Most people justify World Cup travel plans as ''The Trip of a Lifetime'', but are you allowed to have two such trips? See, I've already been to one World Cup finals and I have to admit rather sheepishly that my journey didn't take me to Frankfurt, Cordoba, Malaga, Neza or Genoa but Orlando, Florida for the rootin' tootin' global soccerama USA 94.

This first Trip of a Lifetime came about when my pal Greg revealed he could get tickets through his brother in Hamilton (Hamilton Ontario that is). That summer two Glaswegians and me flew to Toronto, joined-up with three Canadians, got into a van and drove down to sunny Florida for five World cup games. Bozo Heaven!

The first fixture at The Orlando Citrus Bowl paired Belgium and Morocco. The hundred-degree noontime heat ensured two accessories were vital for spectators - a cup of ice and a tube of sun-cream (a far cry from a pie and a bovril). The Europeans triumphed 1-0 but both sets of fans wooed me in equal measure. The Moroccans provided some mean spoon-playing (just wait til they start jamming with the bagpipes in St Etienne) while the Belgians thoughtfully wore Partick Thistle scarves (and their team still won).

The second tussle pitched Belgium against Holland, The Dutch eventually going down to a goal from Philippe Albert. While there was some tough tackling on the field, the rival supporters got on famously at the subsequent al-fresco jigging in Church Street. This is a lively area of downtown Orlando filled with bars and discos which had been thoughtfully set aside for visiting soccer dudes to party-on down in during the finals.

Bemused but enthusiastic showbands blasted out the hits of Gloria Estefan while football fans danced as only football fans can, shaking their flags, banners and $5 souvenir tubs of beer. These refreshments were served by local lovelies in Budweiser bikinis whose dazzling smiles only shrunk ever so-slightly when they realised Europeans don't tip for drinks. Belgians waltzed with Dutchmen, Young Americans jived with Brazilians, Canadians grooved with Venezuelans and I even met another Scotsman at the bar.

Ireland lost 2-1 to Mexico in the third game and after the final whistle both sets of supporters produced a unique rendition of La Cucaraca backed by bodrahns. For Morocco v The Netherlands our seats were situated just in front of The Dutch party of wives and girlfriends. When Brian Roy hit Holland's winner and his team-mates swamped him with cuddles we turned to witness Roy's ladyfriend simultaneously accepting hugs and kisses from the spouses beside her.

The fifth and final ticket was for the second-phase match-up between The Dutch and The Irish. This was the big one. It might have been the 4th of July in The US but there were enough tricolours and Orange shirts around to make Orlando feel like Glasgow on an Old Firm Ne'er Day. I have to confess I added to the colourful occasion by wearing the Celtic shirt I'd borrowed from home. Aw C'mon! At USA 94 Ireland were practically Scottish!

Ray Houghton had just become the first Glaswegian to score a World Cup winner against Italy! Tommy Coyne was in the team and . . . well, okay I was jumping on the bandwagon.

Holland were favourites boasting an awesome combination of manager Dick Advocaat and striker Peter Van Vossen yet as the teams took the the field ''You'll Never Beat The Irish'' drowned out FIFA's tournament muzak. Everybody stood for The National Anthems and I found myself seriously out my depth. Beside me a red-haired soul-brother in an Ireland away shirt was proudly belting-out his nation's song. I attempted a Jack Charlton and mouthed a few right-sounding syllables hoping no-one would notice.

Alas The Irish made it all too easy to beat them. Holland won 2-0 thanks mainly to a couple of errors including Pat Bonner's infamous fumbling of Wim Jonk's soft shot into the goal behind him.

The End of The Emeralds was disappointing to witness but within an hour I was back in Church Street bopping away to ''The Rhythm is Going to Get Ya'' beside a girl with a foam clog on her head.

At 3am I retired to the 24 hour Quick-e-mart close to our motel. By the store's slurpy machine I noticed a bedraggled figure in a green scarf still trying to come to terms with it all. He nodded at my Celtic top and let out a long ''Ah...son''. ''Ah...ah'' I replied, guilty at not-being Irish. ''Do you blame Paddy?'' he wondered. ''Well, y'know, eh, Paddy's a good goalie, but, he's done well, er, and been unlucky,'' I murmured. He listened and tried to place my unfamiliar lilt ''Is it the North you're from?'' he enquired. ''Glasgow'' I confessed, ''Scotland''. The Irishman looked puzzled ''Scotland? Scotland??? What the f**k are you doing here then?'' What indeed? This summer will really be the trip of a lifetime.

This summer I'll really suffer.