Not too long ago I had the pleasure of hosting a launch night for a book by Stuart Donald, called "On Fire With Fergie", which, I can assure you, is a cracking read.

The charm of it lies within the nature of the bond Stuart formed with his Dad on the many journeys to and from Pittodrie on match days, and, of course, the events of the games themselves.

It resonated with me and the similar experiences I'd shared with my own Dad through Dons' games in my own formative years.

Like Stuart, I was blessed with the innocence of youth. Surely It had always been this way.

What a horrible surprise twist was to come as I neared adulthood. Gradually, a reluctant acknowledgement of our ebbing success followed - never acceptance - as I reasoned the glory days were gone.

As the years unfurled, so did my yearning desire to return to just one more glory day, where this time, I could be the one who would take my Dad to the game. A thank you for all those journeys, the road miles of the past which he'd driven, with never so much as a moan. He and I, following the Dons, and that jewel-encrusted chance to share just one more glimpse of success.

Cut to the semi-final of the Scottish Cup against First Division Queen of the South, and Dad and I were back!

Perhaps, just perhaps, I would have my dream.

What followed is now consigned to the history books, but there are certain elements which were specific to our own tale.

Dad, had only that week had his first stent fitted. It is a testament to the unwavering commitment and outstanding medical professionalism of the surgeons at ARI that said stent performed at maximum capacity in it's opening hours, when such a robust workout was surely never envisioned.

The scarves raining down on the pitch.

Everyone else turning as ashen grey as Dad, despite, to the best of my knowledge, not having been fitted with stents themselves that week.

The beyond sombre, Zombie-like, conversation-barren, trudge back to the train station, attempting to make sense in our collective thoughts of what on earth had just happened.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Surely there had been some mistake. Fate had made an error.

And one final dagger through the heart, as a solitary Queen of the South supporter staggered merrily towards the train in front of us, muttering to himself, drunk, on at

the very least, euphoria - "In all my years...I never thought I would live to see the day Queen of the South would make a cup final!"

Were I a neutral, I would have rejoiced with him.

As it was, Dad and I exchanged the briefest of looks, and automatically, without even a word, I knew my instructions, should the stent now suddenly under the increasing strain, fail spectacularly. I was to use Dad's lifeless form to temporarily smother the Queen of the South fan until such time as we could dump him off somewhere out of earshot - Dad's one last act of loyalty to a team, which on the day, surely didn't deserve it.

So when the name Queen of the South was drawn from the hat this time, I'm sure you can understand the raft of emotions which rose rapidly to the surface. I would sooner we'd drawn either of the Old Firm, or in fact, both, playing together, with Hearts thrown in for good measure. Sooner that, than Queen of the South again!

But these are different times, and fairytales can be woven in any manner of means.

But additional stents can't. So please win the bloody replay will you!