Barking Mad Murphy Makes Sense Of The Mad World We Live In

Eggs in gravy - that's mad.

Eggs in gravy – that’s mad.

It’s a mad world, isn’t it? Victor Frankenstein – he was mad. The Mad Hatter too. So what’s going on? Is there a difference between being mad and being angry? Who knows? But I’ll make sense of it all. Robert DeNiro was a bit of both in that film, Cape Fear. He was mad and he was angry. Having said that, the film wasn’t all that good.

Like the world. It turns. Like milk if you leave it out of the fridge on a hot day. Or month old bread. It’s weird really.

England used to be mad, but not as mad as it once was, when it was completely mad. Now it’s a bit angry and a bit mad. But you know what really pisses me off? People who can’t decide if they’re mad or they’re angry. Those people need to sort themselves out. Make their minds up one way or the other.

Politics is a good example of madness, because it makes people angry.

But the crux of the matter comes when angry people go mad, or mad people get angry. That’s just a recipe for disaster.

Think on.

Barking Mad Murphy


Who IS Lady C? Barking Mad Murphy Investigates

Lady C NOT FUCKING DOING IT with Anton DuBeq on our telly

Lady C NOT FUCKING DOING IT with Anton DuBeq on our telly

It’s that time of the yodel again Fawkes. I’m a Celeb! Help! Anton Deck. Witchety grubs. Bush tucker trial by jury. Lady C. Who is Lady C? I don’t know. Does she? Do Anton Deck? Rumble in the jungle with Chris Mountebank and Duncan Ballymurphy. Nice. Camp fires and sand crabs with onion. Has she gone yet? What? Who?

Lady C eh? Feisty or wotsits? Brought up as a boy in Jamaica, married a Lord, got divorced. Won’t take yes for an answer on a postcard or anything. Don’t put crickets in my bra you naughty Boy George. By the left. Now we’re cooking. No kangaroo anus for me thanks Mr Ramsay I’m on a diet. Ostrich balls to you too you cad! Not wanting pythons. Rice and beans for you chum. You fat bastard!

Posh. Long hair. Hell’s Angels on wheelies playing trombones, the swines! Free boob jobs for bus drivers! Howay man! Haddaway an shyte. Dancers in Stetsons. Curried spiders and crocodile bollocks. Ooh look a ghost! And a squirrel! The emu’s crapped in my slippers again Tony. What you going to do about that eh? Eh? Eh? True gold my arse!

Lady C? Has she gone yet? Where’s the dunny?

Singing offal, until nix thyme.

Barking Mad Murphy.


Barking Mad Murphy – On Tins

Spam Spam Spam Spam...

Spam Spam Spam Spam…

You can get just about anything in tins these days – except live animals, because they tend not to do too well after being sealed in a tin. But you can get most everything else, including underwear, paint and even asparagus tips. This is because tins are really versatile.

*The most popular items sold in tins include baked beans, beer, marrowfat peas, soup and custard powder.

*Lots of tins aren’t even made of tin. They’re made of aluminium, or aluminum if you’re an American. Which is exactly the same as aluminium but it’s had its ‘i’ poked out.

*Years ago, in an experiment an arctic exploration expedition supplemented their rations with tins of corned beef. And they all died. Because the tins weren’t made out of tin at all. They were made out of lead, and the explorers all died of lead poisoning.

*Tinned stuff can be up to twenty times heavier than dried or natural goods. For example: a 5kg tin of baked beans weighs 50x what a 5kg packet of dried rice does. This occurs because tins are heavy, and can result in hernias for people who try to carry them without the benefit of weight training.

*Tins come in a wide variety of different shapes and sizes. None of which are interesting enough to warrant further investigation.

*Because they’re just tins.

*When Mrs Thatcher was Prime Minister, poor people used to play a game called ‘Lucky Dip.’ This involved scouring council landfill dumps for tins which had been chucked in the rubbish because the labels had been torn off. Social Historian Davey O’Halloran of Liverpool told us: “We called it Lucky Dip because there wasn’t a label on the tin, so it could be anything from steak and kidney pie filling to pineapple chunks. They were exciting times for us. I still love tins to this day.”

*If you show a cat a tin, it doesn’t get all excited. This proves that cats are stupid and have no appreciation for the essential elements of life. Most cats owe their existence to tins because they survive on a diet of tinned cat food. Without tins the ungrateful little bastards would probably be dead.

*It’s the same with dogs.

*You can get some unexpected things in tins, (including underwear as mentioned previously in this article) things like bread, whole chickens, pies, crabs and pork and beans. (The latter of which is an American thing, thank God because apparently it’s vile.)

*”I once opened a tin of beans and there were no beans in it. Just tomato sauce. Not a single bean. What a rip off!” a Café Spike staffer told us earlier.

*The tin industry has asked us to point out that errors in tinning stuff are rare. To which we responded – “So why close all the Cornish tin mines down then?”


*Hamburgers with onions too, almost forgot them. Horrible, horrible things.

Reporter – Barking Mad Murphy


Barking Mad Murphy On ‘Ed Miliband And Why I Won’t Be Voting Labour’

Do not listen to Barking Mad Murphy! The man is an utter twunt!

Do not listen to Barking Mad Murphy! The man is an utter twunt!

Ed Miliband eh? Labour Party. Miss Faversham still wearing the erection outfit years later covered in cobwebs. Ardman Animation. How does one eat a bacon butty without gagging? Red Ed my arse. Tractor to the shirking classless. Caviar and mash? Leave it out bruv. Bloomsbury Group – champagne soviets, like macaroons but slightly fair weather.

