Bodie A. Ashton

Oh my gosh yes

I’m sorry but Soto’s.

However, for nostalgia and though it’s not there any more, the Parade Fish and Chip Shop in Norwood was perfection incarnate.

A woman with a dirty blonde bob and wearing a dark jumper with grouse (?) on it sits at a table in a fish and chip shop and holds a half-eaten chip.

Speaking of mum, chips, and Whitby, have all three in this photo that I bloody adore.

Missing you, mum.

Mum would’ve approved, except she would’ve wanted me to take the trek down to Semaphore, where the chips are basically solidified grease and you’ll earn that indigestion with the best fish and chips this side of Whitby.

Bringing back memories of getting a bucket of chips at the Adelaide Aquatic Centre after swimming lessons, and drenching it in cupfuls of the stuff. Glorious.

A true Australian classic. Chips are not right without it.

It’s a fish and chips night. Chicken salt and malt vinegar obviously.

Love that (I’m pretty sure) the guy who has been low-effort stalking me for over a decade has decided to return just while I’m grieving the loss of a parent.

Go fuck yourself Winston.

Bluesky user “antibigbro” writes: “Very disgusting indeed, and this is why America chose Trump.”

You heard it first here: I’m responsible for Trump because I *checks notes* exist.

I’m having not the best time lately so this is really heartening. Wishing you all the power and Pride!

Okay, mum. I suppose it’s time.

This morning was 3.30. It’s now 5. There’s no coffee shop open for another 90 minutes.

Today I need to formally identify the body. No wonder I can’t get back to sleep.

I am awake at 5am to continue writing a eulogy and I am so afraid that I will not do this justice.

Two people stand on the ramparts of a castle. On the left is a blond man with a moustache, wearing a dark blue sailing jacket and scarf, smiling as he puts his arm around the woman next to him. She has reddish hair, and is wearing a sleeveless blue jacket and a white top. Behind them are verdant green forests. They look happy.

Vale June Stella Ashton (18 March 1952 - 23 July 2025). I’m sorry I could not get there in time, mum, and I’m sorry you never got to come back here to visit again. But this photo of you and dad will always make me smile. I wish I could have a cuppa with you when I get there.

Be safe.

Gonna listen to Mike Batt’s The Hunting of the Snark because the Snooker Song never fails to make me laugh, even now. Maybe when I get to my childhood bedroom I’ll read the Thomas the Tank Engine compendium. And you can’t stop me, you dead-eyed soulless ghouls.

This goes for most media. I can’t stand people who will insist that others have to grow up or out of things they love. My folks are dying, I’m going to watch the entirety of Thunderbirds while I fly over because it’s my comfort. I really don’t care that someone thinks that’s “childish” for my age.

Sometimes I feel like I’m doing remarkably well under the circumstances, but I’ve just spent about 80 minutes putting on one sock, so perhaps “well” is an exaggeration.

Just for those of you playing at home: I’ve the best friends, absolutely gorgeous people, and I do not deserve them but I’m sure glad they haven’t twigged to that yet 💜

I’m yelling this here I guess because I’m at a total loss; I don’t know what to do, I probably can’t anyway, and there isn’t anything to be done. I’ve spent most of the last 24 hours on phone calls repeating the same things. They don’t make anything better but it feels like something.

Yesterday, I got off the phone with the hospital telling me my mum probably has days to live, to find I’d missed calls from the ward where my dad is to say he probably has weeks to live. I need to get back and have no means to do so.

Chat, what the fuck is this and how are we meant to endure it.

Matt Walsh: “I hate living somewhere that looks nice and habitable, and that’s how I know I am A Man.”

This is an important piece from a senior Holocaust scholar (who grew up in Israel and is an IDF veteran), and it’s important that it’s published in the NYT.

Grief is a terrible fucking thing, especially grief without that most hated word: “closure.” It just sneaks up on you and then out of nowhere you’re empty and inconsolable.

happy non-binary people's day

send your non-binary friends money and/or love today we are not doing great

Adams is a fascinating case study in that his crowning achievement was a comic strip that bravely declared that bosses are bad (and might have silly hair), and somehow this makes him an Oracle of the Ages.

And then, of course, if you concede that, even in the most melodramatically catastrophic hypotheticals, then they can move the goal posts. What if it wasn’t nuclear war, but Napalm? What if the trans person was mean to you? How about if the sex abuser was a Very Important Person?

Like, we should absolutely ridicule these jerks but it’s worth keeping in mind that they’re not just making such stupid claims for nothing. Instead they want to establish, however tenuously, that sometimes it *would* be acceptable to be openly racist, transphobic…or in this case be a paedophile.

Exactly the same energy as the “intellectuals” who’d run Twitter thought experiments like “a nuclear war is about to happen and the only way to stop it is by saying the n-word and misgendering trans people.”

Ahh I see we’re here again.

A grey and white cat, Bucky, is lying on a colourful blanket, her head upside down. She is holding a paw toward the camera so the front field of vision is dominated by exceedingly cute pink toe beans.

If you’re having a bit of a blue night, here’s Bucky being perfect to help cheer you up.