THE LOWER NORTH SHORE TIMES – EXPLOSIVE EXPOSÉ
Circa 2026 – The Point That Wasn’t Pointy and the Parrots That Were
“MCMAHONS POINT: NOT VERY POINTY, BUT VERY, VERY WET”
By Our Special Correspondent
McMahons Point. The name evokes images of sweeping harbour views, heritage-listed terraces, and—if you’re Catherine Zeta-Jones—a certain expectation of geometry. For three of the world’s most recognisable women, who all found themselves renting neighbouring properties on the same prestigious street, the suburb’s name was just the beginning of their confusion.
Lady Gaga, Rihanna, and Catherine Zeta-Jones sat down with the Times to finally unburden themselves of the horrors they endured during their year in Sydney’s most deceptively named suburb. And before we begin, we must address Catherine’s very strong feelings about the suburb’s topography.
“Not very pointy,” Catherine declares, gesturing dismissively at the harbour view. “I was hoping for something more polygonal. You know, a proper point. Sharp. Defined. Architectural. This is just… a gentle curve. Who rendered this place? I’d like a word with the cartographer.”
Lady Gaga, wearing a magnificent headpiece that appears to be constructed from old maps, sighs deeply. “Catherine. You take things too literally. It’s just a name. A suburb doesn’t have to be actually pointy. That’s not how geography works.”
Catherine narrows her eyes. “You really embarrassed yourself trying to feed nonexistent zoo animals at Piccadilly Circus, so I don’t think you’re in a position to lecture me about taking things literally.”
Gaga gasps. “I was told there would be elephants! The brochure said ‘Circus’! What was I supposed to think?”
Catherine smirks. “Yes! And did you notice there were NO CLOWNS there either? It was just a traffic circle. Very disappointing. Very un-circus-like.”
Rihanna, resplendent in a tracksuit that probably costs more than the average McMahons Point apartment, watches this exchange with barely concealed amusement. “You two are something else. Meanwhile, I was just trying to survive the parrots.”
Catherine’s Pointless Plumbing Problem
Catherine’s ordeal began with her insistence on finding the “point” of McMahons Point. “I walked the entire suburb. I brought a protractor. I measured the shoreline. Not a single right angle. Very disappointing. But the plumbing? Even more disappointing.”
She leans in dramatically. “It was the shower. The water pressure would fluctuate wildly—from a gentle trickle to a jet that could strip paint. I’d be washing my hair, minding my own business, and suddenly the water would erupt with the force of a fire hose. I nearly lost an eye. An eye, darlings. My good one.”
The plumber—a world-weary man named Bruce—arrived and delivered the diagnosis. “It’s the old pipes, love. But the main issue? The cockatoos. They’ve been pecking at the external pressure valve. They like the sound it makes when it releases steam. They’re using it as a musical instrument. You’ve got a cockatoo jazz band in your plumbing.”
[Menu]
Rihanna’s Pointless Panic
Rihanna, who had been carried everywhere by her servants during her time in Crows Nest, had a more philosophical approach to McMahons Point. “I didn’t care if it was pointy or not. I just wanted to survive. But the plumbing had other plans.”
She describes the evening she was hosting a small gathering for her design team. “We’re finalising the Fenty Skin packaging. Everything is pristine. The lighting is perfect. The vibes are immaculate. And then, the kitchen sink starts making a sound.”
She rises from her seat for dramatic effect. “Not a gurgle. A scream. A high-pitched, metallic scream that seemed to come from the very depths of the earth. I froze. My team froze. The sink started shaking, and then—”
She pauses. “A geyser. A fountain of brown water erupting from the drain. My team fled. My designers abandoned me. I was left alone with a kitchen that looked like a swamp.”
The plumber—a man named Kev who looked like he hadn’t slept since the 1980s—arrived and said, “The king parrots, love. They’ve been chewing the rubber seals on the external vent. They love that particular compound. It’s like candy to them. The pressure’s been building for weeks. You’re lucky it didn’t explode. Actually, I suppose it did. Sorry, love.”
Gaga’s Pointless Piano Predicament
Lady Gaga, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally speaks. “Mine was not a plumbing emergency. It was a performance.” She describes the afternoon she was composing a new song, the harbour light filtering through her windows. “I heard a sound from the laundry room. A tapping. A scratching. A rhythmic, almost musical pattering.”
She rises from her seat. “I opened the door to find three lorikeets sitting on my washing machine. They had somehow opened the hose connection and were pecking at the water flow. They were conducting. They were making their own music.”
The plumber—a surprisingly philosophical man named Dazza—arrived and said, “The lorikeets, miss. They’re the intelligence network. They scout, they relay information, and they’re always watching. The cockatoos do the demolition, the king parrots do the rubber sabotage, and the lorikeets? They’re the spies. And the composers, apparently.”
The Feathered Hierarchy of McMahons Point
One third of this entire nightmare can be attributed to a single, terrifying truth: the parrots of McMahons Point had organised themselves into a sophisticated criminal syndicate, complete with divisions of labour, communication networks, and a pathological hatred of modern infrastructure.
“The cockatoos are the demolition squad,” Catherine declares, her eyes blazing. “They don’t just destroy. They strategise. I watched one land on my neighbour’s satellite dish and systematically disassemble it, bolt by bolt, while another acted as lookout. They were communicating. I could see it in their eyes. They had a plan. They had blueprints.”
Rihanna nods vigorously. “The king parrots are the special ops. They’re surgical. They go straight for the rubber, the seals, the vulnerable bits. They know exactly what to target. It’s like they’ve studied engineering.”
But it was the lorikeets that Gaga found most unnerving. “They’re the intelligence network. They’re everywhere. They watch you. They learn your habits. They know when you’re on holiday, and that’s when they strike. They relay information to the cockatoos and the king parrots. It’s a three-tiered operation. They’re better organised than some record labels I’ve worked with.”
The Sisterhood of the Not-Pointy Point
The three women formed a WhatsApp group they called “The McMahons Point Not-Pointy Survivors Club.” They shared photos of beak-shaped damage, swapped plumber recommendations, and provided emotional support during the darkest moments.
“We learned the hierarchy,” says Rihanna, now an unwilling expert in ornithological organised crime. “Cockatoo does demolition. King parrot does surgical rubber sabotage. Lorikeet does intelligence and psychological warfare. It’s a full-service team. Better than some management I’ve had.”
Their collective breaking point came during a single, catastrophic Saturday. Catherine’s shower erupted into a fire hose. Rihanna’s kitchen became a swamp. Gaga’s laundry room was turned into a lorikeet concert hall.
“We all called the same emergency plumber,” Catherine recalls, shuddering. “He arrived with three vans and a look of profound resignation. He fixed us all. And as he left, a lorikeet landed on his windscreen, dropped a single grape onto the dashboard, and flew away. He didn’t even react. He just sighed and drove away.”
The Final Point
Rihanna grins, shaking her head. “McMahons Point taught me that you can have everything—fame, fortune, a successful cosmetics empire—but you cannot defeat a lorikeet with a surveillance habit and a taste for chaos. Would I do it again? For those harbour views?” 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. “McMahons Point taught me that I was wrong about the point. It wasn’t pointy. But it was memorable. Very, very memorable.”
Catherine raises her glass with a defiant cry. “To McMahons Point! The suburb that wasn’t pointy, didn’t have clowns, and had absolutely no elephants! But it had parrots. And plumbing. And that’s more than enough excitement for one lifetime!”