It’s the end of ‘How did this person afford another trip to Europe?’ season and on-trend, I’ve bitten fresh oranges outside Trattorias and grumbled on delayed Italo trains. I’ve bought a Maradona t-shirt in Naples, broken my vegetarianism for clam linguine; I’ve dangled my salty penne under a Neapolitan bridge after the urge to be submerged and yelled ‘Andy-ammo!’ at bike riding tourists. As I wrote this, I sat in a cosy ‘Italian’ café in Perth City, Western Australia. As I edit, I’m sitting in Moca at the Blackheath standard. I’m evidently obsessed. I can’t fly 15,000 kilometres or walk for 5 mins at home without dipping my greedy lingua into espresso art. It seems that with just one flight, I hopelessly empty my bank account into the card readers of Italians worldwide. I’ve come to name this dreamy nostalgia for getting-in-touch-with-self(ish) decisions Travel-logic. It feels ironic, confused, privileged, and near unbearable. However, even as I’ve run Apple-Pay-first into this vermilion hot summer, I’ve yet to seriously ask myself what’s next. Yet to really decide if the ‘next’ matters.

About 3 years ago, 2 close friends and I took a trip that can unfortunately only be described as an Interrail. Like 3 burnt and bunless bacon rashers we anglicized our way across Europe, complaining about stag weekends with our bum bags. On one especially saturated night, we visited Karlovy Lázně, a silly nightclub overlooking the Charles Bridge in Prague. In the smoking area, I received a call from one of my travel companions, let’s call him Tim. (it’s Teo)

Seb: I’m in the smoking area, where u?

Tim: What!

Seb: Where are u?!

Tim: We’re in Oldies

Seb: Where??

Tim: Oldies! We’re in Oldies!

The signal was bad, but I was energetic. A prickly drunk. Alright! I shouted, going to Aldi. I hung up and shot towards the end of the corridor. Blue cobbles behind bouncers. I marched out. Then quickly received another call.

Tim: Oldies Seb! Oldies.

Seb: I thought you said… Aldi!

Tim: There aren’t Aldis in Prague Seb

I turned towards a club exit most accurately described as a ‘man-wall’. Appendages like industrial piping. Stark, shining baldness. But I was shitfaced, unfazed. I begged for a second. Then promptly gave up. Tim was calling but I was glancing into the mustard yellow bustle of the club. If I just got to the crowd, I must have thought, I could disappear! The rush of idiocy reached my legs long before it reached my head. I bolted. Right through the man barricade. I made it about 3 meters. In one swift movement, 4 separate men took me by my extremities. They taught me how to fly. Right through the exit, out into the cool Czech Republican night, with the ease of airing a bedsheet.

I’m not one to desire the life of a club fugitive. Nor do I seek unwinnable fights with 20 men. Every day of that trip I’d willed myself to think less and less. I wanted us to be train-hopping plankton with loud anecdotes. At one stage, in a tired, emotional outburst, I raged at my friend for his advice. I blamed him for many of my teenage insecurities. The talk had been coming but my union of Pilsner Urquell and angry man tears chose the steps of Szimpla Kert to air my dirty self-talk. I’d just finished my A-levels after retaking and was tired of blaming myself, so I blamed someone else.

While on my recent holiday to Italy, I didn’t look to blame anyone for my final grade. Even excessive drinking took a back seat, and the arguments were never bigger than a lover’s quarrel. Instead, Travel-logic had turned serious. Multiple people were writing diaries. Sometimes it was in the same room. I had to constantly resist the urge to steal them, flipbook through. Run in circles bird-calling. Not because I thought it was pretentious or useless. I was being motorboated by anxiety as I realized my degree was over. I wanted us all to acknowledge it together, or at least create a satisfying sense of conclusion. Neither was forthcoming. Instead, I wrote down conversations. Tried to be sophisticated. It had always been disarming to me when I viewed the privilege of university study as a time to mull over the future. A period in which to become lost. I assumed the intention was to therefore discover an onset purpose. Only as my third year ended did I find the real indulgence was the confusion when my expectations failed me. Being more knowledgeable and accumulating the reasons for your doubt does not make you more stable, or more importantly, happier.

