b3ta.com user Mike Fishcake
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Profile for Mike Fishcake:
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Hello you stupid shit-hens. My name is Mike. I run the

Team Fishcake Original British Comedy Website

at www.teamfishcake.co.uk


Possibly NSFW:

It's *safe* for work, but people might think you're insane for watching it

I would love it very hugely much lots, if you would watch my video. Thanks :-)

It's very funny, see.

Things that I are posted on b3ta:

For the 'illustrated spam' challenge:

For the 'Alternative funerals' challenge:

For the 'What superheros do on their day off' challenge:

For the 'Heath Robison a go-go' challenge... not as good as I'd envisaged it, but it's taken me about 1 and a half hours as it is :-/

(click image for better 260kb better quality version)

Manchester Comedy Forum

Recent front page messages:

I know, I know, I knowIknowIknowIknowIknowIknow....
The chav thing has been done to death. This is my last take on the subject.

Edit: Woo! First front page! I'm so happy I'm going to go and shat myself!! :-)
(Wed 25th Aug 2004, 16:12, More)

Best answers to questions:

» Family Holidays

How could I forget?!?!?
Holy fucking shit I've only just remembered this real life diary entry (this was pre-blog :-P) nearly 10 years ago. It wasn't actually a family holiday, but it was at a place where family holidays take place, so with that tenuous point in mind, take it away with a lengthy-as-fuck post. Yes, it's long, so if you have the attention span of a gnat, just scroll down, read the next post and don't complain. Rargh.

Originally posted here: www.teamfishcake.co.uk/article.php?id=86


The story goes a little something like this:

Mid February 1998 a friend told me of his expedition to a certain holiday camp in Wales for a week. The way he described it, it made it sound relatively ok, so I decided I would give it a try. However, upon arriving at this holiday camp in the middle of May, things were not what I had been led to believe.

For those non-British people, holiday camps are a strange British tradition. One of Britain's many strange traditions. You'll get the idea of what they're like after reading this.

The name of the holiday camp has been changed…

Read on…

Arriving at "Fort Happy Camp" was highlighted by the typically dysfunctional family-style groups, behaving like dinosaurs, stomping their fat, ugly way through what appears to be a fucked up council estate with a bit of metaphorical sugar sprinkled on top.

These families must think to themselves: "Right, we've not had a good family row for ages, so we'll go to 'Happy Camp' and piss people off by blasting our insignificant ramblings into the eardrums of passers by". Not that the passers by give a shit, because they're too busy acting like twats anyway.

There are many different types of people that go on holiday to 'Happy Camp'. You get the "Anti-family" types like I just mentioned, you get groups of "Ladz!" going on holiday, seemingly for the reasons to insult and offend people, drool over underage girls, get their brains shafted by mass amounts of piss-diluted beer and think they're good because of it! However, there are also the groups of "Girrrlz!" that act in a similar way.

God, I am so fucking bitter…

You can always tell which people don't want to be there. Obviously there was me, sat in the bar, writing this lump of hatred, but generally, it's the teenagers that are in the "Anti-family" who reeeeeally look embarrassed to be in the kiddies organised "Entertainment" section playing "Pin the tail on the fuckwit greencoat" or something equally as dire.

It seems like you're being forced to have fun all the time. It's like "Look! There's someone who isn't laughing stupidly! Let's go and be dead funny, like, just 'cause we're CRAZY guys!!!!!!!"

You always get the mandatory twat of a greencoat who has seemingly been released into the real world after living on a diet exclusively of caffeine and slapstick movies. They think they're funny - they think they're really funny, yet it's pretty much evident that they were constantly bullied at school, dragged up by crappy excuses for parents, and fucked by strange men in dirty raincoats. It's the only possible explanation for a potentially dignified person turning into a hyperactive - probably drug-addled - arsebiscuit.

Holiday "camps" go out of their way to try and un-evolve the human race. The selection of events they put on is an utter pile of dog shit. I noticed one of their notice boards proclaim that they "cater for every conceivable music taste".


If it's not 60s/70s music, kiddie disco crap or old people's ballroom shit then they don't want to know! Rock? Techno? Blues? Metal? Classical? Drum and bass? Bavarian oompah music? No! "Every conceivable music taste" ? What a load of dog's cock.

'Happy Camp' is basically fascism with a big smiley face.

