THE NORTH SHORE CHRONICLE – EXCLUSIVE EXPOSÉ
Circa 2026 – The Funnel, The Parrot, and The Oxygen
“CHATSWOOD: WHERE THE PLUMBING BROKE AND THE PLUMBER CONFESSED”
By Our Special Correspondent
Chatswood. The name evokes images of bustling shopping districts, excellent dim sum, and the kind of cosmopolitan energy that makes it the commercial heart of Sydney’s North Shore. It is a place of high-rise apartments, international cuisine, and—apparently—some of the most emotionally complex plumbing encounters on the entire East Coast.
For three of the world’s most recognisable women, who all found themselves renting neighbouring penthouses on the same leafy street, Chatswood was not just a convenient base. It was a watery, feathered, psychologically devastating nightmare that would test their sanity, their waistlines, and their ability to pay tradespeople.
Lady Gaga, Rihanna, and Catherine Zeta-Jones sat down with the Chronicle to finally unburden themselves of the horrors they endured during their year in Chatswood. And before we begin, we must address the exercises, the diets, and the confession.
The Oxygen Shot and Other Delights
The interview begins, as these things often do, with wellness. Lady Gaga is spraying something into her mouth from a small silver canister. Rihanna watches with a mixture of fascination and concern.
“What are you spraying in your mouth?” Rihanna asks, her eyebrow arching dangerously.
Gaga pauses mid-spray. “Oxygen. I needed a boost. It’s very pure. From the Swiss Alps. I had it imported.”
Rihanna blinks. “Why not breathe harder?”
Catherine Zeta-Jones, elegant as ever in a cream silk blouse, lets out a peal of laughter. “Honey! This is French! It’s not about breathing. It’s about experiencing. The oxygen is curated. It’s been blessed by a monk. It’s had a journey. You can’t just breathe harder. That’s so pedestrian.”
Rihanna stares at her. “The oxygen has had a journey?”
“A spiritual one,” Gaga confirms. “It’s been through the Alps. It’s seen things. It’s not just air. It’s narrative air.”
Catherine nods approvingly. “I’ve been doing the screaming exercise. You scream for ten minutes a day. It releases tension and tones the jawline. My jaw has never looked better. I also do the standing-on-one-leg-while-reciting-poetry exercise. It’s for balance and cultural enrichment.”
Rihanna sighs. “I’m just doing the ‘carry me everywhere’ exercise. My servants carry me. It’s very low impact. I recommend it highly. I also eat only purple foods on Tuesdays. It’s for spiritual alignment.”
Gaga frowns. “But… it’s Tuesday now. And you’re eating a burger.”
Rihanna smiles serenely. “The burger is purple. I had it custom-made. Beetroot bun. Very spiritual.”
[Menu]
Catherine’s Devastating Confession
But it was Catherine who had the most traumatic story to tell. She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I need to tell you about the plumber. The one who came to fix the bathroom. He was… he was a good man. Efficient. Professional. He fixed the leak in twenty minutes.”
She pauses for dramatic effect. “And then, as he was packing up his tools, he turned to me. His eyes were sad. Haunted. He said, ‘Mrs. Zeta-Jones, I need to tell you something. Something I’ve never told anyone.'”
Gaga and Rihanna lean in, captivated.
“I said, ‘Of course, darling. You can tell me anything.’ And he said—” Catherine’s voice trembles “—he said, ‘I have funnel envy.'”
The room falls silent.
“Funnel… envy?” Rihanna repeats slowly.
Catherine nods solemnly. “Funnel envy. It’s a terrible affliction. He explained it to me. It’s when a plumber feels inadequate because other plumbers have better funnels. Bigger funnels. More efficient funnels. Funnels with better pour control. It’s a crisis of confidence that affects the entire trade. Devastating.”
Gaga gasps. “That’s… that’s heartbreaking.”
“It was,” Catherine confirms. “He told me he’d been living with it for years. He couldn’t look at another plumber’s funnel without feeling a deep, existential shame. He said it had ruined his marriage. His wife left him for a man with a very large funnel. A funnel that could pour oil without spilling a single drop.”
Rihanna shakes her head. “That’s… that’s a lot.”
