Ardella Jones grew up fast in Ladbroke Grove, studied English at Bristol, became reggae correspondent for the NME, won the Catherine Pakenham Award for journalism, then switched to writing comedy including scripts for the cult 3D animation, Bunny Maloney. As half of double act, Ken & Ard, she won the New Names Award at the Edinburgh Fringe, and, as a solo stand up, she toured the circuit from Up the Creek to Jongleurs.
Now Ardella performs as a poet, writes crime fiction, and runs Chalk the Sun creative writing workshops in Tooting.
Ardella’s star sign is Scorpio; her hobby is buying shoes and her favourite food is expensive. Her poetry is inspired by Existentialism and loft conversions, the English Novel and budget airlines, and goldfish.
This poem is dedicated to our mendacious friends Tony and George. It’s called …..
MINISTRY of TRUTH
Extraordinary rendition
Sounds like a musical accolade
Collateral damage
Something for which insurance can be paid.
Friendly fire
Should be cosy, warm and nice
Theatre of War
Is surely starring Vincent Price
Blue on Blue
May sound rude to you
But what is actually true
Is that these linguistic compromises
Are just shoddy shabby disguises
For when truth bleeds and dies
Buried under bloody lies.
ALLO LOVE SALAAM
The Afghani Butcher’s boy,
Has eyes of shyest green,
They slither from bold to coy,
Leave little left unseen.
He comes from the wild borders
Mountainous, cool, remote,
Where Taliban give orders
Qu’ran is learnt by rote.
School is just some old iman
Sitting beneath the trees
Women are both worthless mules
And endless fantasies.
The UN drops its food aid,
The Allies only bombs,
He escapes from an air raid,
Finds everybody gone.
So now he’s here in Tooting,
The Afghan Butcher’s Boy,
Safe from bombing and shooting,
His sharp knife just a toy.
Expert he cuts, chops, slices,
Through sheep and cows and goats,
Halal free from vices,
Blood drained through slitted throats.
He speaks Pashto and Farsi,
Writes numbers but not words,
He’s learnt to speak in cockney,
To Bosnians and Kurds.
Jamaicans, Nigerians,
He greets with “What a gwan?”
Iraqis, Algerians,
“A Salaam Alaikum”
He cuts beef corti corti
Chicken chinga chinga
Leaves the lamb deghi deghi
Chops ghost chops when you ready.
He sports a diamond earring,
Hair gel, a mobile phone.
Says “it cool” and “Ting and ting”
“You want that on the bone?”
Potato head, he calls his mate,
That’s aloo head to you,
“My English she not very great,”
He shrugs, “But what to do?”
While women wait inside the shop
He still comes over shy
His hands chop chop non-stop
Through bellies, breasts and thigh.
Sometimes his green eyes linger
Can’t help but go astray,
He’s nearly lost a finger
But still he chops away.
Tooting’s a confusing mix
Blood, money, lust and joy,
And Women with alluring tricks
To tempt an Afghan boy.
