This week's SPAM, fresh from the tin.     [Get your very own SPAM here]

You have to get this week's Venue magazine at a local shop. There is no point in going to Paris, Birmingham or Ulan Bator for your copy, because Venue is a local magazine, with local things like:

KEEP IT LOCAL - Buying locally-produced food from independent retailers is good for you, good for your community and good for the planet. We'll show you how. We also look at how you can make your neighbourhood better and meet some local hero(in)es.

LET US SPRAY - A new book takes a look at Bristol's street art with stencil and spraycan.

PLUS - Bristol's bus protestors on the march (they had to walk as they couldn't afford the bus fare) ... Veteran band The Blue Aeroplanes hit the big time ... Mother's Day dining guide ... cult comic 'V for Vendetta' comes to the big screen ... and loads more, including your complete ten-day local entertainment guide.

Don't miss out - place a regular order with your newsagent now* or we'll tell the Council they can build a plasticine statue of Wallace & Gromit outside your house.

*Or just call 0117 942 8491 to subscribe for just £4.49 a month!

Jokes (And sorry there was no spam last week. Got called away sudden-like.)

Three sweet little old ladies were sitting outside the nursing home when a sweet little old man passed by. One grandma yelled, "Bet we can guess your age."
He replied, "No way, you old fools."
One grandma said, "Sure we can! Just drop your underpants and we'll guess your exact age."
Slightly embarrassed, he did just that. The ladies asked him to turn around, and then jump up and down. Then together they said, "You're 84!"
"You're right! How did you guess?"
Grinning from ear to ear, they replied in unison, "Because we were at your birthday party yesterday!"
(Thanks Jelf)

I went to the dentist. He said, "Say Aaah."
I said "Why?"
He said "Because my dog's just died."
(Thanks Lynne)

In an attempt to thwart the spread of bird flu, George W. Bush has bombed the Canary Islands.
(Thanks to the five different people who sent that in)

Ralph came home drunk one night, slid into bed beside his sleeping wife, and fell into a deep sleep.
He awoke before the Pearly Gates. St. Peter said, "You died in your sleep, Ralph."
Ralph was stunned. "I'm dead? No, I can't be! I've got too much to live for. Send me back! Please!"
St. Peter said, "I'm sorry, but there's only one way you can go back: as a chicken."
Ralph was devastated, but begged St. Peter to send him to a farm near his home. The next thing he knew, he was covered with feathers, clucking, and pecking the ground. A rooster strolled past. "So, you're the new hen, eh? How's your first day here?"
"Not bad," replied Ralph the hen, "but I have this strange feeling inside. Like I'm gonna explode!"
"You're about to lay an egg," explained the rooster.
"Don't tell me you've never laid an egg before?"
"Never," said Ralph.
"Well, just relax and let it happen." Ralph did, and a few uncomfortable seconds later, out popped an egg! Ralph was overcome with emotion as he experienced motherhood. He soon laid another egg -- his joy was overwhelming. As he was about to lay his third egg, he felt a smack on the back of his head, and heard his wife shout, "Dammit, Ralph! Wake up. You're sh*tting the bed!"
(Thanks Dunc)

Gareth mailed us to say: I know that you send this weeks ago, but I think that the "Hoff facts" bear a staggering resemblance to some I read about Chuck Norris:
- When the Boogeyman goes to sleep every night, he checks his closet for Chuck Norris.
- When Chuck Norris does a pushup, he isn't lifting himself up, he's pushing the Earth down.
- Chuck Norris counted to infinity - twice.
- Chuck Norris and Mr. T walked into a bar. The bar was instantly destroyed, as that level of awesome cannot be contained in one building.
- Chuck Norris can touch MC Hammer.
- If at first you don't succeed, you're not Chuck Norris.
- If you can see Chuck Norris he can see you, if you can't see Chuck Norris you may be moments away from death

There once lived a fine jazz pianist, his skill sullied only by his unfortunate but severe case of Tourette's syndrome. One day, in response to an ad in the paper, he arrived at a restaurant and asked for the "f**king-w*nk-sh*t-manager-c*nt."
Raising his eyebrows, the maitre d' summoned the manager. "I'd like to apply for the bastard-pianist- b*llocks-position please," he said.
The manager, regarding him skeptically, invited him over to the piano. The man closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began a delightfully playful, yet stirring compostition, with style, panache and feeling.
"Wow!" said the manager. "Fantastic! What do you call that?"
"Monkey-titwank!" blurted out the man proudly. "I wrote it myself c*cksucker!"
Encouraged, the man played some more, and the manager was even more amazed. "What do you call that one?"
"P1ss Arse Spermstain!" said the man.
"OK," said manager. "I'm going to hire you. But you've got to promise never, ever to open your mouth in front of the customers. Understand?"
Overjoyed the man agreed, swore some more, then left.
The next night he returned, played to thunderous applause, and remained silent.
On his second night he again played to a rapturous audience, success having gone to his head, the man began to accept some of the many drinks offered by charmed diners. As he grew tipsy, he valiantly controlled his urges to speak, but was troubled by the increasing pressure in his bladder. Eventually, he was forced to rush off to the bathroom, speedily relieved himself, and rushed back to continue playing.
On the way, he was approached by a nervous lady diner. "Excuse me," she whispered, embarrassed, "but do you know your cock and balls are hanging out?"
Forgetting himself, the man proudly retorted - "Know it?! I f*cking wrote it!"
(Thanks Lynsey. You win this week's star prize, a copy of classic 1959 epic Ben-Hur on DVD. Mail us an address if you wants it.)

Please send us jokes. This winter is dragging on and we've nearly used up all the jokes we had to keep warm. Send them as a private person and you could win a prize from the piles of stuff in the Venue office. Next week's star prize is another set of DVDs with classic 1980s tat ÔHowards Way' on. Send us a joke on behalf of your club, campaign or series of hedge funds and we'll tell all our spamvictims your website address. For the publicity, like.

LINKS

Gross. Disgusting. Horrible.
www.media-post.net

We need someone to review this place. Any volunteers?
www.telegraph.co.uk

Chewie's blog
rrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnnhhhh.blogspot.com

A no-longer-musical tribute due to legal threats ...
eclectech.co.uk

Origami yourself a calendar. Cool!
www.ii.uib.no

Dogs barking in cars dot com
www.dogsbarkingincars.com

Loads of old public information films
www.tv-ark.org.uk
(Thanks Graeme)

Psycho Path
news.bbc.co.uk
(Thanks Paul)

AND LASTLY, A REALLY IMPORTANT ONE ... Doing his bit to put the frighteners on Paula Radcliffe, Bristle's very own Harry Stoke (yes he of http://www.thatbebristle.co.uk fame) is running the London Marathon for the British Heart Foundation. Want to sponsor him, or even just find out what his real identity is? Then see:
http://www.bhf.org.uk/sponsor/irarainey

If you want to be put on the e-mailing list and receive rubbish like this every week (well, most weeks), pop yourself on here: