HAS ANYONE SEEN THE PRESIDENT

NAME-DROPPING WITH THE GREATEST

Los Angeles

22.11.2000

HE SITS at the front of the bus. Tall, slim, mid-20's. Reminds me of a young Tom Hanks. Above the sassy smile and mandatory shades, his tawny hair pulls back off the forehead and flops down in classic Hugh Grant style.

This is Gary, professional name-dropper. Master of the moniker. "Hi guys," he says. "Welcome to Los Angeles."

It's 10am. There are about 1000 buses just like ours setting off around this city about now. They are full with folk of every age and every nation. Many of ours are ladies who won't see 40 again. It matters not a jot. Male or female, young or old, Gary will refer to us all as guys throughout the trip. That's the way it is in La La land.

Everyone likes to hear about the rich and famous; to see where they live, they shop, they eat. Somehow it's like you're sharing part of their lives; of being famous, too. Gary is making us feel like that. It's how he earns a living. And he's very good at it.

For those of us who've already checked the map, it's clear we are in for quite a day.

Along the coast - Fisherman's Village, Little Venice, Santa Monica; along the streets - Wilshire Boulevard, Sunset Strip, Rodeo Drive; through the suburbs - Beverly Hills, Bel Air, Hollywood...

We are out for a bit of celeb spotting. That's what Gary's job is all about. There's a target list of thousands. To listen to him, you'd think he knows them all. But then, maybe we all think we do.

We start at Marina del Rey with the fishermen. It's said to be the biggest man-made marina in the world. There are around 10,000 yachty playthings of the super-rich slapping idly on their moorings.

Mind you, they say that a lot round here. You know, the biggest marina, the greatest this, the largest that. It's not at all out of place to talk in the most unique superlatives. "See that over there, it's the world's biggest solar-powered ferris wheel," says Gary.

Oh yeah, and who are you kidding, I think to myself. (I check it out later. Guess what, headline in next issue of Variety magazine reads: Writer eats world's largest slice of humble pie.)

Anyway, sadly, like we all know, everything cannot be super-biggy-besty-whatsit all the time. "So, if I tell you that this is the place where one of the Beachboys sailed to his death, and that Natalie Wood, wife of the actor Robert Wagner, drowned, you can see that these kind of people are only like the rest of us," advises Gary solemnly. M'm, I think I know what he means, although I can't say I'm absolutely sure.

Not an especially joyfull opening scene, right enough. But there's better news on the way to Venice Beach. Why, here's the school where that flaxen-haired swooner Robert Redford spent his early years, according to Gary. Oh, and here's the courthouse where civil lawyers for football star O.J.Simpson (accused of killing his beautiful wife and her handsome young waiter friend) argued long and hard and to clear his name.

It's the same courthouse, apparently, where Elvis Presley tied the knot with Priscilla. We all peer at the neat stone building almost expecting the couple to come bounding down the steps. I am wondering if they sell jailhouse rock in the souvenir shop?

At Venice Beach, things start hotting up - in every sense. This is the place where the skateboard was invented, intoned Gary. It is also the place, apparently, where the Baywatch babes practised their breast strokes. Was there any connection, I question vaguely. My mind being somewhere else by now, you understand.

"Oh, and Arnie (note the familiarity of the first name terms) Schwarzenegger (on the other hand, let's be practical, maybe it's just that Arnie is a lot easier to say) used to practise his body-building down there in the open-air gym," says Gary. "Now he's got a restaurant here." Where the beefsteak must be rather rare, I am tempted to add.

By complete contrast, we hear, the annual Chocoholics Festival is held just around the corner. Amusing, huh?

In the United States only New York is larger than this amazing, sprawling city of Los Angeles. But there is nowhere in the world with more celebrities to the square mile.

And I mean celebrity - as in somebody a lot better known than the guys on a $77 name-dropping bus jaunt from VIP Tours & Charters Sightseeing Corp. Someone like Monica Lewinski, for example, a mere intern at the White House, who grew up just over there, says Gary pointing somewhere in the distance rather less firmly than he had before.

