THE CARPARK
The Bunnings carpark in Glebe was not, historically, a venue for combat. It had seen trolley disputes, the occasional heated
argument over the last bag of potting mix, and one memorable incident involving a man and a runaway pallet of bricks. But it had never seen anything like this.
Barry stood in the centre of the painted parking lines, cape-less, in his one suit, fists raised in a stance that suggested he had once watched a boxing movie and retained about forty percent of it. Opposite him stood Travis, in yet another polo shirt with his face on it, this one featuring the words “FUNNEL CHAMPION” embroidered above the pocket.
A crowd had gathered. Someone had set up a folding chair. Someone else was selling sausages.
Cath, Gaga, and Rihanna stood at the edge of the circle, watching with the intensity of sports commentators.
“Ten dollars on Barry,” Cath said.
“Twenty on Travis,” Rihanna countered.
“Fifty on the birds,” Gaga said.
THE BIRDS
The birds had been a tactical decision. Gaga had brought Nigel the king parrot, Trevor II the coughing cockatoo, and a new addition—a sulphur-crested cockatoo named Susan who had strong opinions about everyone. They perched on the roof of a nearby ute, surveying the scene with the cold judgement of a panel of judges on a reality show.
Then Travis stepped forward.
Nigel launched first. He swooped low, screeching something that sounded suspiciously like an insult in a language only Nigel understood. Travis ducked.
“What the—”
Susan followed, aiming directly for his polo shirt. She didn’t strike—she didn’t have to. She simply hovered menacingly, wings spread, making it clear that she could strike at any moment.
“Get off me!” Travis swatted at the air. “Call off your birds!”
“They’re not my birds,” Gaga said. “They’re their birds. I’m just their custodian.”
Trevor II, not to be outdone, coughed directly at Travis. It was a wet, rattling cough, and it landed on his shoe.
“Disgusting.”
“That’s his process,” Gaga said.
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THE DECREE
Travis retreated to his corner of the carpark, wiping his shoe with a tissue he had produced from his polo shirt pocket. He was breathing hard. The birds had not stopped. Susan was still hovering. Nigel had taken up a position on the roof of Travis’s own van and was staring at him.
“Fine!” Travis shouted. “Fine! You want to fight? Let’s fight! But even if you beat me in a physical fight—” he jabbed a finger at Barry, “—you can never beat me on my knowledge of celebrity weight loss, Barry, you fool!”
The crowd murmured. This was not what anyone had expected from a carpark fight.
Barry paused mid-stance. “What?”
“You heard me. Celebrity weight loss. It’s my specialist subject. I’ve read every issue of Who magazine for the last fifteen years. I know things. I know everything.”
“Travis, this is supposed to be a fight.”
“A mental fight. A battle of wits. A knowledge duel.”
Cath cupped her hands around her mouth. “Barry! Take him on! I’ve seen your magazine collection!”
“Cath—”
“You have a subscription to New Idea!”
Barry sighed. He lowered his fists. “Fine. Fine. Celebrity weight loss. Let’s do this.”
Travis smirked. “Ask me anything.”
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THE QUIZ
“Okay,” Barry said. “How does Taylor Swift keep fit and trim?”
Travis’s face lit up. “Simple. Three hours of treadmill a day. Every day. No exceptions. She gets up at five in the morning. Runs. Has a protein shake. Runs again. It’s in the June 2024 issue of Who.”
Barry blinked. “That… that might actually be correct.”
“Ask me another one.”
“How does Cher keep fit?”
Travis laughed, a deep, theatrical laugh. “Haha! That’s more than my job is worth!”
The crowd booed.
“Boo!” Cath shouted. “Answer the question!”
“It’s classified!”
“Nothing is classified about Cher!”
Travis shrugged. “I know the answer, but I’m not telling. It’s too powerful. The knowledge would destroy you.”
“Tell me one thing about Cher’s fitness,” Barry demanded.
“She has a lot of energy,” Travis said cryptically.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Ask me another one.”
Barry’s eye twitched. “Fine. Sabrina Carpenter.”
Travis’s smirk returned. “Easy. She’s got a naturally good metabolism and does squats. It’s in the March 2025 issue. Page forty-two. She said, and I quote, ‘I’m short, so squats are basically my whole personality.’”
