You’d be amazed what you find behind the scenes of fame. I’ve been a professional cleaner in London for more years than I care to count, and these days most of my clients are the ones you hear on the radio or see swanning down red carpets. But while the front-facing side of celebrity life is all glamour and gloss, the back end—the bits I get called in to sort—are often downright bonkers. You expect a bit of mess. You don’t expect to find a platinum record chilling in the fridge next to a half-eaten falafel wrap. Or a Rolex getting microwaved like last night’s curry. These aren’t horror stories. They’re just… oddities. Beautiful, baffling, occasionally glitter-covered oddities. I’m not here to name and shame. Names stay private, gossip doesn’t leave the mop bucket. But I do think there’s something worth sharing about the way the truly famous live—especially when they’re not trying to impress anyone. From haunted hoovers to bins that don’t exist, I’ve seen it all. And as long as I’ve got a pair of gloves and a hoover that doesn’t talk back, I’ll keep cleaning it up with a smile. Here are a few of my favourite stories—straight from the glamorous grime.
The Platinum Fridge Surprise
I was at a singer’s penthouse in Mayfair. You’d know the name, but I’ve got manners, so let’s call her Miss X. She’d just wrapped an album, and the place was full of balloons, dead roses, and leftover sushi. The usual post-party glamour.
I opened the fridge to chuck out a sad bit of avocado, and there it was—her framed platinum album plaque. Sitting next to a bottle of almond milk and a pack of cigarettes. I thought maybe it was a joke, but nope. Just chilling there. Literally.
Later, her assistant told me she puts anything “precious” in the fridge because she “trusts the cold”. I didn’t ask further. I just wiped the glass with a microfibre cloth and left it between the oat yoghurt and a mystery Tupperware.
The Mystery of the Microwaved Rolex
This one’s from a townhouse in Kensington. I’d been called in on a last-minute Sunday booking—massive party, about eight models still asleep across two floors, and a sticky floor situation that could’ve taken your shoes off if you weren’t careful.
I opened the microwave to clean out the inevitable splattered marinara, and instead found a Rolex. Proper one, too. Gold and glinting. No marinara in sight.
Turns out, the client had lost it the night before and was offering a cash reward. I said nothing, just handed it over and asked if he wanted it reheated or chilled. He laughed, I got a £200 tip, and I still don’t know why it was in there.
The Glitter Blender Incident
One of the pop stars I clean for is obsessed with body glitter. Like, it’s in her towels, her bedding, her shampoo, even her kettle once. But the worst was the blender.
I’d turned up for my usual Thursday session. She wasn’t home, but her housekeeper let me in. I went to clean the kitchen and found her NutriBullet half-full of gold glitter and coconut water.
I honestly didn’t know whether to wash it or bottle it and sell it as some wellness tonic. I did clean it—three rinses and a toothbrush job around the blade. But to this day, that thing still sheds sparkle every time I touch it.
The Toilet That Flushed in French
No, I’m not joking. It literally said “Merci” after each flush. This was in a Georgian flat just off Clerkenwell Green. The client—a producer who’s worked with half the BRIT nominees—had gone a bit overboard with a smart home revamp.
I sat on the loo seat to clean behind it, and it suddenly lit up and played La Vie en Rose. After I finished screaming, I flushed it and it thanked me—in a sultry Parisian accent.
I asked the house tech guy about it later. He said the client “needed European charm in the bathroom”. I said, “Right,” and decided not to question the scented loo roll that smelled like Chanel No. 5.
The Champagne in the Washing Machine
This one’s from a photoshoot house in Notting Hill. Big pop girl group. Lots of hairspray and half-naked mannequins in the hallway. I went to load some towels and found six bottles of Moët in the washing machine drum.
No broken glass, thank God. Just some lint and three socks that weren’t on speaking terms with the rest of the laundry.
I flagged it to the stylist on-site. She just shrugged and said, “Oh, that’s Trixie’s idea of hiding things from the tour manager.” I left them there, closed the door, and decided to stick to cleaning the tile grout.
The Haunted Hoover Incident
This was during a three-day deep clean at a rock star’s place in Camden. He was out touring, which made things easier. Or so I thought.
First weird thing: the hoover kept turning itself on. I was scrubbing a wine stain from a leather pouffe when I heard it start buzzing. No one else was in. I turned it off. Ten minutes later—on again.
I unplugged it, even removed the battery. It buzzed again. I swear on my spray bottle.
I later found out it was part of a prank set-up he’d installed—motion sensors that triggered sound effects for a Halloween party. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or throw bleach at something.
The Leopard-print Carpet That Was Actually a Rug (and Alive)
I once walked into a lounge expecting to hoover a leopard-print rug. Turns out it was a real animal pelt. Taxidermy style, eyes and all. Not illegal, apparently—some antique from South Africa. But it gave me a fright when I reached to plug in the vacuum and the tail moved.
Turns out the client’s Persian cat had decided that was her new napping spot. She wasn’t pleased when I tried to hoover near her either. Hissed at me like I owed her rent.
I gave the area a gentle wipe and called it a diplomatic retreat.
The Home Studio With No Rubbish Bins
You’d think someone recording an album would make a mess. But no, this one producer had a spotless flat—except for one thing. No bins. Not a single one. Not in the kitchen, not in the loos, not even a paper shredder in the office.
I ended up making a bin out of a Selfridges bag and lining it with a Tesco bag-for-life. When I asked, he just said, “I like minimalism.”
Next time I went round, he’d written “BIN” on a shoebox and placed it next to the sink. I respected the commitment. But I still brought my own bin bags after that.
The Bedroom With 47 Candles and No Fire Alarm
This one made me nervous. A singer known for her big ballads had a thing for candles. Mood lighting, she called it. I walked into her bedroom and counted 47 candles—tea lights, scented ones, fat wax pillars, a few in wine bottles.
The place smelled like vanilla, rose, cinnamon, and lavender had decided to fight in the dark. There was no fire alarm. None.
I cleaned around them with a damp cloth and a racing pulse. She came in later, gave me a hug, and said she felt “cleansed”. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d nearly called the fire brigade halfway through.
The Vegan Fridge That Hid Sausages
Not everything is what it seems. I was cleaning for a celeb who’s known for her hardcore vegan activism. Posters, charity fundraisers, meat-free Mondays—she’d built her brand on it.
So when I found a pack of Richmond sausages shoved behind the almond cheese and oat butter, I blinked twice. It was unopened, dated last week.
Later, her brother popped in and admitted they were his. She didn’t know. He just stored them there when she was out, then forgot to take them.
Still, I wrapped them up in tin foil, marked them “DO NOT EAT (ANIMAL!)” and slid them back in. No need for drama. Just a cleaner doing his job.
