It’s a cold night, but at least it’s dry. The two girls have set up their chairs, blankets and bags of food – a real little picnic. Every hour or so one of them goes on a coffee or McDonald’s run. They have their wide-angle cameras with long lenses to get the perfect shot. They have a stack of glossy photos close at hand of any celebrity who might turn up. They have been camped out in Leicester Square on London’s West End for ten hours, since 8:30 this morning. There is a special thrill in the air.  Not only is this is the final night of the 50th annual London Film Festival, it is also the premiere of Babel,  Brad Pitt’s new movie.

For the past half hour, the area has been packed with jumping, giggling, teenagers who squeal when the red caret is rolled out, half-delirious at the prospect of seeing Brad in the flesh.

But the two girls know better. They have made friends with the security guard who has the guest list.

‘Brad’s still in India,’ one says bitterly. ‘He’s not gonna show.’

“And Cate Blanchett isn’t coming either,” the other one adds.

It’s a real slap in the face. Still, they don’t move their chairs an inch.

At 7pm, the tinted-windowed limos arrive, the paparazzi ready themselves, and the elite audience members begin their walk down the red carpet. The girls press themselves against the fence and watch and wait.

Gael Garcia Bernal, a major Mexican movie star – but a distant second to the elusive Brad Pitt -- arrives and goes through the mandatory paparazzi poses. The girls note that the clichés are true: He’s much shorter than he seems in films. When he makes his way to the other side of the red carpet to sign autographs, the girls shout his name. ‘Gael!  Gael!’  They don’t see themselves as star-struck fans.  They are professionals, entitled to a share of his attention. ‘Gael, over here!’

He signs only a few autographs, then returns to the paparazzi.

‘Gael! For fuck’s sake, I’ve been waiting since 8:30 this morning! Gael!’

He is not Brad Pitt, but he is better than nothing.  They refuse to let him get away.

Gael comes back to the line, smiling sweetly and signs a few more autographs.  They shout at him, but he doesn’t come over.

‘Fuck him!’ one girl says, loudly enough that he might hear as he waves to the crowd and enters the cinema. ‘He’s a short bastard anyway!’

And just like that, Gael Garcia Bernal, the only celebrity who bothered to attend this film premiere, enters that infamous group of celebrities too stuck up to sign autographs. But he will not get away with it.  On the other side of the red carpet, the girls’ side, the autograph-hunters’ side, his name will be cursed along with others of his rotten kind for years to come.

According to Autograph Collector magazine, Cameron Diaz is the worst autograph signer, right up there with Demi Moore and Bruce Willis. But Pam could have told you that without reading the article. She knows who is the best, who is the worst, who spends sufficient time chatting with fans, who is happy to pose for a photo, who personalizes autographs – for that matter who has nice handwriting or not. She should know. She has collected thousands of autographs.  Most are in scrapbooks, some in frames on her wall. She says getting celebrity autographs has become an addiction, like a drug.  She just cannot quit. Today, she is hoping for a big score.

‘I’m here to see Daniel,’ she says casually, as if referring to an old friend.

That’s Daniel Craig, the new James Bond.

It’s two weeks after the Babel opening.  Tonight is the world premiere of Casino Royale, and Leicester Square has become a Bond extravaganza. Tonight all three cinemas around the square will play the movie simultaneously. A screen and loudspeakers have already been set up outside playing trailers and interview clips to give the crowd a taste. A silver Aston Martin is perched on a billboard; posters hang on every wall in sight with the dashing Daniel Craig striking his best Bond pose. Even the Queen is coming to watch this film.

Daniel Craig is probably sitting in a room somewhere with a stiff drink, trying not to think about how the fate of his career hangs on whether he is able to fill the shoes of beloved Bonds before him.

But Pam is not worried.

‘I think people will be really surprised how good he’s going to be,’ she says, sounding like his agent.

She met Daniel years ago, when he was an unknown theatre actor in London’s West End. He was handsome, sweet and talented, and she got his autograph back then. He is one of the good signers.

‘I’m happy to have one autograph,’ Pam says, ‘But I’ll be ecstatic with two!’

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