Pity the poor plastic disk—London's burglars won't even grab them anymore. It's not hard to see why. Imagine yourself in black mask and gloves, creeping through the darkened Grosvenor Square residence of Lady Fincherton-Smythe, trying to decide what to stuff into your sack. You see a huge pile of CDs and DVDs—recent, chart-topping hits that belong to Lady Fincherton-Smythe's wastrel son, Nigel "Pikey" Fincherton-Smythe—the sort of thing that might have brought in quite a few quid in the mid-90s. You hesitate; surely some of the lads round the pub wouldn't mind a discounted version of that Dr. Who DVD box set?