In recent years, the minute’s silence at sports grounds has been replaced by the minute’s applause. Whether it’s thought that using the universal sound of appreciation is more appropriate to sporting and entertainment figures than the more sombre requirements of people killed in battle, or whether it’s to cover for the fact that a reasonable proportion of football fans are unable to focus on anything for a full minute (or at least stand still for that length of time) is unclear, but it certainly seems more fitting in its context.

I’ve been thinking about all this since listening to a program on commemorating the war dead on Radio 4 this morning, and wondering how I’d like my passing to be commemorated. I am reminded of the example of Jeremy Hardy, who once said:

“I would quite like to die in a way that causes maximum inconvenience to others – on an escalator, or while having my blood pressure taken. Or at somebody else’s funeral. Attention-seeking to the last.”

As a comedian, it’s understandable that Jeremy wants to get as much attention as possible, and it will certainly cause a few people to remember his passing. For myself, I prefer to cause as little consternation amongst large groups of people as I can, so lasting remembrance is unlikely to come my way through this route.

I believe I fit into that category of people who will never amount to much on the world stage, and will pass on with no corresponding outpouring of public emotion. However, should a large group of people feel that I’m worthy of being commemorated in a public act, I will at least want people to remember that. So neither a minute’s silence for me, nor a minute’s applause. I want a minute’s hopping on the spot. It would look ridiculous and unseemly, and most would fail in the attempt, but the thought amuses me and it should (if done properly) amuse everyone who’s trying to hop too. You may not wish to hop, and that’s your right, and I won’t be upset (I’ll be rotting). But you should be amused, and if you’re not I don’t want you commemorating me at all, you miserable sod.

In the 31 days of December 2009, I was offered a grand total of £105,668,800. £3.4 million per day, £142,000 per hour, or £395 per second. Not bad.

This sum includes $5 million that Michael Jackson apparently left me in his will, for being a special fan. Now, since I only bought one of his albums way back in 1989, I wouldn’t have thought I’d have made it onto Michael’s fan radar, but clearly this was one extremely generous man.

There are several implications to this. First, exactly how much money did Mr Jackson give away in his will? Even if we take Wikipedia’s conservative estimate of 65 million copies of Thriller sold, at $5 million per purchase, that’s $325 trillion straight away. And that’s just one album. No wonder there’s been a financial crisis – Michael Jackson had all the money in the world, plus a whole lot more that he wasn’t telling anyone about.

Second, someone must be doing some serious detective work. Just like several people I know, I wasn’t buying albums online in 1989. Tracking down the origin of a cash purchase to me (I was only 12, and credit card companies weren’t as generous then as they have been of late), tracing the various changes of address I’ve been through since then (eight, by my reckoning), and linking it all to my email address to let me know of this wonderful gift is a phenomenal achievement. The networks of collected information must be enormous. Big brother may well be watching us, but it’s OK – he’s only doing it so he can give us all lots of money.

The upshot of all this is that my money worries seem to be over. Except for where to keep it all. I’m not sure there’s a bank that I can trust at the moment, and if I want to keep it under my mattress, I’m going to have to raise the bedroom ceiling and buy a ladder.