Daniel O'Donnell has won the adoring approval of a legion of latemiddle-aged, mostly female fans. And now Queen Elizabeth has apparentlyjoined them. Rosita Boland profiles Ireland's latest recipient of a royal gong.
If Daniel O'Donnell were a song, he'd surely be Danny Boy, the ballad so many love to hate, yet which is also enduringly popular with so many others.
His public image has always had something of the Janus about it. Look at him from one side and he seems to have been perpetually middle-aged, with his sensible jumpers and careful grooming and the old-fashioned aura he emanates so effortlessly; look at him from the other and he seems eternally a child, this Wee Daniel who delights in hosting tea parties, receives thousands of teddy bears from fans, and who, at 41, still calls his mother Mammy.
He provokes equally diverse reactions in people. To describe his fans - mostly middle- to late-aged women - as loyal is a bit like saying that the Pope would be known to pray on occasion. You can see where the fan in fanatical comes from when you see Daniel's followers in action.
Those who are not fans tend to have equally strong responses in the form of making loud sounds of distress usually associated with a particularly nasty gastric bug.
Opinions are one thing, facts another. Two new facts added to the O'Donnell biography in recent days have been the announcement of his engagement on Christmas Day to 41-year-old Majella McLennan, and that of his inclusion in Queen Elizabeth II's New Year's honours list as an MBE - that's Member of the British Empire - for his services to the music industry.
For the prurient public, the announcement of pending nuptials probably attracted more interest. Daniel's private life has long been a source of lively speculation, perhaps best proved by the scores of Daniel jokes that have done the rounds over the years, most of which are unprintable. His tardiness to the altar has been the butt of a myriad rumours: however, the forthcoming marriage to Ms McLennan will presumably scotch the wilder of these.
DANIEL O'Donnell, as we all know, is from Donegal; Kincasslagh, to be precise. His father, who was a seventh son, was a faith healer. He died when Daniel was a small boy, so he was effectively raised by his mother, Julia, to whom he has frequently proclaimed his affection and indebtedness. Although he originally wanted to be a teacher, and began Business Studies in Galway's Regional College, he gave it up at 19 to go on the road with his singing sister Margo.
Two years later, he formed his own band, the imaginatively named Country Fever. The punters were not impressed. He moved to Dublin and formed another band, along the same lines, called Grassroots. There followed a roughish patch, during which time he washed dishes in a Dublin hotel to keep some money coming in, an experience to humble the soul of any erstwhile performance artist.
Paydirt came in the form of a new manager, Sean Reilly. All through the 90s, Daniel's easy-listening style and an unchallenging image began to garner him his famous fans, his sales, and three Irish Entertainment Personality of the Year awards. There were those begrudgers who felt that associating the singer's name with the word "personality" was a bit of a paradox, but his success was unstoppable, and his autobiography, Follow Your Dream, sold over half a million copies. He now seems to have always been with us; one of Ireland's more esoteric institutions in which we so specialise.
Daniel O'Donnell's greatest crime seems to be in being too nice; perhaps the blandest descriptive word in the entire English language. He does not drink or smoke. He's raised a considerable amount of money for charity. He is reportedly unfailingly courteous, in an era when manners are a lot less in evidence than they have been. He is attentive and thoughtful to his fans.
He says he's not much of a reader, but he loves Alice Taylor, a writer whose speciality is nostalgic rural Ireland. He enjoys a game of whist. His favourite musician is Cliff Richard; he says he was "too late" for the Beatles, as if they are a bus with one set departure time. And then there are those famous tea parties.
What, people wondered, possessed the man to invite thousands of people he did not know personally to have a cup of tea and a biscuit at Kincasslagh with himself and his Mammy in midsummer? Niceness? Madness? Perhaps it was neither, simply a canny PR wheeze which can only have helped boost sales and create a bizarre mythology: he did, after all, study business, no matter how briefly.
DANIEL O'Donnell, most interviewers have pointed out in the past, is very far from stupid. John Waters found him "wry and bright and lippy" in 1992.
However, most of them also seem frankly puzzled as to what makes the man really tick: is he an apparently transparent person, or a more complex creature entirely?
To read through a pile of interviews with him over the years is to emerge feeling puzzled and a bit disorientated, as if you have gone round in circles and ended up where you started, none the wiser. It's no surprise to learn that he does not like journalists, since many have been less than kind to him. As an interviewee, you are very unlikely to open up to someone when: a) you're been badly stung in the past; and b) you are not stupid. He may have been much interviewed, but nobody ever seems to have cracked him.
So the real Daniel O'Donnell might be elusive and been hiding on us all this time.
Or he might not. One way or another, he's very good at keeping us guessing about a lot of things.
