Quentin Fottrell meets the Carr Communications protege who loves motor racing and has a fondness for, em, nuns. . .

WHEN Anton Savage finishes his hour-long summer stint filling in for Ryan Tubridy on RTE Radio 1 every morning this month, he goes back to his spacious office in Carr Communications in Dublin 4 and listens to the tape of the show with a pen and paper inhand. Where did he go wrong? What could he have done better? These are the questions he asks himself as he makes notes to improve his performance for the following day.

This meticulous attention to detail and, perhaps, streak of perfectionism is less surprising when you know he is the son of Terry Prone and Tom Savage of Carr Communications. Anton makes his living as a journalist and professional communicator at his parents' firm, having joined the business . . . founded by Bunny Carr . . . after leaving Trinity College Dublin. Whether interviewer or interviewee, he must show by example. That means sticking to the script and/or sticking to his guns, when he deems it appropriate.

"I spent an awful long time watching and listening to broadcasters to find out what makes them good at what they do . . .

I spend an awful lot of time doing that, " he says, unveiling an impressive sandwich spread at his office, a grand redbricked detached building on Northumberland Road. "Today, I'll play back the programme, see what works, what doesn't work, how I'd approach an issue differently and where I made slip-ups."

And did he make slip-ups? "I fluffed a read at the end, " he says. A fluff is a fluff.

No big deal, right? "You go through it and pick them out one-by-one and gradually you get it right, " he says. Any others?

"I interviewed a guy about the history of smoking. Bits of that were slightly too referential to stuff that I already knew. I should have found a way to get into it without simply saying, 'This is in the feature, let's talk about it.'" As with his broadcasting . . . he came to the attention of the RTE producers when he filled in for Matt Cooper on The Last Wo rd . . . Anton humbly suggests he, too, is a work in progress. "Mark Twain said that when he was 14 he was horrified at how little his father knew; when he turned 21, he was amazed at how much the old man learned in seven years. I find myself constantly surprised at how much the old man learns every year."

He too wants to be like his father. But even he had a moment of near-rebellion.

"I had a brief desire, which I still kind of regret, until the age of eight, to be a stunt man, " he says. "Once I decided that stunt manning was not a career that was readily available to me, I decided that what I wanted to be was to be my father. I'm still working on doing it. It's not going as well as I planned when I was nine. It's trickier that I thought."

Anton's not doing too badly. He is arguably a handsome guy, with a mass of hair curled and gelled into a vague sideparting. He has a big smile and a mouthful of teeth, which are all gleaming white.

He played rugby when he attended secondary school at Belvedere. He is still a fanatical motor-racing driver, turning up at Mondello most Sundays. He is polite (to a fault) and is tirelessly interested in you (to a fault).

His blurb on the company website tells us: "While studying for a degree in English literature in Trinity, Anton began working in radio as a researcher for Radio Ireland's Daybreak show. Within six months he was directing the programme, becoming the youngest person to direct a national current-affairs radio show."

Anton won't discuss clients but acknowledging the name of high-profile clients, such as Enda Kenny, is not off limits. (It's not exactly bad for business, either. ) I add my thr'pence-worth. Kenny ran a good election, I say, but he kept saying, "Some people think I don't have what it takes to be Taoiseach." Why bring that thought into the public domain? By raising it, you question it. Anton nods. Not a peep out of him. Oh well. It was worth a shot.

He is 30 going on the median age of hisparents, especially if you take into account that he has two suits for work, which makes up his entire wardrobe. Or as he says, "Suit and hobo with nothing in between. I was sitting at the top of Westmoreland Street one time. I had just finished my coffee and one of my clients walked by and dropped 2 in my cup." As a joke, surely? "No. It was real. I ran after him. I know it was real by the look of fear on his face when I initially went after him."

His father taught Anton to drive aged six. (You read that right: not 16 . . . six. ) In retrospect, this led to a hobby that lasted throughout his youth and a passion that still burns as brightly today . . . though he came eighth and 10th in his two most recent motor races. Out of 20-odd drivers. Broadcasting, he says, is not unlike rally driving: hours or days of preparation followed by 20 minutes on the track or an hour on the radio. "The first race you win, " he says, "is like the first programme you present. Nothing beats that."

Does this reflect the singleminded focus of an only child? "Do you remember years ago, there was a cartoon called Rupert the Bear?" he responds. Okay, let me see.

