What's life like as a paparazzo? Sinéad O'Sheacamps out with some of London's regulars, trying to catch a lucrative glimpse of Posh and Kate
It's a warm summer evening in London. Gerard Farrell picks me up at Belsize Park Tube station in his open-top MG, then we drive towards St John's Wood. His accent is growly Lan-dan as he explains that he still doesn't understand what we're going to be doing. Once again I tell him I would like to observe him, and once again he laughs loudly. He likes hearing me say that.
Along the way Farrell points out Lord's cricket ground and Paul McCartney's house, which is only half-hidden behind double doors. Farrell hasn't spent much time there except when "that woman was on the dance show in the States", referring to Heather Mills's participation in Dancing with the Stars.
We arrive outside Kate Moss's house. Farrell is all too familiar with this neighbourhood. Every night for two months last autumn he parked outside the model's home between 6pm and 6am. Bar a brief altercation with Pete Doherty, Moss's boyfriend, on his first night, nothing ever happened, and only one of his photographs was used - "her hand with a facking Topshop bag in it". Fortunately, Farrell was paid double time for his efforts: photographs of Moss are hugely valuable to paparazzi, picture agencies and newspaper and magazine editors. So, no matter what else they are doing, London's paparazzi swing by her house each night, at the beginning and end of their shifts.
Farrell, he is keen to emphasise, is not a pap. He is a photographer with the Daily Star, which is quite different. In his mid-40s, he is older than most paps. He came to the business late, having spent his formative years backpacking around Africa and the Middle East. Now he has his "fingers in several pies" and owns property in the UK, France and Italy. He photographs sport as well, and would prefer to concentrate on that, but celebrity is where the money is.
Introductions aside, we settle back. Farrell expects some of the others to be along in a bit. It is quiet; despite the location, the sounds of the city seem far away. Farrell thinks Moss could already be inside.
He is not a fan. She isn't so very pretty, in his opinion, and she has become unco-operative of late; she tends to put her head down, which can ruin shots. Kylie always obliges. Perhaps Moss feels the paparazzi tried to ruin her, I suggest, referring to photographs of her taking cocaine in 2005, which led to the cancellation of some of her modelling contracts. "But that wasn't us," Farrell bellows. "That was her bloody boyfriend's friends. They're always ringing us up, trying to sell us stuff of them both. I reckon she loves the attention, but she knows she'll look even more stupid if she looks like she's seen enjoying it."
He asks what I think, and I say she has a beautiful face that I've always been curious to see. The Kate Moss phenomenon - the success, the romances, the style - is extraordinary. I wonder what it's all about. "It's all idiots wanting to buy awful clothes," he says. Suddenly a jeep pulls up and Moss jumps out, calling a cheery goodbye to her driver.
Although we have been parked outside her house for more than an hour, and I am with a man who photographs her for a living, it is still a very surprising moment. And mundane. We have just watched a woman go into her house. Her face was indistinct. I find myself blushing a little. She's very brown, I mumble. "Olivey," says Farrell. More paps begin to arrive. "She's in," Farrell tells each one who comes up to the MG. "Don't look like she's going back out." They nod sagely and return to their cars and mopeds. They play video games, smoke cigarettes and compare cameras while waiting for something to happen. "It's just so facking boring," Farrell says at intervals.
A woman who lives opposite Moss comes over to say hello. He gives her a present for her daughter, whom he befriended during the autumn stint. "She's a thousand times more interesting than her," Farrell says, nodding towards Moss's house. "There's people all over London making 10 times as much money, and they're not having bleeding paps sitting outside their house all day."
There's a little excitement when Moss's masseuse arrives, carrying a fold-up table. One pap follows her across the road until she is admitted through Moss's gate. The others roll their eyes. He's obviously new. There was never going to be a shot there.
