I am, what I am, petals!

I would like to apologize to those of you, who have known me of old and are shocked and disappointed to find that I'm not really the person in this photograph. I'd like to - but I won't, petals! Because that would just be patronising, wouldn't it? After all, surely everyone knew that it wasn't really me? As if someone as famous, glamorous and well travelled would have to stoop so low as to stick her whole arm up Ronnie Corbett's U-bend! No, I can't deny the obvious fact that I have been dishonestly using a photo of Judith Chalmers on my profile for six months.

It was my own silly fault for taking notice of my celebrity clients' advice. To be fair, I should know better - most of them are pissed as farts by the time Pointless is on of an afternoon!

It all started when I joined Twitter to find a man. Joan Collins said I'd NEVER get a sniff with a boat race like mine. She wanted to give me one of her 'Quicklime' makeovers, but as she'd only done one before - on Dr Gillian McKeith - I decided to plump for the safer option. It was the old, old story, I'm afraid. Ugly woman posts a photo of someone far, far more glamorous to attract a man. It works a treat! And before long they're buzzing around her like flies on half an Angus Whopper in a wheely bin. Then all of a sudden, before you can say Bob Hoskins is small but perfectly formed, she's living a lie.

But you know, petals, at some time we all have to pull our fingers out and come clean. I was saying that very thing to Russell Brand the other day when I was scrubbing his bedroom wall with my scourer. As it happens, I scrubbed so hard, the pattern came off the wallpaper and we had to cover the wet patch with a photo of June Whitfield shaking hands with the Prince of Wales. Luckily little Katy Perry didn't notice and she still doesn't know that her husband's a . . . but that's another story.

I knew full well that nobody would ever really believe that a woman as gorgeous as Judith Chalmers would be a spinster. Just look at her - HOT TO TROT! That hair, those eyes, the determined chin and the way she clung tightly to her handbag, so nobody could grab it and find the stolen pension books inside. I knew that one day, I'd have to come out, but I was just too afraid that everyone would be disappointed. In the end the matter was taken out of my hands when @MrsStephenFry and her friends Mrs Norton, Mrs Winton and Mrs Biggins, performed an intervention on me at the Cuppa Cabana. It was terrifying at first - especially when a ghost claiming to be my Uncle Willy appeared and told me the Sellotape had fallen down the back of the washing machine (I'd been searching for it for weeks!) - but apart from the odd slap across my face, it was quite enjoyable and I agreed to reveal my true self to you all.

Yes I admit it! I can't deny myself any more. I'M A WOMAN! A celebrity cleaner. An orphan, cruelly abandoned because I had a nose like Queen Victoria and rejected every single day of my life since then. I can't help it if you've all imagined me as a man, can I? To be honest, you wouldn't be the first. We had a High Court barrister at Cynthia Payne's Luncheon Club who liked to imagine I was a man too. Sadly, we had to cut off his membership after Environmental Health found out that 'Waste Not Want Not' Cynthia was cutting up the cucumber afterwards and putting it in the sandwiches.

Well, that's about all I want to say, petals. I do hope you'll understand. I'm still me, @IvyManilow Cleaner to the Stars, with all my parts intact - and as the Queen Mother used to say when I moaned about cleaning her commode after her weekly All Bran - "Just put your rubber gloves on - and if you don't like it, you can lump it, petal!"

Love Ivy Manilow (Miss) x x x

My New Book Makes Mrs Fry's Diary Seem Like Something by Janice Austen!

Stuck in an unhappy marriage, Lady Millicent McCartney reluctantly agrees to join her husband, The Earl of Arndale, on an expedition to the Rainforest. Their quest is to track down Monkeynuts, the legendary apeman, who holds the secret to the whereabouts of a miracle tree bark syrup that can cure baldness.

After tramping through the savage jungle for days - hot, weary and with her husband getting right on her tits - Millicent perches on a tree stump for a rest. As she watches the rest of her party disappear into the trees, she wafts her tiny dainty fan in the thick dark bush. Suddenly, to her horror, she realises that she is being prodded in her lower back by an enormous, insistant Cobra! She screams for help - but by now her knobhead of a husband is bobbing miles away in a makeshift kayak on the Amazon. She looks around for a large rock to hit the Cobra over the head, but can't move - she's glued to the spot! Oh, if only she'd seen that 'Wet Aruldite' sign hanging on the tree stump.

