WHILE perusing a national newspaper, Roger Statham's gaze rests on a familiar looking name. Isn't that...?, he wonders, his mind racing back 20 years to the source of the connection. Allowing himself the indulgence, he pauses for a moment as the old feeling of satisfaction washes over him.

The name he recognises is that of a former charge, a young offender he referred to the Feltham Institution in London, after he got mixed up in drugs. During his time there, the youngster discovered a talent for rugby, and later went on to play for his county. He is now making the news as a top London businessman.

While few of his successes have been so spectacular, Mr Statham, 55, has had his fair share of highs during 33 years in the probation service. Fired by a passionate belief in making a real difference to society, he began his career in Stoke-on-Trent, aged 23.

In those days, the emphasis was firmly on getting disillusioned young men back into work, even if the jobs on offer were hardly desirable.

As Mr Statham puts it: "They were the kind of low-paid jobs that were available, but at least it gave them the chance to settle down."

As the years passed, and the gulf between the rich and poor grew, finding solutions to crime became ever more difficult. When he moved to Teesside as assistant chief probation officer in 1984, he found himself at the sharp end of the problem. The divisions in society have grown and as a consequence, youngsters now feel more isolated," he says. "Behaviour has got tougher, and we see drugs playing an increasing part in young people's lives."

As one of the highest crime areas in Britain, Teesside mirrors the situation to a frightening level. According to the latest figures available, Cleveland police dealt with almost 64,500 offences in 1997. Up to 36,000 people were recorded as monthly users of illegal drugs. As chief probation officer, a role he took on in 1988, it was Mr Statham's responsibility to deliver the kind of programmes that were likely to make a difference. He drew on a system that had operated since 1921.

'I was responsible for the day-to-day running of the service," he says. "There were four assistant chief probation officers on Teesside, and managers throughout the service. We were responsible to a shadow board, comprising local magistrates, members of the community and a senior judge, and we had to report to it on a regular basis."

Under the system, those most keenly aware of local crime issues were able to devise programmes to tackle them. These were people who drew on a wealth of experience of living and working on Teesside and gave their time voluntarily because they believed in rehabilitation. Then it became a political issue, and suddenly central Government wanted to get involved.

The new Criminal Justice and Court Services Act had its first readings in Parliament last March. It sent shock waves through the entire probation service. What the Act amounted to was nothing short of a revolution. Regional probation services are to be stripped of their autonomy and denied the right to set their own programmes and choose their own candidates for rehabilitation.

Only fierce lobbying by chief probation officers managed to chip away some of its sharper edges, such as a change of name to the Community Punishment and Rehabilitation Service and automatic three-month imprisonment for offenders breaching orders. But many radical changes remain.

"Under the new arrangements, chief probation officers are civil servants, accountable to central Government," says Mr Statham. "The chairman and board members for all local services are also appointed by the Government. As a result of nationalisation, there is only one programme that we can deliver, called Think First, which attempts to change the thinking of offenders. It involves using psychological programmes to determine suitability, which seem to exclude most of the offenders on Teesside.

"That is a worry, because it means that, as an alternative, more people will be locked up."

In fact, Mr Statham estimates that the number of offenders receiving community sentences may halve under the new system. While some might welcome this, he sees it as short-sighted. He has traced the development of criminals from their first court appearance to their release from prison, but so often sees them back before the courts. He knows only too well that locking them away can prove the antithesis of rehabilitation.

"We know that people develop drug habits in prison and learn how to be more effective criminals," he says. "We are much better off having them in the community, aiming them at work and helping them to become more responsible individuals." Which is exactly what Mr Statham and his team were trying to do before the new regulations.

He believes they were beginning to see real results. "We were developing programmes that sentencers had confidence in," he says. "We had things like a handling conflict course designed to help people cope with aggression, a domestic violence course, a responsible driver's course and an alcohol awareness course. We also had a very important drug awareness course.

" Now, I think we will be less able to respond to the needs of local courts, which has to be regretted."

Mr Statham is not alone in feeling that the service is being emasculated. In taking early retirement, he joins 27 other chief probation officers from across the country - half the total number. Clearly, their departure sends a strong message to the Government. But Mr Statham, for one, is not about to wage war on the politicians. "I think the Government wants to create quick fix, headline-grabbing solutions to crime, but at least we have made inroads into changing the worst excesses of the legislation," he says. "It's time to bow out graciously."

Over the years, Mr Statham has learned many things about criminals and society's perception of them. Many cases he has dealt with have been distressing, and he has learned not to take his work to his home at Wass, near Helmsley, in North Yorkshire. In many ways, his own family life has sharpened his perception of how disadvantaged his clients are - he is happily married to Wendy, a special needs teacher, and his two grown-up children, Rachel and Jonathan, are forging careers as a pharmacist and a vet.

He knows that there will always be support for Old Testament-style justice, and has spent too long dealing with the sordid business of crime to be a bleeding-heart liberal. But he believes that, ultimately, we must all take responsibility for crime, which means tackling it head-on. And he doesn't envy those left to carry on the fight.