Mrs Brit has recently been belting out Whitney Houston songs on the karaoke machine. In particular, lusty renditions of The Greatest Love of All have been echoing around the vast, crumbling chambers of Brit Towers.
Now naturally enough, my brain's protective filter will automatically block out any song which opens with the lines "I believe that children are our future", but nothing could prepare me for the trauma of seeing the lyrics appear on the screen.
I don't know about you lot, but I had always lazily assumed that this was a common-or-garden number expressing Whitney's amorous intentions towards a Significant Other.
But in fact, it is nothing of the sort - it's actually one of those grisly get-to-love-yourself self-help manual things which, I'm afraid to say, the Cousins specialise in.
The Daddy of this genre is of course My Way. My Way is a great song when sung by Frank Sinatra (all songs are great when sung by Frank Sinatra) but on close inspection stands revealed as the most dreadful pile of tosh. I'm sure we can agree on that, yes?