Barry opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“That’s… that’s actually… I think that’s right.”
“Ask me another one.”
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THE WELSH INTERRUPTION
Cath stormed into the centre of the circle, her heels clicking on the asphalt. “Wrong!”
Travis blinked. “What?”
“Wrong. You’re wrong. All of it. Totally wrong.”
“The treadmill? The squats? What are you talking about?”
“Not the answers,” Cath said. “The premise.”
“The premise?”
“You think celebrity weight loss is about knowledge? It’s not about knowledge. It’s about access. It’s about having a chef and a trainer and a vibrating plate that costs more than your van. It’s not a quiz. It’s a lifestyle.”
Travis looked confused. “But I’ve studied—”
“You’ve studied magazines. I’ve lived it. I’ve been on the cover of magazines. I’ve been the celebrity in the weight loss story. And let me tell you something—” she leaned in close, “—the secret isn’t three hours on a treadmill. It’s good lighting and a really expensive dress.”
Travis turned pale. “No.”
“It’s both.”
“No—”
“And a smoothie.”
“A smoothie?”
“That costs more than your house.”
THE FULL LIST
Barry, sensing an opening, stepped forward. “Okay. My turn. How does Adele keep fit?”
Travis’s jaw dropped. “Adele?”
“Yes. Adele. Weight loss. Go.”
“I… she…” Travis’s eyes darted nervously. “She does… she’s got a trainer? Named… Greg?”
“Wrong.”
“How?”
“She’s got a trainer named Greg? That’s your answer?” Barry laughed, a laugh he had practiced in the mirror for moments exactly like this. “It’s not about knowing the trainer’s name, Travis. It’s about knowing she looks amazing and she’s happy and that’s all that matters.”
The crowd cheered. Someone threw a sausage.
“Fine!” Travis shouted. “Fine! Ask me another one! Ask me about Madonna!”
“Madonna’s got a trainer named Greg too?”
“How did you know that?”
“I didn’t.”
THE FINAL QUESTION
Travis was sweating. The birds had resumed their swooping. Susan had landed on his van and was pecking at the “FUNNEL CHAMPION” embroidery.
“One more,” Barry said. “One final question. If you get this right, I’ll concede. If you get it wrong, you have to admit that funnel envy is real.”
Travis swallowed. “Fine. Ask me.”
Barry paused for dramatic effect. The crowd leaned in. Cath, Gaga, and Rihanna were silent. Even the birds had stopped swooping.
“How does Lady Gaga keep fit?”
Travis froze. “What?”
“Lady Gaga. My friend. The woman standing right there. How does she keep fit?”
Travis looked at Gaga. Gaga looked back at him, Nigel on her shoulder, film reels clanking gently in the breeze. She smiled a slow, dangerous smile.
“I…” Travis stammered. “She… she’s got a trainer? Named…”
“Don’t say Greg.”
“Named—”
Travis’s voice cracked. He looked at the crowd, at the birds, at the three women who had somehow turned a carpark in Glebe into a celebrity fitness quiz. He looked at Barry—Barry the plumber, Barry the fraud, Barry the man whose funnel was too shiny.
“I don’t know,” Travis admitted.
Barry stepped forward. “She doesn’t do weight loss. She does art. She does music. She does birds. She does whatever she wants. And that’s the answer, Travis. That’s the only answer. It’s not about celebrity weight loss. It’s about celebrity joy.”
The crowd erupted. Cath cheered. Rihanna handed out celebratory muffins. Gaga bowed, her film-reel dress catching the afternoon light.
And Barry, standing in the middle of the Bunnings carpark, looked at Travis and said the words he had waited fifteen years to say:
“Same time next week?”
Travis stared at him. “What?”
“Same time next week. The Funnel Envy Association. Newtown. We meet on Tuesdays. Bring a muffin. Don’t eat it.”
Travis opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Fine,” he said.
And somewhere in the distance—beyond the carpark, beyond the Bunnings, beyond the absurdity of it all—a kookaburra laughed.
Or maybe it was Nigel.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was Travis himself, beginning—against all odds—to believe that maybe, just maybe, his funnel was envious too.
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