Terry Saunders: Not A Blog

The slipstream

terrysaunders — Fri, 26 Sep 2008 14:49:59 +0000

fig. 1 - terry saunders in running gear

I have just discovered running, as in running for physical exercise not that you can walk quick. Before Edinburgh I was running daily, then I slowed to every other day, then in Edinburgh not one run, I barely broke into a canter. But now Edinburgh has been laid to rest again I am trying to lose the excess beer/weird fried kebab month by keeping fit. I live near Greenwich Park, which is where I go running, this is also where they start that marathon thing (which, the last time that happened was on the day of my third run - I thought it was the biggest practical joke ever). My running apparel is not quite correct (see Fig. 1), I don’t have the leggings or the breathable Nike runvest. I wear some old swimming shorts, an International Herald Tribune tshirt (mainly because it makes me think I could have been in À bout de souffle - even though in that the girl is selling the New York Herald Tribune and she’s a girl, and in black and white). I do have proper running shoes though. So ner. Today my running confidence has reached a new high, I’ve nearly managed a lap of some of the park (not quite the whole park, but nearly). Yesterday I got three quarters of the way round the lap of not quite the whole park, which gave me a brimming sense of achievement. I’ve no idea how far this is in miles, but I fear it’s not long enough to be measured in miles, I’m probably still on inches. As I was heading down the side of the park there was another runner in front of me, he had all the kit on but, crucially, he was old, possibly up to 60 years old, and slow. I knew I could have him. This is my biggest problem in life, stupid competitiveness. It happens on escalators, busy streets, bus stops, I’m always racing people, maybe it’s to do with my love of formula one that from a young age, when some kids are pretending they’re Geoff Hurst or Paul Gascoigne when they’re kicking a can round the street I’m pretending I’m an F1 racer. That’s fine when you’re nine, but at 28 it is frankly pathetic as I came up from behind this old man pretending I was in car, and not pretending I was Lewis Hamilton or some other big name. I imagined I was an old champion falling on hard times like Nelson Piquet when he drove for Benetton, and the old man was some upstart, like Vettel, in a car punching above his weight, I wanted to take him down. All this whilst my ipod played The Clash in my ears, firing me up. I lined up behind the man/Vettel and (this is so embarrassingly true) imagined I was in his slipstream, getting a tow. I came out, with a speed advantage and overtook him with ease. Take that Vettel, I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve, I’m a three times world champion. I carried on with my run, looking in my mirrors (turning round) showed the man had slowed and was far behind, I was truly a winner. By the time I got to the end of the run, there’s a big slope that always finishes me off, I was thinking of not even attempting it, I was too knackered, I’d ran far too fast after overtaking the man, but as a song finished I heard a panting, it was the old man, he’d caught up with me and was too running up the slope. I dug in and carried on, he was alongside, everything was hurting, but I had to do this, for my pride, and vital championship points. But I couldn’t. I expired on the grass and he sailed by. Hair and the tortoise and all that.

the test

terrysaunders — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 19:23:01 +0000

test

The F1 nerd asks: How Quick is Fast?

terrysaunders — Wed, 14 May 2008 13:11:43 +0000

Hello, I wrote this for my other thing I do, anotherf1podcast, with Kevin Shepherd. But thought I’d post it here too.

How I worked out how terrifying quick F1 is using a motorway and channel five late at night

Formula One cars rocket past at up to nearly 200mph sometimes. This is quick, but is just a number. I have been watching F1 on the telly for bloody ages now and am used to knowing how fast they go.

But the telly doesn’t really relate quite how fast this is. The cameras tend to follow the cars about cancelling out any impression of sheer speed.

I’m used to this, I know it’s nearly 200mph even if it doesn’t look it, that’s enough for me.

Then one night, bored and alone, I found myself watching NASCAR on channel five. I’m not really a fan of NASCAR, it just looks like the M25 to me.

In NASCAR a lot of the cameras are locked off trackside so when the cars zip by it really feels fast - I almost dropped my cup of tea at one point. I don’t know how fast NASCAR cars go, but I reckon it’s less quick than F1… so why does it feel so much faster?