It seems that 'Happy Camp' is promoting stupidity! People may say "It's having a LAFF innit!?!" I hated it! People come and listed to cabaret by sweaty untalented songbotherers, dance to shit songs and wear crappy 'comedy' t-shirts.

It's so misleading calling 'Happy Camp' a family place.


Either people are supposed to convert to old people - wearing beige and grey cardigans and listening to fucking crap singers belting country songs out of a knackered old synthesiser and a knackered old voicebox, or piss around like spoilt little bastards.

The choice of things to do there was amazing.


It was crusty. The crustiest piece of bum crust from a crust-monsters crust-mobile during national crusty week doesn't even compare! It is wank!

'Happy Camp' is a shite excuse for a holiday. Entertainment in a can. Fun for lazy bastards. I don't want to go ludicrously over the top with fun! I would just like, once or twice, to be able to park my arse down of an evening, and have a relatively quiet bottle of Newcastle Brown in a pub. Oh no.

Oh fucking no.

'Happy Camp' have decided for me that I don't want a quiet time. So, I have the choice of a second rate combo of full-time accountants fumbling shitty musical instruments in a vague fashion to certain over-popular 60s/70s tunes, or a "disco" with "Happy Happy" songs raping my ears.

It's a place for unimaginative lunatics. Ok, if you've got kids, it would keep them amused, but so would a few cardboard cartons and a box of matches. They'd love that. I personally think that the American concept of "summer camp" is a great idea. Basically, kids go away somewhere and do activities for a couple of weeks. So, you pack the kids away somewhere, who cares where, and then pretend they don't exist for a few weeks! You get the satisfaction that they're hopefully enjoying themselves. If they don't, then just bullshit them with the idea that it's "character building" or a "learning experience". Lovely.

Actually, I suppose it was a learning experience for me. Learning that I'm never going to go there again! When I eventually have kiddies of my own, I'll shove them in a parcel once a year, and mail them to someone else to look after them for a week or so. It would be kinder than taking them to 'Happy Camp' anyway!

Unfortunately, the weather was nice when I went to 'Happy Camp', so of course you get the inevitable consequences of nice weather. The ugly people come out. By God's bollocks they're ugly. Fat blokes with beer bellies the size of a large child, and bigger breasts than most women, wearing a nice pink sunburn that I'd love to go and give a big slap to, just because of their obnoxiousness.

And, of course, the women. You know that a place is tacky when you see more than one woman - and I bet that you've seen a few of them too - with tightly permed, greasy bleached hair wearing a leopardskin style top, with a cigarette hanging out of her messily lipsticked gob.

What is it with these maniacal old witches?

Are they fucking breeding or something? All I can figure out is that somewhere, some sick, twisted and fucked up human being is misleading these clueless bints into believing that the aforementioned combination of UNfashion looks good! You'd have thought that they would have got the idea by now! And, just for the record, they always wear stupidly-heeled shoes, carry a silly plasticky handbag and have a raspy, croaky fart of a voice that sounds like they have terminal catarrh.

Then there's the spoilt little git of a child. "I want a drink! I want a burger! I want to go to the beach! I want to play Ridge Racer! I want a FUCKING LOBOTOMY." Screaming their way through the prison-esque eyesore of a complex acting like a little Mussolini, letting everyone, and I mean everyone know that he is unhappy. Little bastard.

I tell you: judging by the attitude and personality of the fucknut staff you get working at 'Happy Camp', You'd have better luck holding a decent conversation with one of the vending machines! The bar staff just grunt at you as they demand the entire contents of your bank account for a scraggly pint of watered down demi-beer, The greenjackets will try and make you do something "Fun!", The receptionists make you feel suicidally guilty if… no, not if, because there's something wrong with your stuffy apartment, The security guards eye you up suspiciously for just being and you just know that the canteen staff are pissing in the gravy. Bastards.

This is basically a warning to people - 'Happy Camp' is not a place for normal adults!

Stay away if you want to remain sane! Stay away if you don't want your friends and family to disown you for being a clueless wanker!

Luckily for me, because I was sharing my apartment with 5 others, I didn't spend too much money on my sentence at 'Happy Camp'. Only £47 of my hard-earned cash was pissed away. Oh, there was the small matter of wasting 5 days work holiday on this crap though.

