Lovely, lovely Ronan. He is lovely, isn't he? All clean cut and nicely dressed and you just know he'd be terribly polite if you invited him round for tea.
His records are drivel of course, but they're supposed to be and for people who like that sort of thing (your mum, my Aunt Bridie). And Iris is just the sort of drivel they love. With twinkly strings, whispery throaty vocals and lush Irish balladry that could almost convince you Neil Hannon has made him up for a laugh, Ronan croons his way through Iris, lamenting his slightly bruised heart as he misses a lass who hasn't noticed he exists. Bless.
It's sugary, it's over-sentimental - it is Ronan Keating, after all - but actually it does its job and you can't dislike the fella for it. After all, there's a whole new album of this stuff (Bring You Home) out there right now and it's doing perfectly well, thank you very much. Don't tell anyone, but I quite like him really.
