WEDNESDAY 28 MAY:
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! The rag-and-bone man's bell rang as he steered his horse and cart through a quaint London suburb in the mid-to-late nineteenth century. Old women chitter-chattered in old-fashioned shawls and children scattered youthfully among the litter. Beneath the hazy, red evening sun, the jolly hubbub spelt the end of winter and the ushering in of spring's rejuvenation. The rag-and-bone man felt warm and optimistic for the future, happy for the first time since the terrible instance of which he dare not think, the terrible encounter, the horrific horror which shook his mind to the very brink, from which he very nearly did not return from but, for the sake of his horse, he did.

At last the rag-and-bone man reached the top of the hill and pulled up beside The Windmill, his favourite watering hole . He jumped down from the cart and tethered his horse, quietly reflecting upon the mutual bond between man and noble beast, honed over generations of interaction and industry. The horse nodded its head, the man returned this almost-human gesture, feeling a real, mutual affection.

The man patted his old friend's side, then entered the pub. A hearty welcome awaited him and he supped on two pints of premium ale. "How happy I feel" he thought "how removed I am from the miserable wretch I became after the encounter, the terrible encounter of which I will not think, that terrifyingly terrible, horrifically horrible ghoulish encounter - thank goodness for my horse, without whom I would not have emerged, regenerated like sweet spring flowers".

Joyous laughter rang in his large ears as he noisily gulped the tasty dregs of his Marston's Pedigree, wiped his square jaw on his brown sleeve, bade farewell to the handsome landlord and exited the old pub through the windowed door.

The atmosphere outside had changed, utterly. The land was covered by a darkness so dark that even total blackness would have looked more light if you could have seen it in this dark but you could not have because it was so dark. Also, it was cold, a harsh cold that bit the ears, tangled the nosehairs and disturbed the eyebrows. He breathed in and immediately wished he had not, even though he had needed at that moment to fill his lungs with air to distribute oxygen to his extremeties to keep them alive, but he still wished he had not, in a way, because accompanying the welcome air was an unwelcome stench like that of hot creasote mixed with old nun's bile. He moved towards where he had left his cart, frantically stretching his hands out forward to feel his way.

The unmistakable sound of a horse sobbing gently into a tissue swam slowly through the murk from a medium distance. The thought of his loyal friend lost in the night and in mild distress sent the man's mind into turmoil and angst. Fear gave way to even more fear.

An unlikely flash of lightning illuminated the scene.

Fastened in the reigns of the rag-and-bone man's cart, in place of the horse, stood a hellish ghoul; a frail, bony greyish figure in a loose-fitted cloak, weak and wheezing yet so utterly terrifying to behold as to paralyse immediately any man whose gaze did drift across it, such as the rag-and-bone man's gaze, which did. Yes, the awful apparition that, after a single encounter on this day a year previously had caused the rag-and-bone man's mentality to sink into a despair only imaginable by Satan. What new depths of misery would occur in the poor old man as a result of this second encounter which had clearly upset the horse to the extent that it had run quite far away? Surely quite bad depths.

The man looked up into the eyes of the demon, sank to his knees and felt his psyche explode into a lot of little bits as he wailed its name.

"Jlesh Munce!"

JLESH MUNCE
The Windmill, Brixton
28 May - £3

with live music from:

STIG NOISE SOUNDSYSTEM - wonk step

SEMI-SQUARED - dirty vodka stories

TEAM B - improper pop

and DJs
DATASHAT
SMACK MIRANDA