God, I feel sick every time I mention that word. "'Happy Camp'". YUK! It was like, when I told people I was going away, and they asked me where, I'd tell them, and, judging by the look on their face, it was the equivalent of telling someone that I had small, insignificant impotent genitals.

Have you ever seen the film "Groundhog Day"? Basically, Every time the lead character wakes up in the morning, he re-lives the same day - Groundhog day - until he changes his attitude. Well, 'Happy Camp' is exactly like that. The same every day. Example:


Wake up late, burn your fingers on the crappy cooker trying to grill cheese on toasted cheap and crappy bread bought from a dirty overpriced on-site not-very-super-market.


Go down to the arcade, waste your money on fruit machines and insult your arteries by slamming your fat slab of a face full of greasy undercooked cheeseburgers and soggy fries.


Either blow your money on crap arcade games again, overspend at the bar, join the old farts in the 'pub' whilst in the background, there's some crappy arsehole called "Mr Eric " who is allegedly here to "Entertain with music and comedy", or, the cream of the crap, Spend a night in the fucking disco with fucking little sprogs on the fucking dancefloor dancing to fucking trashy pop tunes whilst a smarmy fucking bastard of a greencoat badly DJs. Crap. Or, you could do none of the above, and AVOID COMING TO 'Happy Camp'!!!

The lowest of the low-lights for me whilst I was at 'Happy Camp' must have been, and this really happened, dropping my sunglasses into a turd-filled toilet. Yep, after squeezing out a junk-food fuelled arse sausage (junk food ones are the worst type, they're really hard and feel like they're coming out sideways) I wiped my arse (which, if you're one of the archetypical people that come to 'Happy Camp' is a strange thing to do) and then, just a split second after I flushed...

My bastard sunglasses fell into the rapidly disappearing crap cocktail.

My gut reaction was "Shit! I don't want to waste a 60 quid pair of sunglasses" and, as my reactions got the better of me... I quickly... rolled my sleeve up... and... without having chance to prepare myself for the scatological encounter I was about to experience............................. I plunged... my hand... deep... into the toilet bowl... which was still full... of what had previously been... the contents of my rectum. I'm still emotionally scarred now, after having my own faeces stuck to my skin, and even after spending 20 minutes washing my hands and glasses, frantically scrubbing them, it still makes my skin crawl at the thought of it to this very day.

I noticed a shedload of people wearing designer labels around the "place of the damned" which got me puzzled. People generally wear designer clothes to make themselves look good, and stylish.


They were in 'Happy Camp'! That alone made them look like twats!

All day, every day at 'Happy Camp' is as mentally stimulating as hanging around at night outside chippies with the local satankids. I generally felt embarrassed to be there!

So I decided to leave early. Fuck 'em. So I gave them my money, supplied them with cash so that they can do more of their evil work. So what. I didn't care by that point. Goodbye 'Happy Camp'. Goodbye Forever, you weak-arsed fuck of a holiday complex.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we must rise against this evil tide of so-called "holiday camps". Boycott them if you want to stay sane! Leave them alone! Take them to a deep, deep hole in the ground and bury the fuckers, greencoats, holidaymakers and all. We must do it. For the sake of our nation's dignity!

Let them soak in their own detritus!

Let them burn in the vast pits of hell!

Let them rot in their own pitiful excuses for bodies!

The holiday camps should be destroyed and pulped to a mashy, gooey substance and dumped in our enemies territories. Then, and only then will we be safe from the tyranny of this sort of behaviour. There is no excuse for it.

(Mon 6th Aug 2007, 15:17, More)

» Putting the Fun in Funeral

One moment's applause....
A friend of mine involved in the comedy scene died a few months ago, after being diagnosed with a brain tumour. I know a lot of people say that they 'don't want people to be miserable' but that's not always the way it ends up.

However, at this one, it was a 'Humanist' service (non-religious) so it wasn't at a church. He had requested that, instead of mourning, and a depressing eulogy, that people that knew him share funny stories and anecdotes about him. It was a lovely way to send him off.

However, the most moving part of the ceremony was when, as the curtain drew in front of his coffin, instead of the mournful silence, his wife had requested that we gave him his final applause. Cue an incredible amount of clapping and cheering, a standing ovation for him as a final way to say goodbye.

