Before they were dripped into me by the good old NHS, I had fondly imagined that the crimson stuff which was already flowing through my veins, but which now required a top-up owing to an internal plumbing defect, had belonged to some extremely rare group, possibly Rhesus Aristocratic.

But the bloke who brought it to my bedside swiftly disabused me: "It's as common as muck," he said.

Which turns out to be a good thing, of course, because the NHS has plenty of it.

Not for the first time, however, I felt a twinge of conscience. I have never been a blood donor. Therefore I am carrying a debt I have still to repay.

I was reminded this week when Gordon Brown found himself in trouble for suggesting that organ donation should no longer be a voluntary matter.

Rather, it should be assumed that it is OK to remove your bits and bobs if you haven't stipulated otherwise before conking out.

I'm with Gordon on this one.

Plenty of people aren't though, including the Sunday newspaper columnist who speculated along the lines of how long it would be before Gordon's State troopers were following folk home and demanding bits of them while they were still very much alive.

This, actually, strikes me as a job for redundant traffic wardens.

Partwise ... coming soon to a street near you.

Of course, if there is one subject that requires your weekly scribbler to avoid flippancy, it is organ donation. People, lots of them, die because Britain carries out nowhere near enough transplants, for which it needs a greater supply of raw materials.

But there is something faintly comical about consenting to be shoved in a box and taking your chances with the worms, or expressing a preference for being popped into a furnace, but drawing the line at the indignity of being chopped up.

Gordon's dead right – there will be plenty more like me who couldn't give a monkey's about being the subject of a little light butchery once the lights have gone out, but who haven't actually got round to registering their approval.

In my case, I suspect my failure to sign up is related to the belief that my long-abused bits of tripe will be worth about as much on the second hand market as an Austin Allegro.

Despite this, I hope to live long enough for medical science to have advanced to the stage where every ounce of dead little me counts for something, whatever state it's in.

Imagine the convenience of having everything removed before the funeral. Suddenly you have achieved in death what you never quite managed in life – significant weight loss.

And as a result you have just made new friends with a team of pallbearers who are no longer muttering beneath their breath about Health and Safety issues as they load you into the hearse.

Or the transplant removal team has reaped such a rich harvest that they have negated the need for traditional disposal.

Your nearest and dearest can now allocate the money they have saved on more beer and ham sandwiches at the Trousered Ferret funeral tea.

Frankly, I would gladly eschew the delights of either burial or cremation in return for spending my afterlife as a few metal fillings and a plastic hip joint in a little box on top of the telly...

Listening out for items on the news about how the number of transplants in Britain has soared to record levels.

But the real bonus, I reckon, would be the travel.

A successful organ donor could really get around.

One day, perhaps, my liver will be ski-ing in Chamonix while my kidneys are sunbathing in Hawaii.

Organ donation? It's a no-brainer.

Peter Richardson and Week ahead footers