As she sits bolt upright, paralyzed with fear, she feels the many hairy legs of a lethal tarantula caressing her neck. Sobbing with terror, she turns slowly, only to find it isn't a tarantula tickling her neck seductively at all - but a jumbo moustache. Can it be? No surely not! But imagine if it is! She leans nearer for a closer look - Oh my goodness yes it is!! - Monkeynuts, the magical apeman! Thank God she hadn't hit the cobra over the head with a rock after all!

I Know What You Did Last Week, Victoria Beckham!

My Half-term with the Beckhams

I had a lovely time at Center Parcs Lake Crystal with the Beckhams for the half term holidays petals. They wanted someone to look after the boys while they had a romantic break. They thought about staying at the 5 star Burg Al Arab in Dubai but David wanted somewhere he could dribble freely without causing slippages and being sued for medical expenses by 'Paparazzi Lawyers 4 U'. Victoria didn't care where they went as long as there was cheesy chips and Snickers on tap.

Apparently, Louis Walsh was their first choice - they'd hoped that he could keep Brooklyn, Romeo and Cruz occupied and form a boy band to boost the household budget at the same time. I don't know, you'd think they had enough money wouldn't you? That Victoria is so competitive! While we were there, they began filming a new Osbornes-style reality show about their comical adventures trying to maintain a celebrity lifestyle now David's football career has ended - 'Keeping Up with the Rooneys'.

Mind you, people told me I'd regret it - apparently Center Parcs Lake Crystal has a bit of a dodgy reputation when it comes to looking after children. What usually happens is the babysitter cops off with a bloke, has steamy, rampant sex all holiday, forgets to keep an eye on the kids, someone drowns and the babysitter either gets an axe in her head or ends up hanging upside down from the washing line with what she had for breakfast on display for all to see! That did make me consider my position I must admit. But after 5 minutes I reckoned it was worth the gamble if there was the possibility of a sporty type taking me up the back of the bowling alley - COUNT ME IN PETALS!

Three Cheers for Tweeting Times!

I was so excited when I heard about Tweeting Times being a finalist in the Digital Magazine Awards, petals, that I sprinkled salt on Bruce Forsyth's dining room carpet and Shake 'n Vac on his porridge! Congratulations to @TweetingTimes @TweetingTimesEd and @AlisonBowie

Ivy's Tip O' The Morning!

Are you sick and tired of those brainless, hairy, long legged idiots who seem to crawl out from behind your television every Autumn? Well here's a handy hint - Turn off 'America's Next Top Model' and watch 'Midsomer Murders' instead!

If, on the other hand, you're terrified of spiders - then pop out and collect as many conkers as you can fit into your kagool pockets and place one in every corner of your room. Spiders HATE the things and will do a a sharp u-turn and crawl into your neighbour's house instead!

RESULT!!! You're spider-free all winter PLUS you get revenge for those knickers that smell of burnt sausages because they had a barbecue while your washing was on the line. That's a good feeling petals! Of course, you will be bombarded with marauding school children with plastic carrier bags - but these are easily dealt with using a quick spritz of mace.

* Arachnophobia = Fear of spiders. Not to be confused with Baracknophobia = fear of not being afraid of the US President.

Good Lord! Mrs Fry's Diary is FILTHY - just as well I read it in Delia Smith's bath - but don't tell her petals!

Don't forget to post a photo of yourself reading Mrs Fry's Diary petals! Add the #MrsFrysDiary hashtag to get into her album . . . as it were!

@MrsStephenFry's Diary Twitter launch party is on 15th October! Put it in YOUR diary now petals! I hope it's a bit cleaner than hers - I was so shocked I nearly cleaned my back passage with Cinzano and drank the Buttox!

Hello Petals! Did I ever tell you about my years as a forensic cleaner for the Metropolitan Police?

It was tough work, but very satisfying. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve scoured crime scenes for clues. Of course it’s very important to wear rubber gloves when you do a job like that. If you didn’t your hands would get in a terrible state fingering all the clumps of hair, blood, lipstick, vomit, used condoms and half-eaten kebabs. Filthy work - but all good experience for a celebrity cleaner, petals!

People don’t realise that it can take hours to scrub a crime scene. All those fingerprints! And the police didn’t help much. If I didn’t get in there first they’d cover them with white powder, which made the job take twice as long! They enjoyed winding me up, the little terrors, but I think they knew I was up for a laugh. Many’s the time I’d be mopping up blood or polishing the blade of a carving knife in the incident room and overhear them telling the Chief Inspector “We've got to wind things up. That Ivy Manilow's a complete joke”.

