickets. Just the prospect of joining circa 100,000 Tartan Army footsoldiers in front of a screen in the fanzone.

There are, of course, compensatory factors. Bavaria prides itself on making and selling some of the best beers in the world. I don’t drink beer. I drink wine. Nobody appears to feel able to boast about the quality of Bavarian grapes.

Then there is the team. That nice Mr Clarke says they are a very happy squad, one for all and all for one and so on. Fine. But the last thing Germany will want is to have to wipe egg from their faces at an opening game in their own backyard. Plus, I can’t help noticing a slight dearth of superstars in our ranks.

But hey, there’s “super” John McGinn, who only needs a spare pair of lederhosen to oompah with the best of them, and wee Andy Robertson, who struts his stuff with the mighty Liverpool. Plus some home grown stalwarts like Callum MacGregor. I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

(Pauses to wipe away some involuntary sobbing.)

Anyway, me and the neighbour/footy pal set off last night, on account of a very early kick-off from the airport this morning. We flew via Schipol in Amsterdam, which reputedly serves rather more sustenance than tulip bulbs in its many watering holes.

The neighbour/footy pal works in the meedya too, and tells me we are entered in prize draw which could win us lunch and a pair of tickets for the game, for only the price of a very small second hand car (pre-MOT).

And yes, this is the same neighbour and footy pal who foresaw nae problem in getting briefs when we first discussed this implausible adventure.