It might seem a strange thing to do, but for me, it stands out as one of the most poignant and moving things I've ever witnessed in my life.
(Fri 12th May 2006, 14:00, More)

» I hurt my rude bits

Mike's medical complaints
I've been waiting for a QOTW like this for ages.

Bum and willy. Two stories for the price of one.

Extracts from an article originally posted on my website years ago....


It’s 1994. I’m 17.

After nature taking its course one day, I found I was in slight discomfort. Inspecting this discomfort was the obvious course of action to take. Due to the awkward positioning of this pain, obviously I had to investigate by touch only. Some people would have used a mirror, but I had no particular wish to see my own hole. When my finger touched what appeared to be an unexpected protrusion, for a split second I almost collapsed with fear. Then, I thought “ahh fuck it, it’ll go away”. It did go away after a week or two. I didn’t tell anyone.

Wind forward a few years – 1999. Again, I got lovely bits of protruding anal vein.

So that time round, being obviously more mature (ahem) I decided to pay a visit to the GP to ask him what to do, expecting to receive some medical advice and maybe some tablets or cream to make it go away.

What I should have prepared for was the examination. It’s not every day you’re in a strange room that smells funny, sort of lay on your side with your legs sort of spread apart whilst a man you don’t know that well covers an appendage with latex, lubricates it up and inserts it in your body. But that’s what happened to me. What sort of conversation is suitable for the duration of the probing? Silence? Smalltalk about trivialities in the news? Or forgetting the taboos completeley and asking “so, do you do this often?”. Me attempting to add some amusement by saying “If I pay you an extra tenner, do I get extras?” did not help however.

But piles haven’t bothered me since then. Oh no. Something MUCH worse.

One Wednesday a few years ago was an interesting day for me. Initially, it went pretty much the same as any other day; arrive at the work car park, stand in the lift and glance an awkward semi-smile at someone who i don’t really know, go into workshop, throw bag into drawer, check out the diary to see what I had planned for the day, sat down, carefully chiselled a gelatinous nugget of snot out of my nose and sat down with the usual plastic cup of freshly poured machine-cooled water. How very normal.

After an hour or so, my body informed me that I had an excess of water in my bladder, so, choosing not to ignore this warning, I sensibly walked down the corridor, commenced the usual ritual of not saying hello to anybody else stood at the urinals, then performed the act of the wee-wees. Taking a cursory glance at my liquid stream to ensure that i wasn’t pissing over the shoes of the guy stood next to me, my eyes were attracted to an unconventional sight. I appeared to be urinating Vimto. It took a few seconds for my brain to actually realise that dark red piss was not actually a sign of a healthy digestive system. This was strange. Weeing didn’t actually feel any different than usual, so why did i appear to be emptying my heart out of my genitals?

Post-pee, I relayed the story in lurid graphic detail to a couple of work colleagues, who suggested that I actually go and see someone about it. Which was probably the best idea. So off I trundled to the Occupational Health department, with my mind working overtime, creating wild ideas about the reason my body was malfuctioning in such a colourful way.

The Occupational Health department where I work is just like a Doctor’s surgery. You know, walls bedecked with numerous posters and leaflets promoting various ailments and diseases, describing symptoms so vague that it’s possible to convince yourself that you’ve had every single disease known to humankind. I’m sure that most of the diseases promoted on surgery noticeboards are completely fictitious, made up for the sole purpose of frightening people. But, jumping off that tangent, the Doc called me in, I described what had happened, though I chose to replace “Fucking hell, I’ve just been pissing blood!” with “I went to the toilet and noticed that my urine had turned red”

So, I pissed into a jar for the doc, and, although the hue was less vibrant than before, her test concluded that there was indeed blood in my urine stream. After a couple of doctors appointments, I ended up going to the hospital for a “flexible cystoscopy”. I don’t know how many of you are unfortunate to have experienced one of these, but if you haven’t, it’s not an experience that I’d undertake voluntarily.

I got into the examination room after taking off my pants and putting on this delightful hospital gown, and lay on the examination table thingy. For some reason the doctor felt he had to put his finger up my bottom as well, tunnelling deeper than on my previous arse-examination experience. But that was nothing. Fucking zero compared to the main event.

Picture a long, thin, flexible tube. Picture yourself lying there in a hospital gown watching a man advance his way to your genitals whilst two women watch. And then close your eyes for the rest of the fucking experience so you don’t have to make eye contact with the painbringer.