“I simply could NOT pay him,” Catherine declares, her voice ringing with conviction. “How could I? How could I hand over money to a man who had just bared his soul? It would have been crass. Insensitive. I gave him a hug instead. And a lavender sachet. And a ticket to my next show.”
Gaga wipes a tear from her eye. “You’re a saint, Catherine.”
“I know,” Catherine agrees. “I’m also available for speaking engagements.”
The Chatswood Plumbing Catastrophe
The funnel confession, while devastating, was not the only plumbing horror Chatswood had to offer. The suburb’s drainage system was, according to every plumber they consulted, “historical.” It was old. It was temperamental. And it was absolutely no match for the local parrot population.
Catherine’s ordeal began on a Tuesday—a different Tuesday, she clarifies, not the purple burger one. “I was preparing a light snack when I heard it. A gurgle. A dreadful, subterranean gurgle from beneath the kitchen floor. The next thing I knew, my sink was erupting. A brown, viscous substance cascaded across my imported Italian marble.”
The plumber—a man named Bruce, who did NOT have funnel envy, Catherine notes—arrived and delivered the diagnosis. “It’s the main line, love. Completely blocked. See those cockatoos? They’ve been dropping seeds into your vent pipes for months. You’ve got a parrot pantry in your plumbing.”
Rihanna describes her own nightmare. “I’m in my home studio, working on a track. Suddenly, the guest toilet starts making a sound. A rumble. A low, guttural, prehistoric rumble. And then, without warning, it erupted. Brown water everywhere. On my slippers. On my phone. On my very expensive, very irreplaceable silk robe.”
The plumber—a man named Kev—arrived and said, “The king parrots, love. They’ve been chewing the rubber seals on the external vent. The pressure’s been building for weeks. You’re lucky it didn’t explode. Actually, I suppose it did.”
Gaga, still spraying oxygen into her mouth, describes her own ordeal. “The lorikeets dismantled my gutters. In perfect synchronisation. It was like watching a dance troupe. A very destructive dance troupe. The rosellas watched. They were the supervisors. They had clipboards. I’m sure of it.”
The Feathered Felons of Chatswood
One third of this entire nightmare can be attributed to a single, astonishing truth: the parrots of Chatswood are not merely birds. They are an organised crime syndicate with wings, a sophisticated hierarchy, and a pathological hatred of modern infrastructure.
“The cockatoos are the demolition experts,” Catherine declares, her eyes blazing. “They don’t just destroy. They engineer. I watched one land on my neighbour’s satellite dish and systematically disassemble it, bolt by bolt, while another acted as lookout.”
Rihanna nods vigorously. “The king parrots are the special ops. They’re surgical. They go straight for the rubber, the seals, the vulnerable bits. It’s like they’ve studied engineering.”
“The lorikeets are the intelligence network,” Gaga adds. “They watch you. They learn your habits. They relay information. And the rosellas? They’re the interior designers. They arrange the chaos. They make it look intentional.”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fauna_of_Australia
The Final Flush
Rihanna grins, shaking her head. “Chatswood taught me that you can have everything—fame, fortune, a successful cosmetics empire—but you cannot defeat a king parrot with a taste for rubber and a passion for chaos. Would I do it again? For those dim sum restaurants?” She pauses. “Absolutely. I’d just hire a full-time plumber and a bird psychologist.”
Gaga raises her champagne glass—which, for reasons unknown, contains a single floating feather. “Chatswood taught me that oxygen is not just air. It’s narrative. And plumbing is not just pipes. It’s emotional.”
Catherine raises her glass with a defiant cry. “To Chatswood! The suburb that flooded our homes, dismantled our gutters, and taught us that funnel envy is a real and devastating condition! I am still not paying that plumber. And I never will!”
heights, watchful eyes, and—if you’re Rihanna—absolute, unmitigated terror. For the three most famous women to ever rent neighbouring properties on the same leafy street, the suburb’s name was the first sign that something was very, very wrong.
harbour breezes, and an almost aggressive respectability. It is a suburb of grand Victorian terraces, impeccable gardens, and—according to local lore—more piano teachers per square inch than any other postcode in Australia. The air is perpetually filled with the tinkling of scales, the wafting of Chopin, and the determined trills of countless students attempting to master their Grade 5 exams.