Category: Humour

  • You’ve Got to Love Rumours

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    You’ve got to love rumours.

    Not because they’re true.

    Usually, they’re not.

    But because, occasionally, a rumour is the universe’s slightly dysfunctional way of reminding you that you’re still alive.

    Otherwise, you’re just a background character in someone else’s group chat.

    Because if nobody is whispering about you, are you even breathing?

    Think about it.

    Somewhere, right now, someone could be saying:

    “I heard Brendan has completely changed his life.”

    And technically, that’s quite flattering.

    Until you discover what they actually said was:

    “I heard Brendan has completely lost the plot.”

    Which, depending on the day, may also be reasonably accurate.

    Rumours are fascinating things.

    They start with a fact.

    Then someone misunderstands it.

    Someone else adds a detail.

    Someone else improves the detail.

    Eventually, you’re apparently living in a mansion, dating a celebrity, avoiding the police and breeding miniature llamas.

    Meanwhile, you’re sitting at home wondering what to have for dinner.

    But you’ve got to admire the efficiency.

    It’s like social media without the Wi-Fi.

    And let’s be honest, if people are talking about you, at least you’re making an impression.

    Even if the impression is:

    “Didn’t he get arrested?”

    “No.”

    “Are you sure?”

    “Pretty sure.”

    “Someone said he did.”

    “Well, he must have done something.”

    And there you have it.

    Your entire reputation reconstructed from three people who weren’t there.

    It’s almost impressive.

    Rumours are the only form of biography where the author doesn’t need to know the subject.

    They’re also wonderfully democratic.

    You don’t need to be famous.

    You don’t need money.

    You don’t need talent.

    You don’t even need to be interesting.

    You simply need someone with five minutes to spare and an incomplete understanding of what happened.

    And suddenly…

    you’re news.

    You’ve got to love rumours because they prove people are thinking about you.

    Even if the thought is:

    “Wait… who?”

    That’s still technically cognitive activity.

    And if you’re lucky, one of the rumours is:

    “They won the lottery.”

    Don’t correct that one.

    Just smile mysteriously.

    There are worse reputations to have.

    Besides, being dead in a rumour is probably the closest most of us will get to a vacation.

    Imagine hearing:

    “I heard he’s dead.”

    And thinking:

    “Excellent. No emails tomorrow.”

    Of course, rumours can hurt.

    They can distort reality, damage relationships, and turn someone’s life into a story they never agreed to be part of.

    So perhaps the trick isn’t to believe them.

    Listen.

    Smile.

    Check the facts.

    Then carry on living.

    Because your life is far more important than somebody else’s interpretation of it.

    And if people insist on creating fictional versions of you, let them.

    You don’t have to attend every meeting at which your imaginary character is discussed.

    Sometimes the healthiest response to a rumour is simply:

    “That’s interesting.”

    Not:

    “That’s completely untrue!”

    Not:

    “Who said that?”

    Not:

    “I’m going to find them.”

    Just:

    “That’s interesting.”

    Because eventually the rumour will need another victim.

    That’s the thing about gossip.

    It has a remarkably short attention span.

    Today you’re the scandal.

    Tomorrow it’s someone else’s turn.

    So yes…

    You’ve got to love rumours.

    They give your enemies a hobby.

    They give your friends something to correct.

    They give your relatives something to investigate.

    They give strangers something to misunderstand.

    And occasionally, they give you a very good story.

    Because if nobody is talking about you, you’re just an unread receipt with a pulse.

    A voicemail nobody listens to.

    A LinkedIn profile nobody stalks.

    An NPC wandering through the town square of life.

    But if someone is whispering your name?

    Congratulations.

    You’re still in the game.

    And honestly…

    that’s not such a bad thing.

    Even if the story is completely wrong.

    After all, being memorable is sometimes less about what people know about you…

    …and more about how much they’ve managed to make up.

  • Bella: The Bravest Dog Behind a Window

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    There are two Bellas.

    There is Window Bella.

    And there is Outside Bella.

    Window Bella is magnificent.

    She sits behind the glass like the commander of an elite canine security operation.

    A leaf moves.

    “INTRUDER!”

    A bird lands on the wall.

    “YOU HAVE ENTERED RESTRICTED AIRSPACE!”