I look for Monica, the girl who paid lip-service to her President. Maybe just one glance of that voluptuous figure, that pouting mouth? But no, there's only a rather ample woman on the sidewalk doing the shopping with her three small kids.

We are now, I notice, turning inland into Sunset Boulevard. At about 20 miles long, it is one of the longest streets in the world (those superlatives again), and, more to the point, one of the most famous.

It goes through Beverly Hills, that sell-u-light suburb. It's just 5.5 square miles, but 34,000 residents have made it one of the richest neighbourhoods in the universe. Early film immortals Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks were part of the scene here, says our chief ND (Name Dropper), while new faces on the block include Telly Savalas (aka Kojak) and our own Tom Jones, the voice from the valleys.

But the guys really get excited when we chug up the hills to Bel Air. For it's here that the hugely biggest reputations hang out and the houses are the stuff of pure fantasy: french-style chateaux, mock georgian mansions, ranchless ranch houses. Or, at least, I think they are. It's hard to tell when you are peering through undergrowth as thick as a jungle from the back of a bus.

We are down to a crawl; being asked to gaze over walls, look around trees, peek through windows with wrought-iron grilles. They like their privacy, smoothes Gary, making light of it.

Privacy? Don't make me laugh! Let's do some sums: With 1000 buses a day doing the city tour, let's say half of them come up here to Bel Air. In an eight-hour day, that's 60-odd an hour, or one every minute.

A bus-load of tourists, paid good money to gawp into your life, pulling up outside your gate every minute of the day. And they expect privacy? A goldfish should be so lucky.

"See that roof over there," says Gary, "that's where Jack Lemmon has a place. And this one (the birds on the gateposts give it away) was Alfred Hitchcock's."

He promises us that Clarke Gable had "that one" (presumably the one with the fancy pointed bits at each end of the roof) and that Burt Bacharat (he of the rained-on head) is "somewhere over there." ND points vaguely at a large dark shape hidden behind a bunch of thick trees.

Most of the houses, he confesses, are rented out for most of the time (which, of course, hugely reduces our chances of celeb-spotting). So now you tell us! But here, apparently, is a real lived-in residence. It's Elizabeth Taylor's pad, we are told. From the comfort of our mobile gallery, we stare at two tightly-shut wooden gates and a sullen-looking wheelie bin. No Dame Elizabeth today then - although we are assured that she is here for most of the time.

No luck either with rock music star Elton John. Actually it's too soon for him. He's having a place built here right now, says Gary, drawing our gaze to a monumental pile of bricks, sand and assorted other building materials in a heap beside the road.

Real estate values are stratospheric, we are given to understand (and who would doubt it?). $10 million is a conservative average. One place, belonging to a film producer, if I heard it right, has a see-through swimming pool in his garden. Our bus is below it on the road. We all stare up hopefully expecting to see... well, maybe some famous under-belly doing frogleg kicks I suppose. But oh dear, the pool is empty. "Must be cleaning day today," states Gary.

"Ah, now's here's a good one," encourages our leader. "This one's where Ron and Nancy Reagan are moving in." A home from home, you might say, for the former President whose path to fame began locally as a bit-part actor in B-rated cowboy movies and later took him into politics as California's State governor.

An interesting story here. "The number of the house was 666," says Gary with a chuckle. "Now that's the Devil's number." We all giggle. "So they've had it changed to 668." We check the letter-box. 668 is what it says. Shame the Reagans aren't out there collecting their mail. It would have been nice to see the old fella.

"OK guys," exhorts Gary once more, seemingly not the least bit discouraged that we have yet to atually catch sight of a real celebrity. "Let's go and see where these folk do their shopping." The bus eases its way off Sunset and into Rodeo Drive.

