WHEN this newspaper converted to new technology back in the mid-1980s, people's lives changed overnight.

New technology. What a quaint term this seems to us now, all these years later in this screen-dominated age of ours.

These days, there is, of course, nothing particularly contemporary about it. Terminals, keyboards and all the other paraphernalia has been the reality in both home and the workplace for quite some time.

Nevertheless, when it came to pass in the middle 1980s, this not-so-bloodless revolution proved to be quite a shock for more individuals who would care to admit.

I remember one colleague saying at the end of a pupil-radiated day at the coalface that the very thought of going home to watch television filled him with dread.

His eyes just could not tolerate any more screen. Many of us still know that feeling.

Mind you, like everything else that life throws at us, we all became used to working with the once-reviled and feared computers.

However, I have no doubt whatsoever that, regardless of what experts may tell us, reduced eye function and possibly other physical long-term damage will be the legacy of intensive use of computers.

Mark my words, in the years to come, it will be the next Christmas Island... Gulf War Syndrome or whatever. But, there again, there is not an occupation known to Man that does not exact some price or other.

But, returning to the television theme, I would imagine that the viewing habit, far from having been reduced by computer work, has probably increased several-fold.

Those of us in our middle years will no doubt recall with a wistful glance over the shoulder of time those days of telly rationing during that first decade of the infamous goggle box.

There was a short burst in the afternoon with Andy Pandy, Bill and Ben, or The Woodentops, which sort of bled into Children's Hour. After that came the news, followed by In Town Tonight with Cliff Michelmore - or something similar - then a studio drama followed by a final look at the news, then The Epilogue... and, finally, The National Anthem.

And so to bed, as Samuel Pepys would have said.

These days, not only is there a television in every home, there is quite possibly several of the contraptions dwelling in various rooms. As mother and father watch Tonight With Trevor McDonald, one child watches EastEnders while offspring number two settles back in the Hallow Road tip she calls a room to view Braveheart for the zillionth time.

Fine. Each to their own. I don't impose my taste on nearest and dearest, neither do they wonder why - or challenge - my loathing for any programme featuring people with a London accent.

I have had more than enough of Cockney "hard" men in this relatively short life.

Give me Berr-mingham or even good old Worcest-urrr. Better still, let's have eloquent north Warwickshire, the diction that sounds like water trickling over the pebbles in any tributary of the Avon you'd care to mention.

All right, all right, calm down. But I must say that of late, I've come to the conclusion that there is now a serious imbalance regarding national television programming, or whatever the people in charge describe the criteria that governs our viewing consumption.

Take this example. I had decided to record a series of 26 episodes, on a subject that is of particular interest to me. I therefore bought a pack of tapes in readiness - and the first three parts were no problem.

The fourth instalment was eagerly awaited... you know what it's like, with the anticipation being almost as enjoyable as the real thing. But then it was a case of all change.

The Iraq War broke out, and the schedules - along with Saddam's palaces - were rapidly shot to pieces.

So the result was that my programme was unceremoniously dumped in favour of Newsnight Special, and we were obliged to welcome the bucket mug of Jeremy Paxman into our homes instead.

All quite reasonable of course, given the circumstances. If it has to be a toss-up between an international crisis and Phillpott's TV requirements, then there is naturally no contest. And as the war in the Gulf started to reach its conclusion, I started to look forward to the resumption of my series.

But no - all hopes were dashed against the rocks of Telly Controllers' Cove. For as soon as the Middle-East conflict receded, guess what took its place? Yes, that's right. Sport.

Not just sport, either. It was sport... and then, if that wasn't enough, more sport.

First, it was a whole evening taken up with golf, the most tedious pursuit known to the human race. Then it was the blow-by-blow boredom of the snooker championships. Yes, I know it's a personal view, and is, I daresay, an affront to those who like playing with balls of different colours.

But I don't care. Why is so much time devoted to something that common sense and simple arithmetic suggest can be of interest to little more than half the population?

I'll tell you. It's because the media is controlled and dominated by male sports junkies. And like control freaks everywhere, they must have their own way. Nothing, bar nothing, must get in their way.

Coronation Street? Ditch it, whatever the cost or inconvenience. Interesting history programme of only 35 minutes' duration? Aw, stuff it. We can show it anytime, even if the thread has been completely lost.

More to the point, let's talk pounds, shillings and pence here. In recent times, the BBC has been one of the worst offenders when it comes to mucking about with the schedules.

That wouldn't be so heinous a crime were it not for the fact that we are all obliged - no forced, actually - to pay a whopping big licence fee upon pain of God-knows-what if we don't.

Yet despite this annual extortion that easily puts the Mafia in the shade, viewers' choice is being suffocated at the whims of middle-aged men in the clothing of small boys.

Their prejudices are ruining our enjoyment.

Without a hint of shame, these arbiters of public taste demand that they have their own way. Talk about adding insult to injury.

Well, I'm sick of it. Which is why I think the time has come to abolish the licence fee on the grounds that it no longer provides value for money. More than ever before, the BBC should now be made to compete with market forces like every other business.

And, while we're at it, sport should be cleared out of the main channels and be confined to the nearest satellite channel. I know there will be much gnashing of teeth and renting of football strips everywhere, but that's just too bad.

It's time this ridiculous situation was kicked into touch. Once and for all.