If there was anyone arrogant enough to assume inheritance of Victor Meldrew’s catchphrase, “I don’t believe it”, then I might be in the running. Amongst the coincidences, shocks and outright ridiculous situations that I (through no fault of my own) miraculously tumble into, I finally noticed my star-crossed pattern. Having been forsaken by fate and condemned by circumstance, it is with deep regret that I relay to you, the woeful ways in which unluckiness haunts me. Imagine a black cat creeping beneath a ladder, after someone had opened an umbrella indoors, accidentally smashing a mirror in the process, and you will have an inkling of the superstitious scale of my misfortune. I hope to detail these accounts here as best I may, with the safe distance of the internet to shield others from inadvertently catching my bad luck.
What did I do to deserve this tilted karma? I do a great many things, so its somewhat difficult to assign blame to any one of them. I make films but not movies. I write stories but not the truth. Capoeira keeps me in the air and salsa dance keeps me grounded. In summer I travel, in winter I sleep, and in the right kind of weather when the stars and moon are aligned, I see my friends. I have the ambition to learn seven languages and the willpower to regularly practice none of them. I know how much Napoleon loved Josephine and how much Livia loved Rome above Mark Antony, but I don’t know how anyone can hate history. I study feminism fuelled by quiet rage and gender driven by cold passion. I once took a 3 hour train journey for a single bowl of abura ramen. I play video games and watch youtube endlessly, but lack any technological expertise whatsoever. I am half English and half Spanish, and I readjust my identity on the fly as circumstances require. I chose to live in Japan, to miss the UK, to dream of France, to wonder about Brazil and to hold Spain close to my heart. I come from a common background, made my way through a common education system and now I’m trying to make sense of the rest of my common life. And in that sense I am commonly unique.
Regrettably I’m known by many names including the old man, that damn British guy, Fuzzy (you can thank my sister for that one), Cloth ears and so on. But most used among them is a result of my fashion sense, so you may call me Poncho.