Ok, I was wrong. I admit it.

I wronged you.

I wronged us. I'm sorry.

It's taken a long time for me to grow and mature, and I guess, better understand the world around me.

That's three lost decades that I sincerely regret. I'm sorry.

In fact, thirty-five years of separation. Thirty-five long years of us both forging our own paths. Hopefully, with some degree of satisfaction and nourishment.

But definitely not to be compared, not even for a second, to what could have been:

How we could have been together. And what moments of adventure and tenderness we might have shared.

It's been a long time. A lifetime.

Thirty-five years.

But it was that shirt, man; that muscle shirt.

That extra rolled up short-sleeve shirt thing. What was that all about?

I had to get out. Nineteen Eighty-Four and we were over.

Over before we really even began.

It just wasn't my scene. I knew we'd not get along. I had to get out.

And it was that dancing; that idiotic, arm-swaying, crap dancing. Who does that?

My scene was way more cool, even if I wasn't. But joining in with you? That dancing? No way.

Thirty five years wasted?

But that dancing, man? and that shirt.

Oh, and that bloody picture of course. That was what really started it all. Is it any wonder I misunderstood you?

That picture. It was everywhere. Rammed down my throat. And everyone talking about it. How great it was. How great you were.

But it was a picture of your backside. Doesn't matter you had those blue jeans on. With that red cap hanging out of a pocket. It was your arse, man.

Everyone was talking it about it. About you. Everyone was hanging off your every word. There was no space for me.

You were the New Kid in Town. It was suffocating.

We'd found common ground before that; the spark of a friendship. We could have been something.

We had mutual acquaintances. I already knew some of your buddies, who spoke so highly of you; Tom, and Declan. And I liked Billy.

We had great times, so how did it not work out for you and me?

I'm sorry. I know now. It wasn't you - it was me. But you didn't bloody help; that dancing? That shirt? And all that jock stuff?

We were just starting out, you and me. But I just couldn't get over all that stuff, at that time. All that jock stuff.

Everyone going nuts. All anyone talked about.

But it was so jock. So USofA.

And I hated that.

I hated the bloody USofA.

I hated that film about fighter jets.

And the song from it.

And that motorbike.

And I hated Reagan. And the Libya thing.

All that Greed is Good, Carl Lewis on his bloody cellphone, Rambo rubbish.

And now, to top it all, they couldn't stop singing about how bloody brilliant it was being Born in the USA,

A nationalist anthem for a country that was already so full of itself, it’s a wonder it didn't just explode and cover us all in tinsel or ticker tape or something.

And that dancing. Did I say I hated that dancing? And that shirt. And the picture of your arse.

And that's why we had to part.

Oh, and the whole Boss stuff.

But now I know I was wrong. I'm sorry.

I'm older. More patient. More forgiving. Less judgmental, yet more principled.

And more informed. And that was the most important thing; more informed. I learned stuff.

It took thirty-five years, but I learned I got it wrong. I got you wrong. I know that now.

I've got over that LP cover. All the flags. And your backside. I now know what it all means. I guess I might have got it wrong.

It's a great song. And who cares about the dancing? Or the shirt?

It's a great song. And I can play the chords on my guitar now. Badly, but it highlights the beauty and simplicity, even to me.

And I love every cover version, even the Bastille one, and they're bloody rubbish.

And I love the middle eight bit. And even the sax and synths.

And still all anyone wants to talk about is Monica from Friends is in the video. We know. Everyone knows!

But they're missing the point. Missing the song; the melody, the lyrics, the perfection of it all.

And the pain and longing. It's all there on show - 'there's something happenin' somewhere, baby I just know there is.'

Thirty-five years. How about that?

I guess you could say I really was Dancing in the Dark. Hah!

Nineteen Eighty Four? We got some catching up to do.

Let me tell you how it happened:

I was fifty-two. In Barcelona. With my lovely family. I'd not given you a thought for years. I'd got my own life.

We were staying in an old apartment block, full of character, in the north of the city.

It was a long, hot Sunday, on a long, hot weekend in May. We were all relaxing after pounding the city streets since breakfast.

I remember we were trying to encourage a breeze through the connecting rooms, from front to back, with the balcony doors open overlooking the street and courtyard.

I had a new bluetooth speaker, a birthday present from the kids, for their middle-aged dad.

Those lovely Spanish rooms were filled with great music, as I chopped some enormous red peppers in the galley kitchen. It was a magical time.

Having exhausted one of my personal playlists, Spotify switched into suggested tracks, specially selected using their secret, super magic algorithms.

All based on my taste. Or lack of. A few of my favourites, punctuated with songs they thought I should like. They wondered why the bloody hell didn't I play? Why didn't I like? Taking the opportunity to point out to me my shortcomings. Highlighting my ignorance. Spotlighting some of my ridiculously petty, discriminations.

So, a new song shuffled into earshot. An opening piano, and then that voice; your voice. Talking about your car.

Oh, it's that guy I thought, rolling my eyes.

But in a particularly patient moment, after a particularly satisfying day in a great city, on my new, crisp speaker, in that lovely apartment, I was prepared to listen with interest. Without prejudice.

You shared the story of your 69 Chevy and your 396, Fuelie Heads and a Hurst on the floor, waiting tonight, down in the parking lot, outside the 7-Eleven store.

Boy I would have hated that, back then. In Nineteen Eighty Four. But, you know, I've grown.

And I don't know if it was the melody, or the understated production, or that reverb - that lovely, rich reverb. But it got me. I stopped chopping, and stood listening.

And what a song, what a story. The jock racer, running for the money, no strings attached. The American Dream. Young and fearless.

Then it changed tone. The tale soured. The American Dream ran out of road.

Nothing specific, but you'd lost your youth, yet still chased it in that teenager's car. And your baby with wrinkles round her eyes, crying herself to sleep every night. Bloody hell.

Glory turned to tiredness, and to despair.

And finally, in defiance, you're both going to head out, Thelma and Louise style:

Tonight, tonight, the strip's just right

I wanna blow 'em off in my first heat

Summer's here and the time is right

For Racin' in The Street

I played it again. And a third time.

I picked up my phone and found other versions. Wow, what a song? How had I never heard this? Listened to this?

On the live version I could even hear that same Nineteen Eighty Four crowd, appreciating the beauty of it all.

Hear a pin drop in the quiet bits. Hear their cheer of recognition at the opening piano bit.

And they got it. Even though I always thought they were all USofA jock dickheads.

Turns out they might not have been. Well, not all of them anyway.

So, I'm sorry. I'm glad we're together again.

Even if it's thirty-five years too late.

We could have, might have, been something. I know.

I'm glad we've had time to catch up again.

And boy, you've been busy? I've got some catching up to do.

It's a crime I never heard Darkness on the Edge of Town all the way through. Or The River.

And I've discovered Nebraska, a stripped-down wonder, ahead of its time. Just like people said.

And Tunnel of Love. Brilliant Disguise. My Father's House. Thunder Road

And the latest stuff. Still great. House of a Thousand Guitars.

And during lockdown, you played your songs and shared those beautifully written tales of your youth and early career, from a stage on Broadway no less.

I'm happy. I hope you are too?

Life's too short. I'm glad we reconnected.

I missed out on some stuff. Not sure if you missed me. Might not have registered. I'm ok with that.

Can't start a fire -Can't start a fire without a spark

I know, man - I missed my cue with that damn spark.

I'm sorry Boss, I mean Bruce.