So here I was one cold February evening in 1994 watching the wrong Athletic at the wrong Park in the wrong Cup. Instead of cheering on Charlton Athletic at Ewood Park in the FA Cup (fourth round replay), I was at East End Park, watching Dunfermline Athletic take on Airdrieonians in the Scottish Cup (third round replay).
And all because of my love for an Irishman called Robert – a sort-of Spurs fan. I say sort-of because he was not fanatical: I think he’d adopted them at a young age in Belfast out of hero-worship for his big brother. I had found it surprisingly easy to get him along to watch Charlton regularly instead. Our first date had been the FA Cup fourth round match in January 89 at Selhurst Park, when I clung on to him in panic during the nail-biting last ten minutes versus non-league Kettering (until then a name I associated more with Wicksteed and the wrought iron steps of the slide in the local playground).
I tested his romantic resolve further that evening by making him watch my video of “Charlton winning something” – the Masters Soccer Sixes, with Leaburn imperious. Even that didn’t put him off.
We were a perfect match in so many ways: Robert seemed to find my football addiction, or should that be affliction, quite endearing. He agreed without a flinch to my chosen wedding colours of burgundy (red) and ivory (white). He led the discussion with the organist about turning the Wedding March into the Match of the Day theme tune as we walked down the aisle. He arranged our honeymoon in Tuscany so we could take in a few World Cup matches at Italia 90.
But there was one big problem. He hated London.