EU. Oh yes. Angela Snorkel, the Germaniacs, the French letters, Italian stallions, double Dutch, goat cheese. Britain. Coal mines, steelworks, shitbuilding, cowboys, swarfega. Rubber gloves and hairnets? Organised grime, balotelli boxes, red tapeworms. Strike! Strike! All out brotherhoods and sister acts. All for wonton soup, mulligatawny for all. Oh yes indeed! Factoid!

Tacks – thumb tacks, carpet tacks, constipation tacks. Apples, Giggle, Starburst. More or lessons? You decried. Social Clubbism? Wheeltappers and Shunters? Left tits? Too many shampoo socialites. All plush boys and girlies from hoarding schools. Rugger tugger? Jolly hockey masks? Out of touchpaper the mewling glasses.

As I said at Nuremburg – Was ist das? Never against. Brass roots, bold as monkeys, cribbage strewn urbane pastylands. Sick? Disabled? We’ll have that then. Not on your Nelly. New Labour old bullocks. More Noah.

Ever again. Bring back dangling and the larch I say. Vote Spike. I’m not.

Reporter: Barking Mad Murphy.


Dinner With Barking Mad Murphy

Sheep Shagger's Pie With Badger And Coulottes Pictured In The Future

Sheep Shagger’s Pie With Badger And Coulottes Pictured In The Future

Dinner eh? Who is it? What is it? Ah, dinner – the consumption of nutritionists, not to be recommended to excessive three degrees yet portly nonetheless. Frequently enjoyabled by families perched around periodic tables like vultures with forky things pointing at the readiness and all primed to devour.


Some say no interested in fine whining – their loss adjuster. Dinner is good in equal amounts. Beef Wellington boots, chickens or roasted armadillo skins on beds of cress. Even betterment with wine of black grape with extra virgin Olivia Hussey and butter slathered frying panini. Best on Sundays with egg custard and stewed beetroot testicles in pickled dungeons.

Dinner. Who makes it? The man with the pan, or a woman with an inoffensive weapon. Usually in the kitsch. Arboreal danglings not essential but desirous.

Puddings – after dinnerings. Save houseroom or miss shout. All relative. Like daft uncle. Best served discustard with lashings of sugar pie honey bun.

Chop up into unmanageable sized pieces, mix togetherness and insert into throat. No gag reflex or acid refluxation. Better that wayward.

Wash down with soapy water then ride bike up ramp. Better fast. To fail is to fall. Often badly. Richard Hammond.

Job done.

Next time – Parachuting from flying boats in bad weather.

Reporter: Barking Mad Murphy


Barking Mad Murphy’s Guide To UKIP



Generous erections are when the grateful Brutish public cast vetos in order to exterminate who will be taking over the rainbows at power stations. Today we shalt examine the UKIP. Red herring? Battered cod? Maybe. It’s up to the expectorant to decry, by easy virtue of ‘X’ marking the spot the ball contest. But what are UKIP about? And who are UKIP? Brief nap or smoked fish? And what do they want? Do they even live around here?

UKIP are first and forepost a conservationist group who want to pull us off out of the European Cup and UEFA in sprouts. UKIP are almost a racing party who don’t like anything non-Brutish and want desperately to spend them all black. UKIP’s head waiter is a manchild called Michael Mirage who once shirked as a cashpoint machine for twenty years on the Futurama market. In Shepherds Bush City. Not far from Cannery Row – which was made infamous by John Cashback in a documentary of a different title.

UKIP have compromised to reseal the smirking ban in pubs, clubs and houses of ill repuke and freeze the price of a pint at £19.99 with a freedom whisky chasing after. Almost they promise to deduce input tax for the middle glasses at 35% in the pounding of tripe.

UKIP are a great party scene for the white witches among us but not much copper for the vertically challenged, Greeks, Romans, teabaggers or Alsatians. Germanics are accepting bubble but only Generation X and not if they’re Idol and always wanting paternity loaves for white weddings. Yeah.

UKIP suppositories are expectant of displaying blinding devotion to a lost causeway, and are required to spurt VOTE UKIP at every opportunity knockers, no batter how timber-cynic this makes them look and listen.

Personality I don’t care where you put your Xmas but aisle be boating UKIP because I am Barking Mad Murphy.

Get in there you bootylicious!


Prince Andrew Needs To Come Clean – A Barking Mad Murphy Exclusive

I'll strangle the randy little bastard!

I’ll strangle the randy little bastard!

Prince needs to come clean over allegories of playing sax with underarm American girdle some years ago according to American lawbreakers. Papers filed down weeks ago but dropped out of headboards globally by Paris shootings and Page Threesome forced to close owing to downturn in boobiness. Temporary. Back up now with fresh boobiness injection. Good joke Rupert ‘Bare’ Murdoch. How we laughed in shock horror, but that’s irreverent to this stormy in a teapot.

Unclear at this point whether or not Prints will respond to chargers. Tight lippiness seems to be the hoarder of the daylight apart from working busily.

Not Godly enough Prince Andrew. The nationals need to hear what you will not say, like it or lump it by jingo. Severe case of one ruler for Royals and another ruler for measuring cloth accordingly.

Shout up in the name of the Queen and be damnationed with them all. But sing ‘We Are The Champions’ not good PR so probably best forsaken in this briefcase.

Full and frankly stateside would helpline. Not worky workshy stateside. Not accountable, oh no. Defiantly not Goodyear.

Latest footknacker score: UKIP 3 Briton Thirst 4 – the apps have it. Nearly.

More last year.

Reporter: Barking Mad Murphy.