Joel Cooper describes his hunt for The Hoff

By ojones

IT WAS a normal Monday morning in the Journal offices. The editorial team was working hard on the next edition of the paper, writes Joel Cooper .

Just then, fellow reporter Kathryn Smith entered the room and said she had it on good authority that the man, the legend, the one and only David Hasselhoff was somewhere in North Devon.

Rumour had it he was on Woolacombe beach with BBC Radio 1 DJ Scott Mills filming a TV documentary. I was immediately tasked to find him – a mission that would dominate the rest of my day.

A friend's Facebook status told me that roughly four minutes ago he had been spotted in Woolacombe, so off I went.

I call my friend to find out exactly where and when he was seen. He said the Hoff had driven past him at Mullacott Cross in a blue Aston Martin.

The second I hang up the phone, lo and behold, a blue Aston Martin DB9 crosses my path and I instantly give chase.

I follow the expensive sports car all the way to Appledore. As the car pulls up I am certain it is him – never have I been more sure of anything in my life. Such incredible luck, such favoured fortune, such incomprehensible coincidence.

Two men exit the car – neither of them is Mr Hasselhoff. Gutted.

After a fruitless trawl of Appledore seafront, I head back to the office. However, I then receive a text and pull over to read it.

My brother tells me the Hoff is headed to the Tunnels beach in Ilfracombe. On arrival, the duty manager tells me she received a call not one hour ago from a film company telling her that a major Hollywood star wanted to do some filming at the location – it must be him.

After a prolonged wait, the owner informs us that the "star" doesn't have time to get there today and will return tomorrow. I am sent away, my journalistic tail tucked firmly between my legs.

The clock reads 5.15pm so I head home for a shower. With the towel still wrapped round my waist, I receive a call from my editor who has heard reports that the Hoff is sipping coffee in the Thatch in Croyde.

I quickly get dressed and when I arrive, the bar staff tell me that he and Scott Mills had been there for lunch (eating a tiger prawn salad no less) but had left about an hour ago, heading in the direction of Woolacombe.

They told me that they were pretty sure the Hoff was staying at the Woolacombe Bay Hotel so, with my detective hat on once more, I decide to go for a snoop, presuming that the Hoff had returned for an afternoon dip in his trademark red Speedos.

I poke my nose into every nook and cranny I can in the hotel but, alas, the legend was nowhere to be seen.

I head for home. As the sun grew closer to the millpond ocean nestled between Ilfracombe's voluptuous hills, my phone started to ring.

I answer and my brother's girlfriend tells me that she is standing just metres from the Hoff who is eating ice cream and "mucking about" in the arcade on Ilfracombe sea front. The chase was on again.

As I edged ever closer to the harbour, a flash of metallic light blue paint appeared in the gap between two cars. An expensive-looking light-blue Jaguar XK sports car comes towards me in the opposite direction. There, at the steering wheel, was a man with curly hair and chiselled face; I finally got my first glimpse of the Hoff.

I followed the car towards Woolacombe. This was Dick Tracey stuff right here (or so I kept telling myself so as not to sound like a crazed stalker). As we pulled into the car park at the Woolacombe Bay Hotel, I knew I had caged the beast.

"Mr Hasselhoff, Mr Mills, sorry to bother you but could I have a quick word…"

The Hoff replied: "Sure kid, come on inside and let's get some coffee." Sweet success.