Oh the stories I could tell you, I’ll never forget the Shergar investigation in the ‘80s. It took me three days to get rid of those hoof prints in the Aintree Travelodge. Then there was that folder marked ‘CONFIDENTIAL: Evidence of Jack the Ripper's Identity 1891’ file I found behind the toilet cistern in the ladies. I ended up with five bin bags full after I’d shredded it all!

The worst part of the job had to be the graffiti. It could take weeks to remove, even with our bottles of Joan Collins’ facial peel acid and my high powered nozzle. 1974 was a terrible year for graffiti. No sooner had I managed to scrub one ‘Lord Lucan Woz Ere’ off a wall on the underground, another one would turn up on a bus shelter, or the toilets at Kings Cross Station, or the Playboy Club, oh and the check-in desk at Heathrow Airport. Strangely enough we didn’t find any more after that.

Sadly no crimes were actually solved while I was with the Metropolitan Police, Forensic Cleaning Department. Well they were a lazy shower to be honest. But I still hold the Guinness World Record for cleaning up the most crimes in the entire history of modern policing. My career ended when they brought a new broom into the department and had a clean sweep. But to this day, I still use the skills I gained at the frontline to continue my fight against grime in the seedy world of celebrities, political and sporting icons - and John McCririck.

Now I'm bringing my razor sharp celebrity filth detection skills exclusively to the Tweeting Times in my new CSIvy Celebrity Stain Investigation puzzle. Can you work out which celebrity I’m cleaning up from the cunning clues. . . . ?

MY VERY FIRST INTERVIEW PETALS!

http://europe.nxtbook.com/nxteu/expertsonlinetv/tweetingtimes5/index.php#/24

EXCLUSIVE! Ivy Manilow reports from @MrsStephenFry's back passage

http://europe.nxtbook.com/nxteu/expertsonlinetv/tweetingtimes5/index.php#/26

Ivy's Celebrity Cleaning Manual

An A to Z-List

People are always asking me for cleaning tips and I say "I'd love to give you one petal, but Big Kim Woodburn will be on my doorstep with the sharp end of her Vileda mop quicker than you can say "If Ann Robinson keeps winking like that she'll go blind"

But if you want to know about celebrity cleaning, petals, that's another matter. That's my bag . . . or should I say bucket! It takes a particular brand of skill, patience, lunacy and a very strong stomach to clean for the stars of stage, screen, radio and shopping channel. They may seem very la di dah on the surface, but you can be sure that behind every dazzling diva there's a middle-aged scrubber with red hands, a bad back, a knowledge of first aid and breaking into houses and a wide range of under the counter viagra in her rucksack.

Now, due to unprecedented demand, for the first time I will be sharing my celebrity cleaning tips and secrets, with anatomically correct diagrams and candid photographs of the homes of the rich and famous.

Watch this space for A for Armchair, Ann Widdecombe and A.R.S.O.L.E. (Ascot Royal Society of Offhand Lavatory Engineers) Coming soon! love Ivy x

BREAKING NEWS: Ivy Manilow to be new host of hit show COME CLEAN WITH ME!

COMING SOON! From Banbury Buns to Celebrity Cup Cakes! My life as a Domestic Goddess and General Dogsbody

Read all about Ivy's no holds barred account of her cleaning journey from rag bags to rich bitches.

"You'll choke on your Wayne Macarooneys petals!"

Read about:

* My sad childhood - abandoned in a pile of banbury buns under a glass dome at St Pancras Station tea rooms.

*The cruel but kindly bishop who lured me into cleaning by encouraging me to play childish games like Vacuum the Vestry, Polish the Pews and Hide the Hymn Book

*My time as an artist's model at Paddington Camera Club and Gogo Lounge.

*Cynthia Payne - the mother I never had. Thank goodness I'm an orphan!

* The high court judge who liked to be suspended from a bungie in a nappy wearing comedy breasts and a comedy Gloria Hunniford wig.

* The prominent politician who made me smother his groin with gravy and dip my chips in it.

* The Archbishop who accidentally got locked in the toilet so we thought we may as well try and get a ransom from the Church of England.

*The day I broke into celebrity cleaning, when David Essex spotted me hosing out a canal boat and shouted "We're Gonna Make You A Star!"

In 250 weekly instalments.

EXCLUSIVE FREE GIFT WITH ISSUE 1!! An exact replica of the J-Cloth I used to mop Justin Bieber's brow when he attempted to break the Guinness World 'Oops Upside Your Head' Record.

Ask your Newsagent to reserve your copy NOW!

