A NIGHT ON TV PATROL IN BRITAIN

We say potato, they say po-tah-to . We say tomato, they say to-mah-to . We have commercials, they have a TV license fee. And many here sing: “Let’s call the whole thing off.”

The site is big, industrial, heavily unemployed Birmingham, Britain’s second-largest city, with a population of 1.1 million. The mission is critical. The purpose is money.

We’re on the trail of (gulp) TV license dodgers.

Britain has a dual television system consisting of the commercial ITV and non-commercial British Broadcasting Corp. The BBC’s two TV and four radio channels are financed almost entirely by an annual $85 license fee on homes with color TV sets ($27 for black-and-white) established by the government and collected by the Post Office for the Home Office. The controversial fee--a flat tax that hits the poor hardest--can be paid in a lump sum or in installments.

Many prefer not paying at all.

The BBC is running in the red, estimating that 1.6 million TV homes are delinquent and costing it $129 million in license revenue.

So, several times a year, the Post Office steps up its collections nationally, sweeping neighborhoods in white vans with lists of alleged license dodgers and monitoring equipment that can pick up TV signals.

Electronic snooping in Britain? If not Big Brother, Big Thatcher.

Last month, the Post Office sent a notice to newspapers here announcing “an intensive anti-evasion campaign . . . as part of a nationwide crackdown on TV license cheats.” Birmingham would be blitzed in November by a “special hand-picked task force of trained investigators,” the Post Office said. The operation was to be directed by the Post Office’s own Brian Sproat.

“License dodgers,” Sproat spoke, “will not be allowed to get away with cheating. . . .”

No more Mr. Softie. Proud of its campaign to nab “cheaters”--144,000 were caught a year ago--the Post Office allowed me to go along on a nighttime sweep.

I squeezed into a van with the silent, unsmiling Sproat and three of his “hand-picked task force of trained investigators”:

Eddie drove. Colin was the technical operator who would sit behind a panel in the rear of the van and twist knobs and interpret zig-zagging green electronic responses that appeared on his monitor. Jim was the list-bearing inquiry officer who would tell Eddie where to drive, knock on doors and get the scoop from alleged evaders.

Those not producing a TV license and refusing to pay on the spot are reported and subject to fining. That’s the plan, anyway, but it doesn’t always work that way.

Our van--fitted with two rooftop aerials resembling barbecue grills--headed for Smithwick, a poor, high-crime, largely West Indian neighborhood. We would cruise by the addresses on Jim’s list. If Colin picked up a TV signal showing a set in use--his blipping screen looked like a heart monitor in an operating room--Jim would knock on the door.

Imagine the sight.

A van with aerials on its roof pulls up to your curb at night. From your house, you can see the darkened interior of the van, the outlines of men inside and Colin’s green-glowing monitor. You’re either terrified or angry.

“A woman went to hit me with a shoe the other day,” Jim said. “But 90% of the time there’s no problem, and when there is a problem, most of it’s just verbal abuse. You can’t tell by the neighborhood. You can go to the best residential area and a bloke can throw a tantrum at you.”

Don’t the dodger catchers feel guilty forcing the poorest of blokes to pay up? “Not really,” said Colin. “It’s the cost of a pint a beer a week, that’s all.”

More than anything, the van is a scare tactic, a warning that the Post Office is prowling. A prowling Post Office?

“Sometimes,” said Colin, “we’ll just park outside a school at lunchtime. The kids come over and look at the van and talk to us, and then they go home and tell their parents.”

A not-so-subtle message to pay up or else.

The van slowed. “This is one--No. 13,” Jim said.

A woman opened the door and invited us in. The Indian family had just finished dinner and their sparsely furnished flat was heavy with smells of curry and other spices. In the largest room sat a TV set, above a VCR, next to a sewing machine. A man explained that he bought the set just two weeks ago and that his brother had the license. Jim took his statement and left a printed form to be filled out and sent to the local TV Inquiry Office.

The van cruised down a block of shabby row houses. “Hello, luv, Television License Office,” Jim announced to a woman who opened the door. “Own a TV set?” She waved him away. “No television.”

Inside the van, Jim explained that he had no authority to check inside the premises without an invitation. “We could always get a search warrant,” Sproat said. “But we seldom do that,” Jim said. “Evaders can be fined as much as 400 (about $600),” Sproat said. “But it’s usually a lot less,” Jim said.

Sproat slumped back into his seat.

Next address: A small round woman let us inside her dingy, cluttered two-room flat. Her black-and-white set was on, but she spoke no English. Jim left her the printed form which she must mail in within two weeks or get a return visit by someone who speaks her dialect.

The van next halted in front of a small brick building where a woman was peeking through a front window. Almost immediately, her flat went black. “They turned off the set, too,” Colin said.

The woman answered the door. “Sorry to bother you, luv,” Jim said. “Oh, I don’t live here,” the woman said. “Do you know who does?” Jim asked. “No, I don’t,” she replied. Jim left her the form. “That’s an offender,” he said, walking away. “But what can I do?”

It was a shutout in Smithwick, a far better night for dodgers than catchers. There would be other nights, though, as the Post Office continued its relentless pursuit of guilty TV watchers.

“I guess you couldn’t do this in the United States,” Jim said. I told him that he was right, that Americans wouldn’t tolerate it, that there were also a few Rambos who might blow off his head if he knocked on their doors at night.

“Yes,” Jim agreed, “the United States is a different country.” And the white van with the odd-looking aerials sped back to the Post Office.