F1 directors are so pre-occupied with helicopter shots (helicopters are pretty quick too) and super slow mo seeing something wobble over a kerb that they seem to have totally mislaid the importance of making the things look as fucking terrifyingly quick as they are in real life.

A few weeks after my NASCAR experience I was on the way to a gig in a car on a motorway. We had to stop to look for a mislaid satnav somewhere amongst the seats and I found myself standing on the hard shoulder somewhere between london and leicester. I’d never stood on a hard shoulder before. I was utterly terrified. The cars nipping past me were going horribly fast. And I know they were only going at 70mph (no faster, 70 is the law, no one would dare).

This is just over a third of the speed of what an f1 car almost goes at. And utterly terrified multiplied by three equals bloody good telly.

So come on F1 chaps - make it look fast.

The first time in front of the cameras

terrysaunders — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 18:42:29 +0000

Look, we’re all adults, we can all face this together with no sniggers please. I went to the doctors today, mainly because i have an itch I cannot scratch… by this I don’t mean an ache in my heart, but more one up my bum. It’s been driving me crazy, properly so. I wake up in the night and am close to dragging my arse along the carpet like a dog with worms (nb… I haven’t got worms) Anyhow, I finally thought this is the kind of thing that I should get some cream for and sort it all out. So into the doctors i went. The first problem was that the dr I had been randomly chosen was a young female one - I’m not the kind of guy that usually shows his arse to young females, no matter hat their profession. The first thing she asked me was whether i minded it being recorded on video for some training thingy or somesuch Of course I minded, I was about to explain i had a very itchy arse… this isn’t something one airs in public (ahem). But, embarrassment (which is odd considering) and not wanting to look like a cunt meant i said yes. She smiled as though I’d done a good thing - she had no idea what I was going to reveal now. I told her the problem, her face didn’t drop, but my trousers did (thankfully behind a screen and away from the camera (I think, i certainly couldn’t see the screen, they wouldn’t be that cruel… would they?)) She prescribed some cream and asked for a urine sample to test for diabetes (which I’d lied about, saying I’d not been test for ages cos I was quite looking forward to that pin prick test - I actually got tested last August when I fainted at the Stand during the fringe). So she gave me a pot to piss in and I went off to piss in it. Only I couldn’t. I’d peed not long before and the situation got to me. I went back into the room, she looked either pitying or annoyed, I’m unsure which. I was dismayed to see the fancy tv screen was still recording the room - and the DVD recorder timer had still been ticking over - it was now on 17mins. So somewhere now there are some medical students or examiners or watchdogs or cleaners watching a video of me getting my arse out then failing to piss. I kinda hope i never get famous… I fear that this video may end up on a angus deayton fronted programme

The freakout

terrysaunders — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 13:01:12 +0000

I am writing a new show again, for Edinburgh, again, this one is called Figure 8.

I think it will be good, it’s currently OK.

Basically its about two things (not 8). One is a man called Trevor who can see images of people’s futures - not helpful or profitable images - just dull snapshots of people wearing hats or walking down streets

It drives him insane

The other aspect is the musician Elliott Smith, who was ace, Figure 8 was one of his albums and he killed himself by stabbing himself through the heart twice. Nice

To either inspire or distract myself i’ve been doing a lot of reading of late. One book I picked at almost random from the library was Oracle Nights by Paul Auster

I’ve never read any Auster, and after having him recommended to me in song form by Fionn Regan through my ipod I thought I’d give him a go.

during a particularly dull train/coach journey, i forget where, I’d done lots of work on my show with the future visions and the self stabbings and thought it high time to do some reading and immerse myself in a world that ain’t my own

In the novel the lead character writing a story in which the lead character of that is reading a manuscript of another novel, this is called Oracle Night (I’ve made it sound more confusing than it is).

And this is where the freakout came… here is a bit of that novel-in-a-story-in-a-novel

The protagonist is Lemuel Flagg, a British Lieutenant blinded by a mortar explosion in the trenches of World War I… Flagg’s blindness has given him the gift of prophecy, In sudden trancelike fits, he falls to the ground and begins flailing around like an epileptic. The seizures last from eight to ten minutes, and for the length of time the endure, his mind is overrun with images of the future.

