One of the questions people often ask when they discover we live in Southern California is whether we’ve met anyone famous. I suppose there’s an assumption that living near Los Angeles means you regularly bump into film stars while buying your groceries.
Sadly, that hasn’t been our experience.
Although, over the years, Julie and I have encountered a surprising number of familiar faces, usually at Los Angeles International Airport. Or somewhere over the Atlantic. And occasionally without me having the faintest idea who they were.
One of my more memorable encounters happened at the baggage carousel at LAX. We’d arrived back in Los Angeles and were waiting for our luggage when I found myself helping another gentleman retrieve his bags. He returned the favour, and we struck up a conversation while wrestling suitcases off the carousel.
A perfectly ordinary exchange between two travelers just chatting about why all luggage looks the same. At least, that’s what I thought.
When we eventually walked away, Julie looked at me.
“What were you two talking about?”
“Nothing much. Just chatting while getting the bags.”
“Do you know who that was?”
“No. Should I?”
“That was Martin Kemp!”
Apparently, I’d just been chatting with the bassist from Spandau Ballet, who had also enjoyed a successful acting career, including playing Steve Owen in EastEnders, and more impressively as Reggie Kray in the film “The Kray’s with his older brother Gary. I knew who Martin Kemp was, of course.
I simply hadn’t recognized him.
In my defense, I wasn’t expecting to find a member of one of Britain’s most successful eighties bands helping me unload luggage at LAX. And he seemed perfectly happy to be treated like an ordinary bloke. Which, to be fair, is exactly what he was being at the time.
Julie has generally been much better than me at recognizing celebrities.
On one flight back to Los Angeles, she found herself chatting with Rebecca Ferguson, the actress. As far as Julie was concerned, it was simply another enjoyable conversation with a fellow passenger.
Something similar happened when we found ourselves in the immigration line at LAX alongside Yasmin Le Bon, the model and wife of Duran Duran’s Simon Le Bon. We struck up a conversation while waiting to be processed into the country. There’s something rather amusing about standing in an immigration line with someone whose face has appeared on countless magazine covers. Fame, it seems, doesn’t exempt you from standing in line with the rest of us. Although I suspect Yasmin looked considerably more presentable than we did after a long flight.
A Somewhat Famous Travelling Companion
It was 2015, and I was flying from Los Angeles to London to meet Julie and attend my brother Chris’s 50th birthday party. I’d settled into seat 5A in Virgin Atlantic’s Upper Class cabin, looking forward to a reasonably comfortable overnight flight.
Now, anyone familiar with Virgin’s Upper Class seating arrangement back then will know that the seats were designed to give passengers a fair amount of privacy. They were angled in such a way that you couldn’t really see who was sitting next to you without making a deliberate effort.
And making that effort wasn’t particularly subtle.
I was quite happy minding my own business until I noticed something rather unusual. The cabin crew seemed to be paying an extraordinary amount of attention to whoever was sitting in seat 6A.
One after another, they appeared for a chat. There was plenty of smiling, the occasional laugh, and rather more conversation than I’d normally expect between the crew and a passenger. Clearly, somebody important was sitting next to me.
Or at least somebody famous.
Naturally, my curiosity got the better of me. Once the crew had finally left the poor fellow alone, I decided to investigate. I leaned rather conspicuously over the back of my seat and looked down at my travelling companion.
“Hello,” I said. “Are you somebody famous?”
Not exactly the most sophisticated opening line, I admit.
He looked up, smiled and replied, “Hello. Yes, I guess so. I’m Simon Pegg.”
The moment I saw his face properly, I recognized him. Although, being me, I couldn’t resist taking the conversation a little further.
“Oh, right. Where do I know you from? Are you on the radio?”
He laughed.
“No, I’m an actor.”
“Really? What might I have seen you in?”
He mentioned a few films, including the Mission: Impossible franchise with Tom Cruise and Hot Fuzz.
I considered this for a moment.
“Nope. Never heard of you.”
Fortunately, Simon had a good sense of humor and laughed again. I’m not entirely sure whether he believed me, but by then we’d established that I wasn’t going to be asking for an autograph. We chatted for a little while before settling back into our respective seats.
Some time later, I decided it was time to get comfortable for the overnight flight. One of the rather pleasant features of Virgin Atlantic’s Upper Class service was that passengers were provided with pajamas. Not something you experience on every airline, and certainly not something I’d imagined doing when I first started traveling for work all those years earlier. Anyway, having changed into my airline-issued nightwear, I emerged from the bathroom just as Simon came out of the one opposite.
He was also wearing his pajamas. We looked at each other and grinned.
There was something rather ridiculous about the whole situation. Here we were, two grown men standing in an aircraft corridor, somewhere over the United States, dressed for bed.
One of us was a successful Hollywood actor. The other had once appeared in the background of My Family. I decided not to mention my own acting credentials. I didn’t want him to feel intimidated.
Back in those days, Virgin Atlantic’s Upper Class cabins had a proper bar where passengers could sit and enjoy a drink during the flight. So, as we stood there in our matching state of informal elegance, I asked Simon if he fancied joining me for a drink. He explained that he didn’t drink alcohol but would be very happy to sit and have a chat.
And that’s exactly what we did.
We settled ourselves at the bar, still wearing our pajamas, and spent a thoroughly enjoyable hour talking about life, work and living in the United States. There was no celebrity nonsense, no awkwardness and certainly no sense that he was doing me a favor by talking to me. He was simply a very pleasant bloke, easy to talk to and genuinely good company.
During the conversation, I mentioned that I was traveling back to Yorkshire for my brother Chris’s 50th birthday party. In fact, I went one step further.
“If you’ve nothing on Saturday night,” I said, “you’re very welcome to come along. Wakefield, seven o’clock.”
It seemed a perfectly reasonable invitation.
After all, we’d already spent a good part of the evening chatting in our pajamas. Inviting him to a birthday party hardly seemed much of a leap. Whether I actually told him where the party was being held, I can’t remember. A fairly important detail, admittedly.
Sadly, Simon didn’t make it.
Chris’s birthday celebrations went ahead without a Hollywood star in attendance, although I’m sure everyone managed to enjoy themselves regardless, it’s one of my favorite encounters from all those years of traveling. Not because Simon Pegg was famous, but because he was such good company and took the whole experience in exactly the right spirit.
There was something wonderfully ordinary about it all. Two passengers on a flight to London, enjoying a conversation at the bar.
The only slightly unusual detail was that we were both wearing pajamas.
And, of course, that one of us was Simon Pegg.
I still think he missed a good party.
What strikes me about these encounters is just how ordinary they were. There were no red carpets, no photographers and no autograph hunters. Just people traveling, collecting luggage, waiting in queues or looking for something to eat. And perhaps that’s why I remember them so fondly.
They were simply pleasant conversations with people who happened to be famous. I’ve never been particularly interested in collecting celebrity photographs or asking for autographs. I’ve always felt that if someone is enjoying a quiet moment, they’re entitled to it.
Besides, there’s something rather nice about meeting someone without making a fuss.
Although I must admit, had I recognized Martin Kemp at the baggage carousel, I might have been tempted to tell him that helping me with my luggage deserved a Gold medal.
On reflection, it’s probably just as well I didn’t. After all, he was kind enough to help with my suitcase.