Bishop of St Pancras' Father's Day Sermon: A Transcription.

Good morning one and all and welcome to my *fully inclusive (*branded spirits not included) Father's Day, "Who's the Daddy" service.

Whenever Father's Day arrives, we think of slippers and Sunday roasts, a wee dram of sherry (or 25) and an exciting game of World Cup Football, but today I'm asking you to think of something else. I'm asking you to consider the forgotten children, found in lost property at railway stations all over London every day of the week. There was Ernest Worthing of course, found in a handbag - yes, A HANDBAG, in the cloakroom of our sister church of Victoria, on the Brighton line.

Then there was that poor little furry waif in wellington boots and a duffle coat, Paddington bear, who sat on his little case after a long journey from Peru, with only a marmalade sandwich for company. I can't quite recall which station at the moment, my memory isn't what it was.

But surely, most tragic of all is the story of our own dear Ivy Manilow, who was discovered here at St Pancras Station cafe, hidden beneath a cake dome amongst the Banbury buns, with nothing but a woolly nappy and a postal order for £2 to pay for her education.

Every year as father's day approached and her classmates made cards for their daddies, little Ivy was sent to clean the toilets with an old toothbrush. When the other children were taken to the park by their daddies, poor Ivy was wandering around with a spike, stabbing curly wurly wrappers and discarded cheese sandwiches. Many's the time, as that sobbing little girl swabbed the toilet floor she would stick a little hand drawn face on the mop and pretend she was dancing with a daddy of her very own. Ivy never had the chance of a bounce on her father's knee - although I have to say, I myself did endeavour to step in whenever the opportunity arose - a little treat that we continue to this day on the third Sunday of every month.

And so, as you dear Twitterers shower your fathers with love, aftershave, new underpants and peanut brittle - please, spare a thought for our poor, wretched, fatherless Twitter 'Cleaner to the Stars' as she scrubs her fingers to the bone and flushes projectile vomit down celebrity crappers. Because God loves us all - even Ivy Manilow.