A gaggle of paparazzi fighting for position. (Pascal Leblond/CBC)

It's hard to keep up with Alan Chapman while he works. It's even harder when he works while driving.

This man is fast. Even when you think he is concentrating on the conversation or the road, his eyes and mind are always wandering. Hmm, that's the restaurant Madonna likes; is she there? Probably not, her car isn't. What about the Dorchester? Nope, too many photographers there; it's not worth staying. Let's take a spin through Soho.

The London night flashes by so fast I have to look for a horizon when I stare out the window, the way you do in a plane when the turbulence is bad and you don't want to throw up.

Chapman is like a GPS perfectly programmed to pick out the fastest route to London's celebrities.

A paparazzo who is quick with his lenses and his views.

"There was a time you could take a frame and say 75 to 80 per cent that's going to be used. Today, there's no knowing what they are going to use," he says.

This is a veteran's lament. Chapman is a master of the well-composed, well-lit photo. The good shot.

British model Kate Moss (Nathan Strange/Associated Press)

His business card is an oversized picture of an undersized Kate Moss wrapped in a fur coat, perched like a bird on the edge of her limo seat. "That's the kind of shot where you say, yeah, that will get used, but she'd fallen on her backside about thirty seconds before, so that was the shot that was used."

Covers in the rough

Alan Chapman is understandably frustrated. The rules of celebrity picture taking have fundamentally changed. Some are able to mark the precise moment when it happened: a spring 2003 edition of Britain's Now magazine.

Instead of a cheery, candid celebrity image gracing the cover, it was a series of grim-looking stars without makeup. The word "ROUGH" was emblazoned on the front. It was a risk then, but profitable, proving to be one of the magazine's biggest sellers.

Now "rough" covers are the norm. In an interview with Now's current showbiz editor, Selina Julien, she practically squeals with glee when talking of the success of "the uglier, the better" covers. Celebrity Cellulite ones, in particular, she said, sell very well.

"As sick as it sounds, it does make everyone feel a little bit better about themselves," Julien says.

Chapman knows that getting a good, clean, "nice" photo doesn't really cut it anymore. It certainly doesn't guarantee a healthy pay cheque.

He claims there aren't many of those; nor are there many exclusives these days. "It's a buyer's market," he says, "so many images being flooded onto picture desks, so many people doing this."

He's right. Pictures that a decade ago could easily earn thousands of dollars may now go for just hundreds. It's a matter of volume.

In the nineties, photo editors would be happy to see a hundred celebrity images land on their desks. Now, they sort through tens of thousands. Anyone with a cheap digital camera and good elbows can claim to be one of the paparazzi.

This drives the prices down and the collective blood pressure up. Once, Chapman says, there was a code. No more.

"There is a tendency for them to stick their hands right over so you get bashed on the head with cameras, you get your cameras knocked out of your hand; it's just a free for all," he says.

Britney's law

Of course, this is why we're having this conversation. The paparazzi world is becoming increasingly fierce.

London used to be considered the hot zone, with the most aggressive shooters and the hungriest tabloids. But Los Angeles started playing that role long ago. It's become so frighteningly intrusive that lawmakers are considering imposing a type of bubble zone around the stars.

Not surprisingly, they are dubbing it "Britney's law." It hasn't happened yet. While they muse, more people are joining the camera-wielding gangs. There are even teenagers now shoving their cameras into celebrity faces and dreaming of huge paydays.

It all makes London look relatively tame these days — unless you have to make a living taking pictures here.

British paparazzi Alan Chapman (Richard Devey/CBC)

It's close to eleven o'clock, Alan Chapman has been out for hours and hasn't shot a frame.

He's opted to park the car and hang out on the pavement for a while. We're at the entrance to Mahiki, a club favoured by young royals and their legions of hangers-on. This is where stars go when they want to be seen, want their images in the papers.

"There are a million places where celebrities can go … and we don't know if they are going to be there," he says. But if they are here, they are fair game, goes the logic.

There are at least six other photographers here joined by a group of 20-something drunks huddling on the sidewalks smoking. "Hey, you're the paparazzi," one blurts out. "Who are you here for?" It's an oft-heard question, followed by, "How much do you get for a picture?" Both grate.

As I videotape Chapman talking with other photographers, a big hand reaches out and tries to slap the camera from my grip. "Get the hell out of here," the mystery photographer growls.

He's huge. I'm not, so I leave. But later, I ask Chapman what I was missing. A paparazzo who hates cameras? He apologizes for his friend but says, "We don't like having our pictures taken. It's just the way it is."

A world where it pays to take the shine off of idols, and the snappers are camera shy. Funny place, planet paparazzi.

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