Somewhat freaky what with what I’ve been writing. But the freakout don’t stop there. I turn the page to read…

Unable to face the anguish that destiny has prepared for him, Flagg stabs himself in the heart and dies

Crikey. That is odd. Esp as some of the show I’m talking about how the world has lots of unusual conicndieces ust becuase its so big and crowded that lots of things bang into other things, sometimes with undue resonance

This is resonating.

That was all really… the book is very good by the way. Very good.

The Idiotic Walk

terrysaunders — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 10:59:28 +0000

I did a gig in Hatfield last night, it was the gloriously titled University of Hertfordshire. Now, I’m a bit skint at the mo, and when I got to Hatfield station I figured, instead of a taxi or deciphering the cryptic bus routes I would walk to the gig. It was raining a lot, but I had a map, and the gig and the station fit on one A4 page - so i figured it wouldn’t be that far. So I set on my journey. It was that far, and Hatfield has no street signs, maybe they still think it’s the 1940’s. So, one hour, a lot of wrong turnings and a wet tide mark on my jeans up to my knees I finally arrived at the gig. The other acts were all there and I told them I’d walked, to their amazement “but that’s a long way”. and I found myself saying “yes, I’m an idiot” as opposed to “I’m quite skint and walking is free”. And it’s odd isn’t it how being an idiot is less socially embarrassing than having no money. It was made worse by the fact that Chris Martin had given Maria from Avalon a lift from the station… and she was on the same train as me. Bloody me.

The Hornby Train

terrysaunders — Wed, 12 Mar 2008 15:43:14 +0000

Way before I moved to London and way before I started comedy I was having a bit of a lousy time, moved back in to my mum’s, signing on, no direction - the usual. I hadn’t read a book for bleedin ages and one day decided to get one, i used to read loads. So into the local book shop I went, and for some reason came about with a book about Arsenal. I don’t really actually like football, but the book looked good, it was called Fever Pitch, by a chap called Nick Hornby, this was about 1998 and I’d never heard of him. I bloody loved it, and it was the thing that started me thinking about writing (I started to write a kinda novel thing at the age of 18, all I’ll say about it ten years on is it was very, very bad) and got myself back on track and the like. A few years later I was in London and a bit after that I ended up involved in comedy, then stand up, then etc etc. So, I’ve always slightly exalted Fever Pitch as what started me off on it all, and over the years I’ve tried to re-read it a few times and have always struggled to get back into it. Though never then trying too hard in case I see it as disappointing and therefore ruining any of the life symmetry i so love. But, after another spate of reading lots I finally got round to re-reading it again, and loved it… and am currently near the end of re-reading High Fidelity too (which is making me make lists of everything). I love Hornby’s writing style, and I guess mine is influenced a bit by it. This was confirmed this week when I got a reply from someone about some treatment thing I’d written with the comment “It reads very much like Nick Hornby” So, there you go, I’m neither original nor subtle. But I don’t mind

The Block

terrysaunders — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 11:01:38 +0000

I’ve been asked to write a thing, this is always flattering.

The problem is, it’s a thing about Formula One, as in them fast car things.

Why is this a problem? Because I am a huge F1 nut. Ever since I was 9 I’ve been a teeny bit geeky obsessive about it. This should surely mean that I’m happy to be asked to write about it? Well, no. One thing about my F1 obsession is that I’m not very funny about it, I get quite deadly serious.

And the stuff I’m writing has to be funny, it’s what they want. And aside from increasingly obtuse references on the 1990 Tyrrell line up (Jean Alesi and Satoru Nakajima - you think i had to look that up?) I fear I’m failing.

I ended up yesterday watching a video that I bought in a charity shop in Ireland the other week, it was Damon Hill’s 1996 championship year - a kind of behind the scenes documentary. It wasn’t that good. So why did I still find myself welling up when he crossed the line in Japan and his wife was on the pitwall?

I really am pathetic and should go for a walk or something.

