"As you can tell I do have a serious interest in women´s literature, I wrote the feminist version of the DH Lawrence novel "Lady Chatterley´s Hoover," and I have just completed a translation of "One Hundred Years of Shopping" by Imelda Garcia Marques.
Ardella Jones grew up fast in Ladbroke Grove, West London, then went to Bristol University where she read English and had the piss taken out of her plebeian accent. On graduating she got a job with Lambeth Council bringing peace and harmony to post-riot Brixton. She also moonlighted as reggae correspondent for the NME spending long periods writing in Jamaica for which she received an award from The Catherine Pakenham Memorial for young women journalists. She also began writing short fiction then in 1992 someone made the mistake of telling her she was funny and she embarked on a career in stand up comedy, first as half of the double act, Ken & Ard, winning the New Names of 92 award at the Edinburgh Fringe festival, then as a solo performer until 1999 when she turned to scriptwriting for radio, TV and film. In 2007, whilst drunk, Patric Cunnane conned her into doing a poetry gig and she´s never looked back. Ardella also lectures in Creative Writing for South-Thames College to fund her extensive collection of shoes. Her star sign is Scorpio and her favourite food is expensive.
The Afghan 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 Pashtu 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.