I admit, as apologies go, it’s a bit of a stretch, but I’m feeling a bit conciliatory.

Back in 1991, some chums and I were in DC for the weekend. We were walking to the Lincoln Memorial and we heard the beginnings of a concert off in the distance. Someone got on a mic and introduced a singer by the name of Billy Ray Cyrus. Of course, at that time, Cyrus was an unknown and we’d never heard of him. The name sounded funny, so we took odds on whether he’d be a country singer or a blues singer. He launched into what may have been Achy Breaky Heart and my friends and I moved on down the mall, mercifully out of range.

And that’s why I’m really, really, sorry. I’m really, really, really, sorry. Because if I’d known then what I know now I could have gone over to that stage and kicked Billy Ray right square in the chumblies … kicked him hard enough to ensure that there would be no more Cyruses (Cyri?) and mercifully spared the world from all this Hannah Montana , Miley, tongue twerking crap.

I know hindsight’s 20/20 but it’ll be one of those great regrets I take to the grave. And, for that missed opportunity, I’m really, really, really, really very and truly sorry.


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