    A person walks past.

    Bella is suddenly transformed into the bravest dog in the county.

    She barks.

    She stares.

    She issues what I can only assume are highly classified warnings.

    The window is her fortress.

    Nothing gets past Bella.

    Nothing.

    Then the front door opens.

    And suddenly…

    Bella has left the chat.

    Outside, Bella becomes the queen of passivity.

    A dog approaches.

    She investigates.

    A human approaches.

    Meh.

    A cat appears.

    TARGET ACQUIRED.

    Bella gives chase.

    But there is an important condition attached to this operation.

    The cat must continue running.

    Because if the cat suddenly stops…

    Turns around…

    And looks at Bella…

    The mission is immediately aborted.

    Bella doesn’t need to be told twice.

    She has absolutely no interest in discovering what happens when the prey decides to negotiate.

    This is not cowardice.

    This is strategic risk management.

    Bella understands something many humans spend years learning:

    Not every battle needs to be won.

    In fact, some battles are best avoided entirely.

    And Bella applies this philosophy universally.

    She doesn’t seem particularly interested in the size of another dog either.

    An Alsatian can receive exactly the same greeting as a Cockapoo.

    No discrimination.

    No intimidation.

    No unnecessary ceremony.

    Just:

    “Hello. You are a dog. Excellent. Carry on.”

    Humans?

    Mostly ignored.

    Unless they have a dog.

    Then suddenly, they become relevant diplomatic representatives of the Canine Republic.

    But perhaps the greatest secret to Bella’s happiness is much simpler.

    She is perfectly content with her little world.

    Her favourite things.

    Her favourite places.

    Her favourite people.

    And, of course, her favourite food…

    Provided it is the correct kibble.

    Because Bella may be willing to accept dogs of every conceivable size, but apparently there are limits to her tolerance.

    Not all kibble is created equal.

    Some kibble is food.

    Some kibble is an insult.

    And Bella, as always, reserves the right to make that distinction.

    Maybe there is something wonderfully human about Bella.

    We often imagine bravery as the absence of fear.

    But perhaps real bravery is knowing when to stand your ground…

    When to walk away…

    When to chase…

    And when to suddenly remember that you have somewhere else to be.

    Bella has mastered all four.

    She may be a fierce warrior behind the window.

    A passive diplomat outside.

    A selective food critic at home.

    And an occasional cat-chasing tactical specialist.

    But underneath it all, she’s just a happy doggie enjoying her life.

    And perhaps that’s the real lesson.

    You don’t have to be brave all the time.

    You don’t have to confront everything.

    You don’t have to chase every opportunity.

    And you certainly don’t have to eat every bowl of kibble put in front of you.

    Sometimes happiness is simply knowing what you like…

    Knowing what you don’t…

    And having the good sense to walk away when the cat turns around.

    Bella has spoken.

    Well…

    Technically, she barked.

    But the message was clear.

  • Addicted To Signs

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    Introduction

    There is a particular kind of loneliness that comes from asking the universe for answers and hearing nothing back.

    It’s not the loneliness of empty rooms or silent phones. It’s the loneliness of standing in front of a mirror, having done everything you were told—checked the horoscope, consulted the cards, paid the psychic, waited for the sign—and realizing that no one is coming to tell you what comes next.

    This book is for anyone who has ever googled. “Am I happy yet?” at 2 a.m.

    It’s for the people who have rearranged their furniture because someone said having your bed facing north was bad for your health.

    I wrote Addicted to Signs because I believe that escapism is not shallow when the real world feels heavy. I believe that laughter and tears can live in the same sentence. I believe that a story about a woman who breaks three engagements because of a sycamore tree can be both absurd and heartbreaking—and that readers deserve both.

    Jacqueline Prescott is not me. But she is everyone I have known who has ever outsourced their agency to a system, a sign, or a stranger.

    This is not a self-help book disguised as a novel. I have no interest in lecturing anyone about what to believe. That’s their perogative.

    Addicted to Signs is a work of fiction. The psychics are fictional (though the techniques they use are real). The sycamore tree is fictional (though there is one in my neighbourhood that I now cannot look at without smiling). The characters are invented, but their struggles are very real.

    If you have ever asked the universe, “What now?” and hated the silence that followed—this book is for you.