This may sound dramatic, a typical renunciation of higher education as I leave with my gown tailing between my legs. But degrees are dramatic. Graduations are even more so. My final year pureed my nerves. Someone in 2nd year actually said to me, “I’ve gone home and I might have to go back to Tesco’s, don’t graduate Seb, don’t ever do it.” That’s dramatic! Sensational reason to procrastinate. I could have joined the circus trying to unicycle that load of shit around my head as I poured over my dissertation. On our first night in Palermo, I was smashed and eating something pasta based when my partner elegantly but forcefully demonstrated she thought the simple tomato and pasta dish I’d ordered her was far below standard. It was one of the few orders free of animal stuff with the option to be cheese-less. The waiter was horrified at her insignificant eating but swiftly took it away. This presented me with a chance to use a phrase I’d learned, ‘Mia moglie e incinta!’ I lauded, gawking a huge grin, squid ink lining my teeth like a caveman eating an ink pen. My wife was pregnant, what a thrill! As we all laughed about it after, tapping our cards in the tourist traps, I was a proud father, teary-eyed, red wine drunk. Absolutely anything was possible. I might never have to go home. I could irrigate wine, gain a paunch, smoke cigarillos, buy a small wooden chair and a flat cap and drive my daughter to the shopping centre at the weekend. ‘Where is glue?’ I’d ask a week later in a Bolognian stationary shop, ‘Dove la Cazzla?’ I said, smiling…… I’d asked the poor man ‘Where is cock?’ My time had come to return to the island.

Things look to have one more twist in their tail for me as I pack to go to Paris and see my partner in her new home tomorrow. I hoped in writing this to blur the line between delusions we permit ourselves when we feel most free, and the seemingly unchanging realities of our lives at home. To express gratitude for how much of the world I’ve seen this year and for the people I love who I’ve been able to do it with. This is also a signing-off for AFlatWhite. Although this blog has been used little in the last few years, I wanted to formally say goodbye. This blog was never supposed to be regular. It was always a place to do and say and post whatever I wanted. That’s the way it will stay as I begin something new. I’ve found that the main result of asking myself what’s ‘next’ is that I’m more certain of what cannot come with me than what can. It’s time to declare some irrational certainties, start a new project, and try not to become a Corpo pawn as I begin the first year of my life outside of education since I was 5. I wish you the best for the future. I hope you get horribly lost. You and me both.

#poetry Uncategorized

Watching an Astronaut Go into Space

After ‘Goodbye to All that’ by Joan Didion and ‘You, Very Young in New York’ by Hannah Sullivan

I fold into a bar stool,

watching astronauts airlock, a cockpit,

gulping their last earthly inhales like a front crawl breathe.

I smile at pilots enduring

g-force, loads of vacuum food,

this is a resupply mission, no giant leap for you.

SpaceX is an obvious step for philanthropists when they run out of islands,

they don’t live up to the love in their Greek root of ‘philo’.

A guy in the chair says ‘over’ but, disappointingly,

nothing has even started.

Some time passes.


So long in fact the moment the launch actually happens,

I’m watching a cockroach slaloming shoes by the door.

Eating Padron peppers, Piri Piri fries on my 4th pint.

The playlist crackles out Prince’s ‘Sign O’ the Times.’

“Truly man just ain’t happy unless a man dies.” 

I beam, bigger than in weeks,

a man can be truly happy with an indefinite number of pints and fries.

Those astronauts won’t get a bite or sip of either from that whole resupply.

I look up and see the television screen,

the launch is way past lift-off,

a family is being interviewed who drove all the way from Utah to Florida.

Somethings been released and it’s burning up.

I invite myself to leave, the pubs busying for the evening.

The bar doors swing, a goat-looking man walks in.


“My my, the inane prince, fancy a drink?”

Someone’s screaming; the cockroach has decided to fly.

I smile, “We come back to our minds with our dance and our drink.”

But I’m still staring at the screen, watching the rocket shrink.

Something hasn’t fully burned up, nobody seems to care but I

point it out to my fleeced friend “haha” he chuffs “Apollo’s tricks.

God’s just ain’t happy till they see a man die.”


Fight In a Chippy

Shakin vinegar drizzlers spatter the menu counter as he flicks for the want of a wetness to his chips. Flippin me off with his feculent middle digit of vinegar, booze-blind and deaf they jest at the sinister curry mess shot down my shirt. 20 eyes spearing the curry orange spilled like the sign for Pi. Poland streets been invaded by bruisers, real mccoys, tweed boys on speed and Shawarma slagging off the pickled eggs. Pukka pies in a warp, microwaved in maudlin walls with every gut coated ruby in red doner rage. Piss painted peddlers they’ll piddle themselves when I run em 4 storeys for fear of my name!

