Such are the tribulations of transatlantic life, Steven Gerrard spends far more time by himself these days. With his wife, Alex, and their three school-age daughters at home in Liverpool, he is left for weeks at a time to find his level here in Los Angeles, a place once described by Jack Kerouac as the loneliest and most brutal American metropolis. True, there is no language barrier, while the sun that shimmers off the asphalt in the mornings almost mandates a Beach Boys soundtrack. But it can still be a vast and alienating jungle for the uninitiated. Pick the wrong time of day to head south through the gridlock of the 405 freeway and one soon sees why LA is often caricatured, in the waspish words of poet Dorothy Parker, as 72 suburbs in search of a city.

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Gerrard and his family have made their home in the ritziest neighbourhood of all, renting a six-bedroom Beverly Hills house once owned by Mariah Carey. But do not suppose for a second that he is in thrall to LA’s sheen of plastic-fantastic glamour. “Yes, I’ve been shopping on Rodeo Drive, but I have also been down to the Farmers Market,” he says. “I’m not a materialistic person at all. I don’t go chasing celebrities. I’m not on the Hollywood bus, driving around to look at other people’s houses. I’m a home boy.”