But instead I think I’ll just do a few laps on the playstation…

The Sensible Haircut

terrysaunders — Sat, 08 Mar 2008 14:18:41 +0000

Hello, after another lengthly notblog break I am back (again) promising to do this notblog more often… but to be honest, past events dictate it’s likely this’ll be the last you hear from me until at least July. I have had a haircut, and I’m not sure I like it. This is for several reasons, the first being that I don’t think I like it, simple really - I’m scared I look like a cross between all of the 90’s shitband Menswear and a 40 something female legal secretary from Hatfield. But secondly, and I fear more importantly, it’s more of a trim than a cut. I don’t get my haircut all that often. Once, maybe twice a year. When I was younger (i.e. last year) I would get all my hair hacked into and have funky cut that I would dislike a bit and leave it until my hair regrew into the fuzzy shaggy mess I’m used to. I guess I’ve grown up, knowing that I like my hair how I like it, I’ve asked for it how I like it. I think another problem was the guy cutting my hair was so young, and I think new to this haircutting lark, he did a good job, i don’t dislike his work, just I always think I want a haircutterer that will say “Yeah, you want this…” then a flurry of scissor cutting and I’m suddenly a model in a magazine or something. The whole haircutting process is a bit of a non-starter for me. I’m quite short sighted, so with glasses off I can’t see my own reflection clearly and I have overwhelming social awkwardity which means that if I’m asked if I like this or that I just say yes, right up until the double mirror showing off at the end. This also makes conversation hard as I can’t see when he talks, then my head gets all paranoid that the guy hates me cos I’m not responding and I’ll get a bad haircut on puporse. The worst thing this time was he asked my what I did, and foolishly I said I was a comedian, but because the hairdryer of the person sat next to me was on I had to shout it a bit. I felt like a cunt as he asked me the initial ten questions all comedians get (email me for a full list) and I agreed with him about how great the Boosh were and told him it was nervewracking and where I get my ideas from. The worst thing was (and this really does make me a smug, self-aggrandising cunt) that he asked me if i wanted to be on telly, and without thinking I told him about a meeting I’d had - now I had only just had this meeting, and unlike most others it’s very exciting as it concerns formula one. But I’ve become that person that tells strangers how well I think I’m doing I deserve a shit haircut

The Pizza, Expressed

terrysaunders — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 14:11:30 +0000

I am rubbish. Me and Claire went to a sawnky private viewing at the Tate Modern (oo look at us, actually wasn’t that private or swanky. Needed a special invite thing, but seeming 94 million people had them, and they all had smart clothes on) Anyhow, afterwards we figured a nice Pizza Express on the South Bank would be a nice thing. So we went in. There was no “please wait here to be seated” sign as there normally is in other swanky eateries like Pizza Hut, Beefeater and Harvester so we stepped a bit forward toward the bar where some waiter was talking to someone. Right behind us, through the swivelly doors came about 9 other people, all from the Tate i think. They stood by the door and another waiter came down asking the various groups what they were after. Various cries of tables for two could be heard. The waiter sat most of them, but told the last pair that they had to wait. Now what should we do, had we been pushed in ahead of, or did our meandering make it our own fault? Do we try to push back in? I thought it would be best (well, not best, but safest) to go outside, walk round the block and come back. The social etiquette version of control + alt + delete and force a restart. A few minutes later we were back at the correct place and being seated in the noisy upstairs bit and not the nice downstairs bit where all the others went. We sat at our table for four, not sure wether to sit adjacent or opposite, oh the decisions. After 15 mins or so I was getting moody, no one had come to serve us, it was very busy. I reckoned we should just up sticks and leave, find another Pizza Express in this crazy town. As I was actually getting out my phone to google the nearest one. really getting angry, coat was almost on. As I was about to stand up a waiter came to take our order. I immediately, in a nanosecond, said “Oh lovely, I’ll have capricossa please” I hate myself Later, when the Pizza had arrived I was disappointed with the low number of anchovies, I’m in my late twenties, I’ve just developed a taste for them and I want to catch up. I was actually saying “There are only three on here” when the waiter came up and said “is everything ok”. I smiled and said yes, it was delicious. You know when I just said I hate myself? I hate myself more now. And the mystical Pizza Express waiters, they must have microphones on the tables, listening for discontent.