Here, the names are like a who's-who of the fashion business. Hermes, la Coste, Gucci, Bally, Christian Dior, Hilfiger... I notice a Burberry's sign, too, from merrie olde england. How nice. Then I spot a Super Sale notice on their window. Shame about that.

"Mostly you have to shop by appointment round here," says our leader. "In fact, if you promise to spend enough cash, they'll close the store and you can have it all to yourself." Ah, so that's what they mean by personal attention.

Our ND is full of anecdotes. It helps to keep us amused instead of us harping on about all those celebs we have yet to spot. "See this building here," we gape left-hand side at what apparently was once a restaurant famed for its home-made chili. "The recipe was a secret, but the stars loved it so much they would even send their drivers down to collect a take-away." Hey, that's a good one.

Oh, and over here (we scramble to the other side), right along from the HQ of Hugh Heffner's Playboy empire, is the Cedars-Sinai medical centre. Is there a connection? "Know what that is," questions Gary. The guys look suitably blank. "It's where Frank Sinatra died. And..," he adds quickly before we all shed tears, "it's also the place where Catherine Zeta-Jones (wife of actor Michael Douglas) has just had her baby." The oohs turn to aahs.

Time for the bus to rumble on. Next stop Hollywood - America's ultimate home of entertainment; and, of course, another lexicon of legends for Gary, our very own guide to the stars.

It's impossible to miss the place. The name is on the hill, high above us, in letters 45ft tall. It must be the biggest signpost in the world. "The idea is that visitors should be able to see it when they come out of the airport 10 miles away," we hear. Cor!

Down on the street, meanwhile, we are invited to step into the feet of greatness. Quite literally. Outside Mann's chinese theatre, for reasons of which I am still not quite sure, there are 150 paving slabs with the names, hands and footprints of many of the biggest stars in showbiz immortalized in concrete.

I look them over. Sean Connery and John Travolta are among the latest. Many of the earlier ones, I notice, have messages of dedication to Sid.

"Thanks two million," says one.

"For Sid, the world's greatest showman," says another.

Who is Sid, I wonder. Over to Gary. Turns out he was Sid Grauman, a big-time impressario in the early days who gave many of the budding stars their chance. Must have made a big impression on them then. Ho ho!

Now here's some marble and bronze star shapes, set into the pavement down either side of Hollywood Boulevard, with the names of cinema greats etched on them. There's more than 2,000 in this 2.5-mile Walk of Fame, according to the guide book. Need help to find your favourite? No problem, the Chamber of Commerce has an identification officer ready and waiting on a toll-free number.

Outside Mann's theatre, competition is hotting up. The man in the official ticket hut is hawking a tour of 5O celebrity homes to a gaggle of camera-clicking Japanese, while from the pavement nearby, an agitated man with a stetson and beard, is shouting at them that he'll do it for $15 less. Seems like you can even get a discount on the price of fame.

But now it's time to go; time to visit the next hideout on this day of hunting the most-ellusive,lesser-spotted celebrity bird. We are off to Universal Studios, says Gary. It is, nedless to say, the biggest studio complex in the world. They have made about 8,OOO films here since things began around 1908.

He starts to name some. I start to feel queasy.

"Then there's all the other studios around town," says Gary, obviously intent on running down the names like the credits in a blockbuster. "Warner Brothers, 20th Century Fox, Paramount..."

I can definitely feel a headache coming on.

"And, of course, there's Disneyland which has a kingdom all to itself over at Anaheim..."

I can see a commercial on the way. And, sure enough, Gary doesn't disappoint. "Now VIP do a special tour to...."

But my mind is already switched off. Gone blank. I am done with non-spottable celebrities. I am numb from names. I have peaked on personalities. Flipped out on fame. OD'd on idolatory.

"I'm sorry," I tell Gary as he heads the other guys in the direction of Universal's turnstiles. "I think I'll have to go and lie down for a bit; don't suppose there's a casting couch handy, is there?"