Was he the one with the marmalade sandwiches in his hat? No, wait, that was Paddington Bear. Did he were checkered golf trousers? Yes, I remember Rupert.

Who doesn't? God. I live on this planet, too, you know. This, I realise, is part of Anton's unwavering communication skills: never assume knowledge on behalf of your audience. Anyway, back to Rupert.

"Rupert left home with a bamboo stick with a scarf on the end of it, " Anton says.

"I decided that by the time I was about five or six that when the announcement came that I was getting a brother or a sister I would leave home. I had a speech worked out about how I would break the news to my folks. It was all very reasonable but I would tell them that they'd understand at this point that I'd have to move on."

Because he was used to being the centre?

"The horror that I'd end up with a brother and sister." (His italics. ) "I was so close to both my folks, " he adds. "A sibling would give me less time and less access to my folks. The only downside from my perspective, years into the future, is that brothers and sisters can share a unique remembrance of their parents. I won't have that but I was lucky because, as my parents both worked, I went to my grandparents house in Clontarf after school, so I got an extra set of parents thrown into the bargain. But there wasn't a sporting occasion that one of my parents wouldn't show up at."

Successful parents . . . advantage or hindrance? Discuss. "Someone asked, 'It must have been awful as a child, the constant pressure to have something interesting to say.' It was the first time that I ever thought about it being pressure but that was the reality. To find two people that have that kind of spectrum of knowledge and interests. When you're 18 the last thing you want to listen to is politics and business but as you get older. . ." He trails off. His office, lined with books, finishes that thought adequately enough.

For his father to go against the social mores of the day and actually leave the priesthood is, I say, courageous. "That word best describes him, " he says. And is Anton religious? "I have two main religious committments: nuns and the basic Christian principles, which are only mighty. The beatitudes, if you could get them tattooed somewhere, are a great principle on which to operate." And nuns?

"Nuns are some of the best-educated, most interesting people you'll meet."

(Believe it or not, he's had his fair share as clients. ) Anton is dating a woman who would "quietly lynch" him if he revealed her identity. A former nun might be a suitable too? "It'd be hard to find a former nun in the appropriate age bracket. Not that I'm being ageist. If there is a former nun flying around that's a possibility." (Note to girlfriend: that's a joke. ) Nor does he meet women through racing, despite the leather-clad macho image. "Have you ever been to an Irish motor-racing event?

Glamour it ain't. You need to be at the very rich end of the sport to get that."

We agree the best interviews, like his with the argumentative American rightwing pundit Bill O'Reilly or the brutal selfexamination of Paul McGrath, are those you don't have to wind up. I tell Anton that, as a discreet interviewee, he can be a difficult subject. He laughs. I ask him to tell me something, anything, that annoys him about Ireland. He cites the fact that one in seven people in Ireland live in consistent poverty. It suggests something is amiss at a governmental level? He falls silent.

Perhaps we need the help of some flying nuns? "The flying nun squad team? I don't know where the failing lies, butf" End of thought. He seems reluctant to point the finger, even at the government.

Members of Fianna Fail are past (and probably current and future) clients of Carr. The failing is there somewhere, I add, attempting to push him along. It's not that his hearing comes and goes because he suddenly perks up. "Yes, let's go with that, " he adds, politically. "I seem to have run out of words quite quickly."

Anton's upbringing appears blessed and he doesn't have a bad word to say about anyone. It's an amazing grace to behold. But, as I tell him, no angst makes Anton a dull boy . . . for these purposes, that is. "Really? I'll find some angst!" Long pause. He puts his hand over his mouth to think. He looks away into the middle distance. "Feck, there must be something."

Another pause. "I got very ratty with a guy last weekend on the track, who I thought crashed into me." That's it? "I think angst is overrated."

Despite such potential accident blackspots for Carr Communications, there's nothing to dislike about Anton. He is professionally personable, personally professional and yet . . . as I leave his office with my tummy full of Carr's tuna-andham corporate hospitality . . . I am relieved this interview is now over, as, I believe, is he. As we descend the staircase, his highvoltage double-decker smile returns to full power . . . zing! . . . and he goes back to asking me questions about myself.

"If you're critical when you write about someone do they ever get annoyed?" he asks. His eyes blink widely with what I can only assume is genuine curiosity. In this instance, just for sport, I'd be sorely tempted to find out.