Spinsterella mentioned The Greatest Day of Our Lives in this post, so I felt compelled to share this beautiful experience with the blogosphere.
After working at this glamorous location for the summer, a group of us had been travelling across the states on Amtrak. We’d been all the way from Washington DC to LA, stopping off at Chicago (windy), Memphis (Elvisy), New Orleans (jazzy) and some rubbish town near the Grand Canyon (scary).
At the LA hostel, everyone had a story about what celebs they’d been spotting around the city.
Some people had seen Jamie Lee Curtis shopping for vintage clothing in Venice Beach.
Scottish Tony who worked at the pizza place had seen Madonna jogging passed the Hollywood sign, just seconds before Jill Dando rocked up to do a bit of filming for Holiday ’96.
There was even a mention of Arnie-spotting through the window some posey gym in Santa Monica.
We had been in LA for three days and, apart from going to watch the filming of a pilot sit-com staring some very dubious quasi-celebs, our time had been devoid of superstars.
But all that was about to change. We were walking along Venice beach and bumped into two blokes from our hostel, looking rather pleased with themselves.
“We’ve just seen David Hasselhoff wrestling a plastic alligator,” they said.
It was 1995. Baywatch was big. We didn’t mess around with the details – we were off, racing up the beach to catch the action. It took us about ten minutes before we could see the famous yellow truck in the distance. We ran faster, desperate to see the bronzed Adonis in action.
We got there just as they were packing up. The truck was there. The plastic alligator was flopped on the sand, looking like one of those novelty children’s lilos favoured in the pools of Benidorm.
But then he appeared from behind the yellow truck: resplendent in his red shorts, mirkin poking out of the top of his whiter-than-white shirt. It was The Hoff.
He looked like a man on a mission – to go home. He didn’t want to be bothered signing things and being nice to people and grinning for photographs.
He didn’t have a choice. We pounced on him, ushered him toward the truck and got the shot – us, the Baywatch truck and The Hoff.
He wasn’t happy. As soon as the shutter went off, he was in the yellow truck, charging up the beach – probably on his way to his mam’s for his tea.
About two years later, my housemate was channel hopping and there was an episode of Baywatch on. Just as I entered the room, Mitch was doing the Big Daddy Splash on a very ferocious-looking croc.
Looked much more realistic on the telly.
(The next instalment of the Miss Meep Does America series of blog posts will describe The Day Someone I Knew Wanked Over Me on the Chicago to New York Sleeper – it’s a favourite tale that makes for very interesting dinner party conversations.)