Unrequited love's a bitch at the best of times, but with musicians it's even worse.

Most will never know how loved they are. Point in question: Fionn Regan. The Dublin-born singer/songwriter will never know how close he came to having me stalk him obsessively, like a lioness does her wildebeest prey. He’ll never know how every one of the five songs here touched me, albeit briefly, like no others have for some time. He’ll also never know how much I now hate him.

One quick, accidental listen to Damien Rice puts everything into perspective (damn those fucking free CDs they give away with broadsheets these days). Regan is heading the same way – towards the hordes of Mondeo-driving bores that’ll rob me of the intimacy I initially felt when listening to ‘The Hotel Room EP’. They'll look up from their flashing dashboards just long enough to turn to their passenger and make some remark along the lines of "the new David Gray".

But they'll be wrong; these 20-odd minutes of heavenly acoustic aching for something indefinable yet oh-so real are echelons above the plastic heart and throwaway soul of Gray and company, almost recalling the heavenly depression of Sparklehorse or even Eels. Yet, for all my praise, Regan can never reciprocate what I offer, nor can he commit to monogamy - he's that good and I hate him for it. I hate that other people are going to want to hear him. Other people don't know how lucky they are.