    It will be released in the near future.

    I hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I enjoyed creating it.

    Brendan Dunne

  • The Bella Universe: Operation Silver Spoon

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    The Kibble Rebellion

    Claire first noticed something was wrong when Bella didn’t immediately inhale her food like a tiny, fluffy vacuum cleaner with trust issues.

    Instead, Bella approached her bowl… paused… and sighed.

    Not a normal sigh.

    A philosophical sigh.

    That kind of sigh suggested she had seen too much of the world—and none of it was plated correctly.

    Bella sat beside her bowl, staring at it as if it had personally offended her.

    Claire folded her arms.
    “Bella, eat your food.”

    Bella looked up slowly.

    Eat it? From the bowl? Like some kind of… animal?

    She glanced around, just in case any of the neighbourhood dogs were watching.

    They were not.

    But that was not the point.

    Internal Mission Log: Bella, Codename “Gourmet Paw”

    • Situation: Kibble presentation unacceptable
    • Texture: Emotionally confusing
    • Delivery method: Primitive
    • Human: Clearly undertrained

    Conclusion: Immediate intervention required.

    Bella nudged the bowl with her nose.

    Claire raised an eyebrow.
    “What?”

    Bella nudged it again.

    Then she looked at Claire.

    Then at the bowl.

    Then back at Claire.

    Then—most importantly—at the spoon on the counter.

    Claire blinked.
    “…No.”

    Bella blinked back.

    Yes.

    What followed can only be described as a negotiation between species.

    Bella sat.
    Claire waited.

    Bella tilted her head.
    Claire resisted.

    Bella gave a small, theatrical whimper.

    Claire sighed.
    “Fine. Just this once.”

    Claire scooped a small amount of kibble onto a spoon and held it out.

    Bella leaned forward… delicately.

    Gracefully.

    Like royalty accepting tribute.

    She ate it.

    Paused.

    Then she gave a slow, approving nod.

    Internal Mission Log Update

    • Spoon delivery: Acceptable
    • Human compliance: Promising
    • Power dynamic: Shifting

    Claire stared.
    “You’ve got to be joking.”

    Bella sat taller.

    I do not joke about dining standards.

    Spoonful after spoonful, Bella consumed her meal—not like a dog—but like a tiny, judgemental food critic who had just secured a Michelin star for herself.

    Occasionally, she would pause.

    Claire would instinctively go to scoop another bite.

    Bella would stop her.

    No.

    Timing mattered.

    Pacing mattered.

    This was an experience.

    Halfway through, Bella glanced at the bowl.

    Then back at Claire.

    See? Look at it. Chaotic. Undignified.

    Claire muttered, “You were eating out of that yesterday.”

    Bella blinked slowly.

    We grow. We evolve. We demand better.

    When the meal was finished, Bella leaned back, satisfied.

    Claire sat there, spoon in hand, questioning every life decision that had led her to this exact moment.

    “You’re a dog,” she said.

    Bella tilted her head.

    And yet, here we are.

    Bella trotted off, tail high, mission complete.

    Behind her, Claire looked at the empty bowl.

    Then at the spoon.

    Then at Bella.

    “Tomorrow,” Claire called, “you’re eating like a normal dog.”

    Bella paused in the doorway.

    Without turning around, she gave the smallest flick of her tail.

    Internal Mission Log: Final Entry

    • Human still believes she has authority
    • Recommend gradual reconditioning
    • Next objective: Napkin implementation

    And somewhere, deep in her tiny, fluffy mind, Bella smiled.

    Because this was never about the food.

    It was about standards.

  • The Bella Universe: Bella Doesn’t Do Boredom

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    Operation: The Case of the Alleged Boredom.

    A Field Report by Bella, Household Security Specialist (Grade: Good Girl, First Class)

    Classified: For Human Eyes Only (though you’ll probably just coo and show it to your friends).

    Mission Objective: To investigate the recurring human vocalization known as “I’m bored” and to document the factual inaccuracy of this claim based on a standard 24-hour operational cycle.

    Executive Summary: Humans are sensory-deprived. It’s not their fault. They simply lack the necessary equipment to process the high-frequency data stream that is a normal, exciting day. This report is submitted for their re-education.

