Back in the days when I could casually leave the bunker for a night on the town filled with music and drinking, I often thought to myself - erroneously - that I was reasonably turned out. I had, through some creative combing, managed to cover most of my head with the hair that remained to me, my dark clothes were suitably slimming, my boots shined and my earring glinted in the light in homage to David Essex's man-piloting-barge-down-the-canal look. I was unlikely to win any awards - if you, for example, entered me in the Scór na nÓg, you could be sure that you were not going to be coming home with any of the medals - but I felt an ever-so-slight glow of confidence. Surely I wasn't a complete disaster? All these feelings of adequacy were washed away, like a paper hat in the face of a tornado, whenever a man - spelled M-A-N - like Ger Eaton walked in the door. Then again, there aren't any men like Ger Eaton.

It shouldn't work. He dresses like someone who was given five minutes to clear out The Eager Beaver on its last day of business but forgot to bring a shopping bag, and he's got a set of mutton chops that would have yer man out of Mungo Jerry advising him to rein it in a bit. Look at the picture included above - that's not a filter, he's doing that with his mind - and take in the Rupert The Bear strides/Keith Moon jacket combo that Ger throws quickly on when he's only going to the Spar for a pint of milk. You can plainly see how the aesthetically challenged likes of myself have little hope of ever being at the races. His do always look great too, but taming coiffures has been his bread and butter for over twenty-five years, so you'd expect that. I see him saunter into Whelan's or the like and a deep groan emanates from down near the very pit of my soul. I have a quick five or six more pints and then head home, dejected.

To add insult to heinous injury, like leaving the gate open after you've already set fire to the house, Mr Eaton is a musician of no little accomplishment. The hip with the ear and eye out will already know him from his work with Duke Special, Jack L - now there's a good looking man, Mundy, Fionn Regan and The Pale. On top of that he's been on Later With Jools Holland and played Glastonbury. Recently, thanks to a kick in the arse from his sensible offspring Jude, he has waded into solo waters. First there was 'I Thought I'd A Friend' and now there's his second single, 'Hollow'. There's been some high profile reaction already.

"A beautiful slice of Scoot Walker'esque pop," says chief Water"boy", Mike Scott. "Hollow is beautiful," says Flower and Radio man, Fiachna Ó Braonáin. You can, as per usual, take their word for it, for as soon as the tune rolls in, with its strings and tremolo guitar opening, you know you're in the hands of someone who knows what they're doing. If I were to mention the names Glen Campbell and Jimmy Webb to you, you might, quite rightly, scoff and say "hardly!" but have a listen below and hear it for yourself. Get to the end - you get there far too quickly, by the way - and the gentle backing vocals could be from one of those "undiscovered" Beach Boys tracks that seem to surface every six months or so. Trust me here, this song is going to make your day. Some people - and yes, Ger, I'm talking about you - would sicken your arse altogether.

'Hollow' by Ger Eaton from Ger Eaton on Vimeo.