THE NORTHERN BEACHES TIMES – WORLD EXCLUSIVE
Circa 2026 – The Leak That Almost Flooded the Forest
“FRENCH’S FOREST: WHERE THE FRIES ARE IMAGINARY AND THE PIPES ARE A NIGHTMARE”
By Our Special Correspondent
French’s Forest. The name conjures images of towering eucalypts, leafy cul-de-sacs, and the kind of serene bushland living that attracts families, wildlife enthusiasts, and—apparently—three of the world’s most famous women, all renting neighbouring properties on the same quiet street, all completely unaware of the watery horrors awaiting them.
Lady Gaga, Rihanna, and Catherine Zeta-Jones sat down with the Times to finally exhume the traumas of their year in Sydney’s most deceptively tranquil suburb. And before we begin, Catherine Zeta-Jones has some thoughts about the suburb’s culinary connotations.
“The home of French fries,” she declares with absolute conviction. “Delicious. I assume they have a chip shop on every corner.”
Lady Gaga and Rihanna exchange a look of profound bewilderment.
“Isn’t France the home of French fries?” Rihanna asks slowly, her eyebrow arching dangerously.
Catherine waves her hand dismissively. “I don’t see the connection. France, French’s Forest—they’re both French. I’ll get someone to look it up. But in the meantime, I stand by my assumption. This suburb should be a gastronomic paradise.”
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Catherine’s Chip-Shop Catastrophe
Regardless of the suburb’s culinary reputation, Catherine’s plumbing ordeal was very, very real. “It began on a Thursday. A Thursday, darling. The most deceptive of all days. I was preparing a simple supper—sautéed vegetables, perhaps some of those famous French fries I’d been promised—when I heard it. A gurgle. A dreadful, subterranean gurgle from beneath the kitchen floor.”
She leans in dramatically. “The next thing I knew, my sink was not draining. It was erupting. A brown, viscous, foul-smelling substance that I can only describe as ‘the interior of a thousand years of forest floor’ was cascading across my imported Italian marble. My vegetables were ruined. My appetite was destroyed. I was left alone with a kitchen that looked like it had been dredged from a swamp.”
The plumber—a world-weary man named Bruce—arrived and delivered the diagnosis. “It’s the main line, love. Completely blocked by roots. But here’s the interesting part.” He pointed to the roof. “See those cockatoos? They’ve been dropping seeds into your vent pipes. They’re harvesting from the native trees. It’s like they’re storing for winter. In your drains. You’ve got a parrot pantry in your plumbing.”
Rihanna’s Forest Flood
Rihanna, resplendent in a tracksuit that probably costs more than the average French’s Forest home, lets out a knowing laugh. “Catherine’s sink eruption is tragic. But mine was a natural disaster.” She describes the night a freak storm turned the suburb’s bushland into a river. “I’m in my home studio, working on a track. The rain is coming down like the sky is angry. Suddenly, I hear a sound. A whoosh. A very wet, very ominous whoosh.”
She rises from her seat for dramatic effect. “I walk into my living room. Water is cascading down the internal wall, pouring out of the light switch, and pooling on my irreplaceable Moroccan rug. I’m standing there in my slippers, watching my investment float away, and I call the emergency plumber. He arrives—a man named Kev who looks like he’s been awake since 1987—and he says, ‘The downpipe’s blocked. King parrots. They’ve been stuffing the gutters with leaves and twigs for months. It’s their larder. You’ve got a parrot pantry in your pipes.'”
Gaga’s Gutter Opera
Lady Gaga, wearing a magnificent headpiece that bears a striking resemblance to a bird’s nest, speaks with theatrical gravitas. “Mine was not a plumbing emergency. It was a performance.” She describes the afternoon she was composing a new song, the afternoon light filtering through her forest windows. “I heard a sound from the gutters. A tapping. A scratching. A rhythmic, almost musical pattering. It was like a percussion section tuning up.”
She rises from her seat. “I looked outside. An entire family of cockatoos was dismantling my gutters, piece by piece, in perfect synchronisation. It was like watching a well-rehearsed dance troupe. They were working together. They had a choreographer. And when they finished, they all looked at me, as if to say, ‘We’re done. You’re welcome.'”
The plumber—a surprisingly philosophical man named Dazza—arrived and said, “The rosellas, miss. They’ve been dropping twigs into your downpipes for months. They’re building nests. Or maybe they’re just having fun. It’s hard to tell with rosellas. They’re very creative.”
The Feathered Foresters of French’s Forest
One third of this entire nightmare can be attributed to a single, astonishing truth: the parrots of French’s Forest are not merely birds. They are a full-blown construction crew with a vendetta, an intimate knowledge of local plumbing, and a pathological hatred of quiet.
“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 television antenna 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.”
Rihanna nods vigorously. “The sulphur-crested ones are the worst. They have that crest like a crown, and they think they’re the kings of the forest. One of them figured out how to open my outdoor bin and spread my garbage across the entire courtyard. It was like they were redecorating. In protest of my taste.”
But it was the king parrot and the rosella that Gaga found most unnerving. “The king parrot is too beautiful. It looks like something from a Renaissance painting. But it has a specific obsession with rubber. The plumber told me they eat the washers for the minerals. It’s a dietary supplement. They’re not vandals. They’re health-conscious vandals. And the rosella—the little blue-cheeked one—it’s the interior designer. It arranges the chaos. It makes everything look intentional.”
The Sisterhood of the Soggy Forest
The three women formed a WhatsApp group they called “The French’s Forest Nightmare Collective.” They shared photos of feathery perpetrators, swapped plumber recommendations, and provided emotional support during the darkest moments.
“We learned the forest hierarchy,” says Rihanna, now an unwilling expert in ornithological destruction. “Cockatoo does demolition. King parrot does rubber sabotage. Rosella does interior design. They’re a full-service team. Better than some management I’ve had.”
Their collective breaking point came during a single, catastrophic Saturday. Catherine’s sink erupted. Rihanna’s living room flooded. Gaga’s gutters were completely dismantled and arranged into what appeared to be a postmodern sculpture on her lawn.
“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 cockatoo landed on his windscreen and dropped a single, perfect seed onto the dashboard. He didn’t even react. He just sighed and drove away.”
The Final Fry
Rihanna grins, shaking her head. “French’s Forest 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 landscaping. Would I do it again? For those bushland views?” She pauses. “Probably. 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 seed. “French’s Forest was a crucible. A terrifying, waterlogged, beaked crucible. I emerged stronger, more creative, and deeply suspicious of birds.”
Catherine raises her glass with a defiant cry. “To French’s Forest! The home of French fries! Which I am still waiting to find! But the plumbing was real. And the parrots were real. And the forest was absolutely, undeniably, catastrophically wet.”
Authority Links for the Curious Reader:
The Real History of French’s Forest: A fascinating exploration of the suburb’s timber and brick-making heritage—and its namesake, James French—is documented in the Daily Telegraph’s historical feature on the area’s pioneering days . https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frenchs_Forest
The Cockatoo Menace: It’s not just celebrity plumbing that’s under attack—Australia’s National Broadband Network has spent tens of thousands of dollars repairing cables chewed by cockatoos. The BBC covered this ongoing avian assault on infrastructure, a stark reminder that the parrots are winning . https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sulphur-crested_cockatoo