    0600 hours: Operation Morning Sniff Audit

    The humans believe the morning perimeter sweep, or “walk,” follows a predictable route. This is a critical intelligence failure. While the visual topography appears static, the smell-scape has undergone a complete overhaul in the last 12 hours. My initial findings indicate:

    · Three unknown canines have marked the eastern lamp-post. Their scent profiles suggest one small, anxious bichon and two large, overconfident labs. Threat level: Moderate (high for treat-competition).
    · A feline operative conducted reconnaissance near the hedge. Its scent trail is laced with contempt and an unfamiliar brand of kibble.
    · A squirrel has committed multiple acts of reckless acorn relocation in Sector C (the park). This is a clear violation of the Rodent-Hedgehog Accords.

    The humans attempt to truncate my investigation with phrases like, “Come on, Bella, we walked here yesterday.”
    My official response: Exactly. Which is why the new data is so urgent. Their inability to read this “canine paperwork” is not my problem.

    0730 hours: The Sector B Green Anomaly

    Post-walk, I assume my observation post in the garden. A leaf, designated “Green Anomaly 7-Alpha,” executes a low-altitude, erratic flight path across Sector B. The humans dismiss this as “wind.” I recognize it as a possible communication from the bird network. I am forced to conduct a full, 12-minute visual surveillance op to ensure it is not a precursor to a coordinated pigeon incursion. My unwavering focus is not “boredom,” it is heightened readiness.

    1100 hours: Toy Re-Engagement Protocol

    Humans lack object-permanence when it comes to joy. They ask, “Didn’t you already play with that squeaky duck yesterday?”
    Operational Note: Yesterday, the squeaky duck was a plaything. Today, in my current emotional context, it represents:

    · A tool for sonic warfare against human concentration.
    · A symbol of my athletic dominance.
    · An effigy of the postman.

    Seventeen squeaks were required to fully interrogate the duck. Seventeen.

    1400 hours: Advanced Window Surveillance

    From my primary overwatch position (the back of the sofa), I monitor the neighbourhood for threats and points of interest.

    · Target Alpha: A man walking a dachshund. The dachshund’s posture was unusually confident. This warrants further observation.
    · Target Bravo: A pigeon. It moved three inches to the left. Then stared directly at our house for 47 seconds. “Questionable intentions” is the official classification.
    · Recurring Event: The Doorbell Surprise. The human known as “Postman” continues to trigger the door alert system, then flees the scene, leaving behind artifacts (parcels, letters). It’s a brilliant, chaotic game, and I am its most dedicated player.

    The humans glance at the static scene and utter the baffling statement: “Nothing happening.” My internal debriefing log reads differently: INCIDENT. INCIDENT. PIGEON. INCIDENT.

    1900 hours: The Philosophy of Routine

    Humans express a dislike for routine, calling it “boring” or “the same thing every day.” They fail to grasp that a predictable environment is the foundation of a successful security state. A reliable routine guarantees:

    · Resource Acquisition: Dinner at the scheduled time.
    · Perimeter Integrity: Walks happen on a dependable cycle.
    · Asset Verification: My humans are exactly where I left them, alive and capable of dispensing cheese.

    This is not boredom. This is excellent system design.

    2100 hours: Final Reflections & Recommendations

    As the humans wind down, they stare into their glowing rectangles and sigh, “I’m bored.”

    I review today’s operational data:

    · 147 distinct scent signatures catalogued.
    · 2 moving leaves investigated.
    · 1 high-risk pigeon incident.
    · 1 toy interrogation (successful).
    · 3 cuddle operations (all yielding positive physical contact).

    And I’m the one with the simple life?

    Conclusion: The human condition is one of self-imposed sensory deprivation. Their reliance on flat, scentless, glowing rectangles has atrophied their ability to perceive the rich, complex, and wildly exciting world that exists right at the end of their noses. My primary function is to serve as their Ambassador to this world, to drag them through it, and to remind them daily of what they’re missing.

    Recommendation: More cheese. It helps with their focus.

    End of Report.

    Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to investigate the kitchen floor. A crumb may have materialized. It’s a full-time job. 🐾

    Operational Addendum for Reader Enjoyment:

    · (Bella, reading over your shoulder): I see you’re reading about me again.