Meanest insults, saved for friends, offending to enemies when the silence descends. The saltshakers tilted, tipped like a sand timer. Mixed with stella and whiskey in the blood, the fuse is lit. Potent and malign so the rational slides the news has spread. The fights happening inside! Be the ropes or be a ref or be off or say yes just know, we’re in a ring. Other than a dealer’s old Mercedes there seems like no escape but the ferryman of Hades. But for a second, in drunk radiance, firecracker blows landing slowly like moon rovers, fists of battered fish bubbling in the neon of a drunken death wish. I’m content, the parties begun. Dawn peels from behind a tree-trapped balloon,

Helium in pink.

Growling louder with lost teeth

When I disappear.

#poetry Poetry

Cows are Ok

You watch the other children play late on the turn of the solstice.

The youngest almost naked scatter amongst the outhouses.

Their pearly skin returning the moonlight, terrifying the horses.

The witches miss their hour,

And the somnambulists stay in bed.

You grumble about bent coppers in a burnt-out trailer,

Surrendering what remains,

Paralysed in a state of an embittered stranger.

A black stream collects in the courtyard as it rains.

The courtyard where I imagined when I first read Animal Farm,

The courtyard where the pigs would address the square with the authority of crows at traffic lights.

I wondered why horses were the only animals to need shoes when they went running,

Cows have hooves and they seemed to be doing ok.


IDLES: Abbey Road Review

By Sebastian Lloyd

In anticipation of their new album ULTRA-MONO, IDLES covered The Strokes, Ramones and The Beatles in 3 live-streamed sets at Abbey Road Studios. On the weekend where IDLES should have been gracing Reading + Leeds with their liveliness it was a pleasure to have a show with such high production values as a nice change from Instagram lives.

Singer Joe Talbot admits before the final song of Set 1 that he is ‘inconsolably nervous.’ Mistakes on unreleased track ‘Kill ‘Em With Kindness’ and ‘Stendhal Syndrome’ only served to endear the band further to the fans in the comments section. There was nowhere to hide in the rehearsal-room-like gig and the tension it created made for a very absorbing performance. The cover of Ramones song ‘I wanna be sedated’ lacked the punk energy of the original in a ballad version that didn’t work but as the band began to settle in the shackles loosened. In Set 2 guitarist Mark Bowen put down his guitar during ‘Love Song’ to sing ‘All You Need is Love’ and ‘Up Where We Belong’. Other guitarist Lee Kiernan snuck off to sit on the bannisters like a child left alone in a mansion.

Few bands have such a crystalline message as IDLES. When I saw them live at OnBlackheath in 2017 there were only about 100 people in the tent but the vehement lyrics and frenetic energy connected with me. They giggled at the middle class contingent of one-day festival goers who had stumbled across their rage. It’s remarkable to see how their music has connected with the nation since then and the best moments of the live streams were when they relished the opportunity for statement. In a rare moment of seriousness in set 3, Joe says ‘Long live the open minded down with the Tory scum,’ before ripping into a version of ‘Divide & Conquer’ which had the band in furious raptures. Even the usually calm drummer Jon Beavis was bouncing with frustrated zeal. ‘Danny Nedelko’ still gleams from their pack of irreverent post-punk cards as an anthem that doesn’t attempt to politicise punk through derision but through empathy.

The cover in Set 2 was a scrappy version of The Strokes song ‘Reptilia’ with lyric ‘You’re in a strange part of our town,’ given a new sinister screech by Joe’s vocals. ‘Model Village’ gives a interesting taste of a refined IDLES sound coming on ULTRA-MONO, but may be one of the few songs that does start to lean towards cliche a little. I noticed the slow songs they played including new song ‘A Hymn’ didn’t work for me apart from ‘Slow Savage’ which drones on a little. It’s saved by the self-deprecating lyrics and mournful melody. They’re a better band when they’re loud, proud and growling.

