The Whispering Murphy Podcast

The podcast didn't die. The car did. Friday 6 November, and the show is back on the mic.

A hypothetical bus hits a hypothetical V8. A hypothetical invoice sits on the desk for seven months. Everything is hypothetical. Ron is not convinced.

Sel walks into the office looking unfairly alive. Two blokes still wheeling and dealing after the years, still live to tell the tale, still too tight to pay full price for paint.

The shop is broken into for the first time in twenty years. A blue VF Commodore with no bumper, a mask, unforeseen circumstances, and Oscar. Quiet, until it is not.

Two weeks the boss went quiet. No dailies. No licence. The desk talks about him instead of for him — court, Phone John stuck on the seventeenth, a computer that had not been switched off since May, and a man who wanted to hear a ding.

[STORY] British Airways Flight 9, 24 June 1982. Night. Java. All four engines gone.

Murphy tells it in order: St. Elmo's fire, a 747 turned glider, Captain Eric Moody's small-problem PA, and a landing like a badger's arse. 263 souls on. 263 walk off. Zero dead. After Speedbird 9, volcanic ash is in the book.

— Whispering Murphy

whisperingmurphy.com

Phone John gold: B-for-Ted phonetic freestyle, the boss who rang the AI to leave himself a message, rubbish-truck email spelling, and a ghost car status — patterns only, public-safe.

Oscar’s semi-final in the heat ends in a hard loss — Bailey, Hunter, Manuel, fruit and all — then Filo Beddo knocks mid-sentence, claims the red couch, and starts filing the mess.

Pure staffroom fly-on-the-wall. No Matt in the room. Fancy 20-ft container set, Bundy spit gag, construction racket outside, box-in-a-box betrayal. Music and SFX playground.

Worth Keeping Ep2. Neck-mic week yarn: Elon Odyssey 2WD dream and the hippie bog, Toyota five-month system meltdown and an $800 Melbourne bull bar freight joke, Michael named carefully, wrecker quarter-panel deal, the $55 courthouse trap, and Rex into the container. Explicit.