Knobbing Thy Neighbour in a Loveless Society.

Transcript of a sermon by the Bishop of St Pancras 18th July 2010.

We live in an unneighbourly society dear parishioners.

I'm sure we can all remember a time when you could hang out in your garden all Sunday afternoon, chatting to your neighbours, exchanging Jeyes Fluid, passing on lubrication tips for a stiff knob and slipping each other a home grown parsnip through a hole in the fence.

It only seems like yesterday when I could sunbathe nude in my garden and no-one would complain. Sometimes my neighbour would throw his balls over my fence but I never made a fuss, just headed them back over - or invited him round for a spot of mutual fertilisation on the flower beds. He was a lovely chap - always ready to let me borrow his extendable hose. Oh the happy hours we spent sprinkling each other on the lawn on really hot days.

Of course he's been gone for years now. He moved to Brighton to open a Horlicks Lounge and Show Bar. I've never been there but I hear he's got the best froth on the South Coast.

These days it's rare to even get a neighbour to raise their homburg at you.
I watch with sadness, day by day, as our loving society crumbles. There was a time when a neighbour was always ready to bend over backwards to give you a hand, but now you're lucky if he'll give you the finger. What sad times we live in, when neighbourly harmony and consideration smoulder on the garden incinerator - with the grass cuttings, diseased tomatoes and 'Boys' Life' magazines.

So today, I'm asking my parishioners to help me turn things around this summer. I'm asking you to extend an olive branch to your neighbour and turn the other cheek. Go on! Turn to the gentleman next to you now, give him a good firm handshake, say "How do you do and when can we do it?" then invite him home for a nice game of naked Twister, a cream tea and a splash in your paddling pool.

Amen.

NEXT WEEK: the Bishop takes a 21st century look at the Ten Commandments and asks the question - What does the bible say about coveting thy neighbour's hot tub?

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.

Tonight's the night if I position my nozzle right! : "Not a lot of people know this"

Well it's finally here Petals! The last ever Big Brother and I for one won't be sorry to see the back of it. Since it started I've drained 3000 litres of first night vomit; unblocked the toilet 65 times; poked 9 unsinkable floaters with a pointed stick; scraped 5 tons of homemade bread and porridge from the roof and dragged 375.5 used condoms from the swimming pool (the .5 was Makosi's which had the tip snipped off in 2005)

Still there have been compensations. Over the years when the Housemates have misbehaved and the kitchen cupboards have been emptied, I have 'accidentally' found the following items in my van: 25 litres of cider, 95 packets of fishfingers, John McCririck's diet coke; 45 kilos of an unknown brand of chocolate, 28 bottles of peroxide and one chicken oxo cube (Shilpa Shetty hid it in her jewellery box)

Oh the stories I could tell you! If only they didn't make me sign a confidentiality agreement. Oh well . . . maybe just a little one . . . there was the day when dizzy Helen Adams was accidentally paused by a member of the production team in BB2 and nobody noticed for three days. Or what about the time Bubble took off his hat and we found out he had a tattoo of Bobby Moore on his scalp! I still have nightmares about the time Pete Burn's face ran around the house without him during the night, and what about that tear jerking wedding when Michelle Bass's dulcet tones filled the heavens with the beautiful "Way ay hey youz". But for me, the most memorable moment had to be that saucy Leo Sayer!. . . . you all saw him giving the camera the thumb and finger and demanding clean undercrackers, but what you didn't see was him streaking around the studio butt naked with his hair straighteners sticking from his buttocks, and a finger on each nipple singing "You make me feel like Swearing". Oh if I was only 2 years younger.

Lets hope that in this final year there will be plenty of fun and frolics, suspicion, accusations, body painting, violence and politically inappropriate greetings. But please, please, please Big Brother petals, no more flushing carcasses down the lavvy and causing a blockage - if you really must kill a housemate, please roll them up in a rug and leave them by the back door for me to collect. Think of your Auntie Ivy!

JOIN ME FOR A BIG BROTHER GOSSIP AT MY LOVELY LITTLE TWITTER CAFE - just add #auntieivy to your tweets! See you there Petals!

Big Brother the Final Flush!

Great news petals! There was tough competition, but I've won the contract to clean the Big Brother House! Of course, I've had to sign a confidentiality agreement, so I won't be able to pass on any gossip! But let's hope they're bad housemates and Big Brother clears out the food cupboards. That's when I usually do my Christmas snaffling.

This blog is like Mr Manilow's Nose - Under Construction