Hugh Reilly: Unforgettable, that’s what you (now) are

Like a captured member of the French Resistance, he tried to buy precious time by waffling, but the BBC Gestapo interviewer continued with the interrogation. “There’s Tom Harris, Johann Lamont and a third candidate,” he said. The third man, Ken Macintosh, will forever be known as the Harry Lime of Scottish politics.

Teachers had some sympathy with Miliband’s senior moment, but experienced chalkies have developed strategies to reduce the chances of forgetting a child’s name. For example, it was my wont to link an image with a kid’s name. A Charles would be Bonnie Prince Charlie on a white charger, a Jean would be my sister. This system was not without its weaknesses – a girl announcing her name was Jordan could bring an unhelpful image to the front of my brain.

In Miliband’s situation, to remember Tom Harris, he could have conjured up a picture of Rolf Harris playing a didgeridoo (given the poll ratings, Rolf is far likelier to lead the party than the bland man who turns up on BBC Scotland’s Newsnight when all other Labour spokespeople have the flu).

Ken Macintosh laughed off the fact he was such a forgettable character. To be fair, he has had plenty of practice. An MSP since the inception of the Scottish Parliament, he probably finds it hilarious that Donald Dewar, Henry McLeish and Jack McConnell failed to recall his name when handing out ministerial posts. That he is the front-runner to lead Scottish Labour certainly tickles my funny bone.

Teachers sometimes employ a seating plan to assist putting a name to an anonymous face. This avoids the embarrassing scenario of pointing to a kid and saying, “You with the ginger hair, what’s your answer?” I don’t dare count the number of times I’ve had to hand out paper hankies to a snivelling carrot-top who has burst into tears over such a simple, observable form of identification.

Seating plans are not foolproof, as Sir is often forced to move naughty scamps from one seat to another. My preference was to sit a miscreant beside a lad with BO. To be honest, the mere threat of such a sanction was usually enough to curb the ill-discipline, although Sir now had to deal with the disgruntled boy with hygiene issues upset at being used a behaviour-management tool.

Elephants never forget, but all they have to remember is when to eat and organise a time to shower themselves. Teachers are expected to instantly recall the names of the hundreds of pupils they teach on a daily basis. The Memory Man in The Thirty Nine Steps had it easy; all he had to do was to remember the names of a German spy ring. To be fair, no parent has ever shot me for my inability to name their child, but a few have drawn daggers. Rather than accept that teachers are human, some mums and dads deem it to be a sign of a dud teacher.

Motivation, of course, is key to remembering someone’s name. Classroom staff rarely forget to remember the name of the school’s headteacher. It can happen, but in my experience what follows – ie, a timetable filled with pupils with behavioural issues – acts as a highly effective aide-memoire to prevent future lapses.

In the sunset of my teaching career, forgetting pupils’ names was not my greatest problem. A former pupil arrived at my school as a teacher of English and was unimpressed that I did not remember her. She left the room, only to appear the next day and recount an event that happened in my classroom (she had been struck by a Coke can). When I shrugged my shoulders, she gave me an unforgettable withering look.

At a Friend’s Reunited night, I sidled up to Mary Doyle and introduced myself. She stared at me as if I had asked her for a fiver to catch the bus to Arbroath. Sure, I had changed – she would not have recalled a fat, bald bloke sitting next to her in primary – but I had been the one boy in the class with an outrageous cow’s lick. How could she forget my name? I’m a man, not a number, I thought to myself.

If Ed Miliband didn’t know Macintosh’s name before, he kens it noo.