Bingo: The brain game

" It's a sorry day when you're a bloke and you're on your way to bingo on a Saturday night," John, my companion, complains to the taxi driver. The cabbie nods in commiseration. But the way I look at it is that if I've been dispatched to play bingo, then my Irish neighbour – the luckiest mascot I can get my hands on, having been caught clean out of rabbits' feet – is coming with me.

I've been sent to the Mecca bingo club in Catford, south London, with strict instructions to "improve my mental agility". New research by Julie Winstone of the Centre for Visual Cognition at Southampton University's Psychology Department has shown that playing the game adored by slipper-wearing silver foxes can improve the accuracy and speed of short-term memory and help to reverse some effects of ageing.

Tests showed that regular bingo players exhibited superior powers of concentration and better short-term memory than those who play chess, bridge or backgammon, or who complete crosswords.

Not only will the game improve my faculties – with any luck – but it will also benefit my street cred. Celebrities including Yasmin Le Bon and Jade and Bianca Jagger have been eyes-down at London's oh-so-trendy Sanderson Hotel, while the party organiser Fran Cutler, Meg Matthews's business partner, recently held a bingo night for the young and beautiful at Home House, a private club in Soho, where Radio 1 DJ Sara Cox walked off with a prize.

The game, which is regularly played by more than three million Britons, is said to have been devised by the Romans. The late Eric Morley, who brought us Miss World, introduced commercial bingo to Britain in 1961. In 1985, a change in the law permitted multiple games to be played, during which pre-selected numbers could be called at the same time in each participating club, and the National Bingo Game started the following year. The traditional bingo lingo, such as "two fat ladies", was ditched to avoid confusion. The national game is now played by around 550 of Britain's 700-odd licensed bingo clubs every night of the year, except Christmas.

Tonight, John and I will be competing for its top prize of £54,480, which would buy one of us a rather splendid conservatory. During a casual chat over the garden fence earlier in the day, we had agreed to split any winnings. Secretly, however, I would have no qualms about buggering off with the lot, should we hit the jackpot.

Before we get into the taxi I scan the pavement carefully. I had read on the Lucky Winners website that earlier in the month, a 74-year-old man from Feltham had won more than £102,000 at the Gala bingo club in Hounslow, claiming he owed his luck to a large, shiny metal bolt he found on the pavement while waiting for a bus to the club. "The sun was shining on this object and it gleamed like gold," he explained. "I picked it up and saw it was a sort of bolt, though most unusual. I'm an engineer and normally recognise bolts, but this is one I have not seen before. I thought, is this an omen? A bolt from the blue? And I decided to take it with me to bingo. I also won another £30 house later that evening, and my wife borrowed it to take to bingo on Monday afternoon and won £10! I am going to take good care of that bolt."

My inspection of the pavement reveals several lipstick-stained fag butts, a large sun-bleached weed and a sulky snail that I had previously caught bingeing on my gladioli and tossed over the gate. I resist the urge to shove them into my pocket and we roar off to deepest south London. At the entrance of the club is a pony-tailed gentleman in what looks like a pair of natty turquoise pyjamas. It's Michael, the caller. "Welcome to the palace," he cries. "It's not Buckingham, but it's Mecca."

I buy several books of cards for a tenner, including four cards for the National Game, and enter the room, where the supermarket-intense lighting is slowly being softened by cigarette smoke. The scene resembles an examination hall. Heads deep in concentration are bent over two-seater plastic tables, while fists are stabbing maniacally with felt tips, as if trying to squash a bothersome fly. The average age seems to be around 40. Many people are on their own, including a number of thirtysomethings. It is shockingly quiet save for Michael, who is standing on a podium in the middle of the hall. "All the twos, 22," he says in warm, reassuring tones. "Two and eight, 28. One and two, number 12." I walk over to the bar to get the drinks in, conscious of the now extraordinarily loud thwacking sound of my flip-flops. John and I whisper as though at mass.

"Here yar," comes a distant excited yelp. "Lovely shout, darlin'," says Michael, and the woman's card is taken away to be verified. The game is over, and another starts. "Eight and four, 84. Four and seven, 47..."

I decide to get some advice from Mary Barlett, 57, sitting on her own behind us in white slacks and a cardie, with her feet up on the seat opposite. Glowing ever so slightly at the memory, Mary, a retired sheltered-housing warden, tells of how she won nearly £10,000 a couple of years ago in the regional National Game. "I went on holiday to Gran Canaria and treated my aunt and cousin," she says. "I come twice a week. It's company, somewhere to come on your own." Mary is a firm believer that the game provides her with a mental workout. "You have to keep watching all the time. You'll lose money if you don't keep your wits about you."

Suddenly there's a cry resembling that of a newborn baby. Someone has just won £10 for getting a line of numbers. "Lovely shout," says Michael. "Are you enjoying your bingo?" he asks the room. "No," grumbles a young man, who has so far failed to win anything.

I start playing. Within two minutes I've gone cross-eyed trying to find the numbers. It's a job trying to keep up with Michael, let alone look to see whether I've completed a line or not. And how does a girl mark off her numbers, attend to her pint of lager and lime, enjoy the local fare – and answer her mobile phone, all at the same time? I'm beginning to wish I had brought that snail with me after all.

Suddenly there's a loud commotion beside me. John has exploded. He's just won a tenner, which is presented to him in a fancy envelope. I start thinking about cane furniture.

John and I get the bus back home, and slip into our local to celebrate his win. We may both still be tens of thousands of pounds away from a lovely conservatory, but there's no denying we're on our way.