Platform2 God spare us the Channel 5 retuner

The other day the doorbell of my ancient mews cottage gave an imperious, protracted ring. I looked out of the window. Standing foreshortened against the gleaming cobbles was a tall, gangly man with a large bag. He was, he shouted, from Channel 5.

He came when I was in the middle of something else - never mind what - but it was a cold morning and I'm a gentleman. "I'll be down," I called.

I had received a multi-coloured pack telling me somebody would come: "Open your door and say ... GIVE ME FIVE." I did not proffer this strange greeting, as I had been promised he would be wearing "a give-me-5 uniform"; I had expected somebody in a piebald get-up similar to that of a court jester. I couldn't at such lack of notice find the "unique security number" assigned to me.

Upstairs, he looked at the video recorder and the very large (and expensive) TV set bought in distant halcyon days.

"It's an old set," he observed. "I know," I said, feeling vaguely guilty, "we've grown old together."

He added that the TV was a model unfamiliar to him - not surprising, given the constant changes in design over decades. I left him to it, and he left, giving me his name and phone number. "If you have any problems..."

Hours later I decided to look at the news. The tuning of the TV was haywire. I left a message on give-me-5's answering machine.

He came the next morning, and made some adjustments. "It's OK now," he said, and went cheerfully on his way. Hours later, on switching the TV on, I got only part of a picture, and a streak of dazzling light across the screen. But, try, as I might, I couldn't find the scrap of paper with give-me-5's name and address.

I rang the phone number on the literature, Channel 5 Engineering service.

"Can you give me the name and phone number of the engineer you sent to see me?"

"What is your security number?"

"I don't know. I've mislaid the card."

"We are not allowed to give out names and numbers."

"Why ever not? Your employee called on me without notice, has had access to my equipment, which now doesn't work. I need to contact him urgently."

"I will pass a message on to the supervisor."

"What is the name of the supervisor and where can I contact him."

"We are not allowed to disclose names ..."

"May I know the name of the managing director or chief executive?"

"We do not give such details on the telephone..."

The message to the supervisor did not galvanise him into action. I rang early the following morning.

"This is urgent," I said, "I want to record Inside Story tonight on Channel 4 ... you see, I wrote the first biography of Princess Margaret and like to keep up to date. Can I please have the phone number of the engineer you sent to tune my apparatus."

There was a pregnant pause: almost by telepathy, I imagined her thoughts ("I've got a right one here - how do I get him off the phone?").

"We don't give out phone numbers..." "What is the name of your executive?" And so on. No luck. "If it isn't put right promptly," I said, "I'll have no choice but to engage an expert and send you the bill."

Later I was told a "junior supervisor" or engineer would call within an hour. Sure enough, the doorbell rang. It was Cheerful Charlie. "I've been sent," he announced, with notable lack of enthusiasm.

He looked gloomily at the TV. "It's an old set," he said. "It's nearing the end of its life."

"It has worked without fault for years. What's the trouble?"

"It's nothing to do with Channel 5. I'm no expert, but I think the set is reaching the end of its life."

"You're saying there's nothing you can do?" - "Yes". "And there's nothing the company can do?" "That's right - I'm pretty sure that it's nothing to do with Channel 5."

He made to go, and produced a form from a great bundle affixing an adhesive address stamp on it. "Would you sign this?"

I read it. It was a statement that the equipment was in a satisfactory condition and was working satisfactorily. "I won't sign this. The equipment is not in a satisfactory condition and is not working satisfactorily..." His look of weary resignation made me wonder, uneasily, if there existed an RSPCE (Royal Society for the Protection of Engineers). He put the papers away.

What is your usual job?" I asked, on the assumption that this one couldn't be. "I'm a film editor." "How did you get caught up in all this?" "The money." But you have the necessary technical qualifications, of course." "Not really," he admitted, with engaging candour. "I only had a few days' instruction."

My experience raises some interesting questions: what sense of justice was there in assigning to a yet non-existent company a channel already in use by holders of millions of pieces of apparatus? They were never asked. If somebody finds their equipment is being interfered with by Channel 5, should they not seek redress? Could they not withhold part or all of their television licence on the grounds that somebody was interfering with the enjoyment of their property?

And there's a muted warning in the information pack: "It's highly likely that equipment connected to your TV uses our frequency band ..." (Our Frequency band? It has been snatched away from those who were using it without their being consulted). The message is that if you don't open your door and say "give me five!" the frequency hogs will tell you it's your own fault if your property is made unusable.

A point of non-cheer - "There is a lesser chance that other equipment could be affected, such as PCs ..." All together now, computer buffs: give me five!n

The writer was a co-founder and first editor of 'Panorama'