Buoyed by the recent £2 bargain purchase of a copy of Primal Scream's Screamdelica, I am mooching through the CD racks at our local charity shop. Having moved from the book shelves after checking for the obligatory copy of "The World According to Clarkson", something has gone awry.
"My God! It's all Daniel O'Donnell!"
The entire rack is nothing but Daniel O'Donnell CD after Daniel O'Donnell CD.
"Somebody must have REALLY gone off Daniel O'Donnell," I say.
"Or," says Jane, offering the more likely scenario, "they done a die."
And that answers that particular question: What's worse than your granny's Daniel O'Donnell collection?
Your granny's haunted Daniel O'Donnell collection.