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. . . . ?