As guitarist Mark Bowen puts it ‘if the drums are really crashing then you’re going in with that, if the vocalist is really giving it stink you go with that. It’s all kind of about the feeling at the time.’ This isn’t an original approach but there is an authenticity about IDLES post-punk revivalism with a vulnerability at the core of their music. Before playing ‘Benzocaine’ near the end of the final set, Joe dedicates a moment to Guitarist Lee. ‘How many years sober?’ Lee replies ‘8’ before Joe says ‘Thanks very much for looking after us my man.’

The band wear their hearts on their sleeves and it comes across very endearingly throughout the sets. The fury is intense, the emotion is raw and I’m sure any impostor syndrome they had from being in Abbey Road was something that only made them more likeable to old and new fans alike.

IDLES exist as an example that a semi-professional band who have been around for years without getting recognition can break through into the mainstream. The bands closer is at long last a Beatles cover. They miss the first cue to come in and Joe yells ‘keep going!’ while the guitars one staccato note loops alone. Bowen evokes Paul McCartney’s opening scream into a disappointingly quiet mic before the band crash through with searing commotion. ‘Helter Skelter’ is an excellent choice and one of the highlights of the livestream. Joe curls up in the centre of the carpet and screams ‘you might be a lover but you ain’t no dancer,’ in the second chorus and it’s a gleeful crescendo.

The jittery nervousness that circulated initially broke into playful joy. Fans will have relished this pulled back curtain on IDLES. With almost their whole discography on show, it was a daring set-up for the huge sold out tour they’ll play when the curtain comes up on these restrictions. I have got a ticket myself for their final night at Brixton academy next June and I will be shouting for that ‘Helter Skelter’ cover again.


Golden Street

A man sits in his van on Langton way.

He flicks through the sun, squints in the ray.

Every pipe needing plumbing’s been run for the day.

Lets the radio play; Noodles lunchtime Bombay.

Happy feet underneath the seat tap to a trap beat.

Glad to meet the teeth of a big issue athlete.

Concrete below her feet selling sheets by the heath on the high street.

Bittersweet never discreet, job never complete.

With a style never downbeat,

Golden teeth smile that you meet.

Her story unrevealed,

8 years on the street battlefield.

Are these present-day gifts worth the rap?

8 years her big issue not repealed,

High street chains rattle when their dragged.

Coins barely drop from the city handbags.

Credit leaks on account of new price tags.

Same clothes entrap when the cold snaps.

Hope that your coat fully overlaps.

Booby trapped sleeping in a Santa hat.

Laying on the pavement in a lapse,

Deprivation makes homelessness into a weather map.

Its a speed trap at a camera gap,

Got to get some coins in the cap,

Lay them in the lap.

8 years on the street battlefield.

Are these present-day gifts worth the rap?

8 years her big issue not repealed,

High street chains rattle when their dragged.

She sits in an internet café checking her emails,

She still dreams about how she want’s to live.

Empty’s her ashtray before checking every detail.

Outside we’d walk past and watch the cars pass,

Talk about how we wanted to live.

A broken glass trail reflecting her golden teeth like eyes reflected in the sun.



You could describe the last months with reductionist name-calling

But things are going to change whether my attitude or actions are ambiguous to it or not

Today I take breaths to fill the world with life.

M a s sH y s t e r i a

Mass hysteria gurgles with laughter.

Growing fat,

it laps and licks the nectar of our fears, 

but the sweetest fruit bears the most potent poison. 

It’s insides are rotten, fed on gluttony and misinformation, 

it becomes grotesque.

Terrified onlookers weep in dismay

and cry out in confusion.  

“Was it not us in the West that championed ourselves as the keepers of law and order…

Why is this happening to us…?”

We don’t understand…

It was a ******* virus…

Why is it over here…

Please, answer us?” 

Mass hysteria tosses and turns its ugly head

and shrieks in a cacophony of voices,

“Toilet paper, we are running out of toilet paper!”.

@alexandersrage @aflat_white

Written by Jordan Labarr & Seb Lloyd


We were punished,

the perpetrators of said punishment,

now find themselves in a similar position.

They were pitied;

Some things never change.


Jordan Labarr


God’s $$$

IMG_1540 (1)

but what about the value of monetary pleasure?

The irreplaceable individual,

Have you seen how low stocks are?

the way the most vulnerable in society are treated.

In times like these we must act with haste,

Or we risk a recession of humanity.

A time like this,

reflects those at the top,

and humanity; Well,

what about the recession?



Jordan Labarr