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Forgetfulness is a man thing

Ed the Editor's personal blog corner

I could tell you the registration number of a car my mother owned in 1974, but I would be completely stumped if I had to tell you what is on the plate of the car we drive now. I have tried to commit it to memory but it just won't stick.

I could tell you that Shirley Ellis sung the Clapping Song, and Lieber and Stoller wrote Elvis songs, because my mother played them when I was 5. Sadly, I don't know the title of a single Britney Spears song. So much for the power of marketing today!

I know that David Gower and Ian Botham, two cricketing legends, both started playing for England in 197-something. How do I know? I was delivering newspapers before school and remember reading the headlines on the back sports pages. Most disturbing, for all the highlights and news programs I have sat through in recent months, I couldn't tell you the name of a single rooky footballer.

So what is that all about then? Long term memory is firing on all cylinders, short term memory is shot? Possibly all that drinking as a younger man has taken its toll and parts of my head are neuronless? Maybe, but I prefer the idea that my inability to recall recent trivia could be a man thing.

Apparently we men only recall what is important to us. Rooky sportsmen destined for jail hold no interest for me any more. Fattening pop stars have no appeal any more. Boxy Japanese cars aren't worth remembering in detail? That all sounds about right. As long as I overlook the fact that I don't know my own telephone number, despite writing it down numerous times, I think this selective memory theory applies to me - and sounds much sexier than early senility.

Now, where is the Save button?