So anyway, he grabs hold of my cock, holds it one hand, holds tube in other. Informing me to brace myself, he then begins the oh so very unnatural experience of sliding a foreign object the wrong way up my pisspipe, scratching its way along my tubes. Then the real REAL pain came. The tube was about to go through my sphincter. The closest experience I can actually compare this feeling to, is like that of the straw puncturing the seal on a Ribena juice carton. Pressing against it and then…… ooop! It just burst through on to the inside. How very pleasurable. After much poking around, he withdrew his long shaft, and I limped out of the examination room, and straight into the toilet. The first piss was reasonably interesting. Standing there, in the usual position, my willy started what I can only describe as "sputtering". Like I was pissing air. Strange, very strange feeling. But as the first cascade of urine commenced, a delightful stinging sensation burnt it's way up my tube. I said something along the lines of "Ouch. Dear me, that was rather painful indeed, I don't wish to experience that discomfort again". Or something similar.

So anyway, the hospital analysed all the information they got, and everything was ok. Just a bladder stone or something lovely like that. Apart from it feeling like I was pissing broken glass for the next day or so after the cystoscopy, that ailment hasn’t bothered me since. So people, the moral of the story is drink lots and lots of liquid! I know I fucking do now.

I’m taking bets over which part of my body is next on the list to go wrong. Who wants to see my chart?

(Fri 14th Jul 2006, 12:47, More)

» Political Correctness Gone Mad

I sighed when I read the QOTW subject
Because I thought it would be filled with Littlejohn-esque inaccurate ranting propaganda and people generally getting outraged because OMG TEH MUZLIMS R TRYIN TO STEAL CHRISTMASS. I'm pleasantly surprised that there aren't as many as I was expecting. There are loads of good examples of cuntery, and some fucking good jokes :)

Yep, there are plenty of stupid, stupid, stupid decisions based on not wanting to offend people, but, there's a few points I would like to make to people that do actually shit on and on and on about how "PC" ruins their lives:

1. Don't get confused between Political Correctness, Stupidity and Bureaucracy. Sometimes a lot of decisions that people bang on about being "PC" are just stupid decisions made by a stupid clueless fucking cunt with no grasp on the real world. "Political Correctness Gone Mad" can too often be used as a lazy phrase to explain why someone's come up with a half-arsed idea or a piece of insane bureaucracy, without going into a proper reason why. Sometimes organisations just use the "PC" excuse because they're too fucking stingy to pay out for Christmas decorations.

2. THERE IS NO "PC BRIGADE". There is not an international organisation dedicated to eradicating anything ambiguous that may be construed as offensive by anyone.

3. Positive Discrimination based on gender, race or sexuality is illegal. See www.diversitytoolkit.org.uk/glossary/_P/ . If any organisation you know is employing people because they want to bump up their numbers of certain minorities, it's just as illegal as only employing straight white middle-aged males. If you know of anyone that does this - point them towards that web page and watch them shit themselves ;-). For some reason though - positive discrimination for Disabled people isn't actually illegal. Don't understand why this should be the case, but it is. You can have that one :-/

4. A significant amount of media coverage of "PC Gone Mad" is exaggerated and/or complete bollocks. A few years ago, someone was in the Manchester Evening News complaining how Manchester Council weren't allowing anyone to celebrate Christmas because It Might Offend Other Religions™. I go into Manchester City Centre, and what do I see, but massive official adverts for the "Manchester Christmas Markets" and a giant fucking banner on the front of the Town Hall reading "Manchester City Council wishes you a Merry Christmas". As for the aforementioned Mr Littlejohn - most of his ranting is based on complete exaggeration, hypothetical situations created in his hateful brain or just complete fabrication.

Like I said at the start of this stupidly long post - I'm not denying that "PC" behaviour exists, but it's a real bugbear of mine when cunts, bastards and fuckwits use a universal dislike of Political Correctness to justify their bigotry.

/off to laugh at Sickipedia now
(Fri 23rd Nov 2007, 11:21, More)

» Phobias

Seagulls are fucking filthy smelly dirty evil shrieking greedy scavenging creepy demonic bastard pieces of bastard shit.


(Thu 10th Apr 2008, 13:51, More)
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