As in most walks of life, newcomers are regarded with suspicion. TV programmes such as Paparazzi and the advent of cheaper, simpler cameras have encouraged many to give it a try. The money can be good: €300,000 a year or more for the successful ones. According to the more senior snappers, the youngsters are too aggressive and ruin everyone's shots by getting too close to their subjects. Then they retire after six months and a new and equally graceless set move in. By all accounts this is one of the great trials of being a pap.
Still, there's probably room for everyone. As Farrell observes, the celebrity business is rocking as never before. Is that good? "No, it's facking awful, obviously. You never hear anything about what's happening in Darfur in the press. All them thousands of people getting killed." But isn't he contributing to this? "Nah," he says. "I'm a necessary evil. I'm a part of this system that we're all a part of."
At about 9pm Farrell gets a call from a contact who tells us that a magazine awards night might be worth a look. Farrell is apoplectic that he has spent the past two hours sitting with me outside Moss's house. "For fack's sake. That's shots I could have got." He puts his foot down and we speed towards Mayfair.
A white marquee has been set up in Berkeley Square. Farrell screeches to a halt within centimetres of a pap looking the other way, who jumps up in the air. Everyone laughs. About 60 paps are standing around, chatting, smoking and watching everyone. It's important to watch, Farrell says; if one person moves, everyone else must do so, too, or an undeserved exclusive could arise.
Exactly this happens a few minutes later, when somebody says that David Beckham has arrived in a white suit, and everyone charges towards the entrance. It's not Beckham; the man facing the flashing bulbs is merely that "idiot who lost in The X Factor". Beckham's wife caused a sensation when she arrived, according to Michael, one of the paparazzi, who giddily describes her Karl Lagerfeld bodice. "You've never seen anything like it," he says, assuring us, correctly, that it will be front-page news the next day. Farrell looks pained. The Beckhams' move to Los Angeles means Michael's photographs will now sell in the US, too.
As a day rather than night pap it is essential that Michael get good shots of celebrities in their outfits. "Selling music means f**k all these days," he says. "If I get you a photo of Beyoncé singing at a concert with a microphone there is no comparison between that and her wearing a nice outfit. There's endless opportunities with it. An editor might decide to show it with the same outfit on another person the next week or a new trend. What's wrong with it? Spot the difference . . ." "That's what they all are," Farrell interjects."They're clothes horses."
One of Michael's career highs came when he was examining negatives of a singer from the R&B trio Mis-teeq, and noticed that the camera flashes had revealed her nipples in one frame. "I just snap and snap and snap, and I actually never know what's going to come up. Sometimes, like that, you get incredibly lucky."
This, I suggest, is what people most readily associate with their trade. "That is what I do," says Paul, a photographer with the Sun. "A shot with a finger up the nose or someone bending over, showing their knickers. I want it. Magazine editors want it. People want to see those pictures." So the photos are either of the clothes and make-up or of embarrassing moments? "Yep." Tonight Paul will stay outside the marquee until at least 2am, waiting to get an all-important shot of a drunken star. He would like to do less celebrity work but says he would have more chance of becoming a popstar than of being a "real" photographer.
All of them say that most celebrities court publicity, setting up many shots themselves. It's big business for everyone. Farrell recounts a time when a hotel called to complain that no paparazzi were about despite the presence of the Beckhams in its restaurant. He says it's possible to be a successful actor or singer without living with the paps. "It's always up to you. But once you sup with the devil . . ."
Perhaps the situation isn't so different from the old days. We used to hear gossip about people in the next village. Now that village has expanded, and we hear about Paris Hilton or the latest eviction from Big Brother. I repeat my disbelief to Farrell that a photograph of Beyoncé in a nice dress is worth more than one of her with a microphone. He points his finger at me. "It's women more than anything. They're driving this. They have more disposable incomes, more time. Men buy cars, watch sport. Women buy clothes and make-up. The clothes and make-up people use the celebs to sell their products. We sell the celebs, you buy the products. This is how they get the money out of you." He grins. "Now that you women have got your bit of freedom, your bit more money, that's what you've decided to do with yourselves." No comment.