Thame is the pit stop for surrounding areas, the ugly inbetweener, the lonely third wheel, the commuter’s choice between Oxford, MK and London. It serves its purpose as a literal stepping stone — having often being mistaken as an island: knee-deep submerged in the cowshit tainted flood plains that encompass the place.
In Thame, the folks are very white, horse riding, and often lower middle class; they all eat at Prezzo, tend to do yoga — and pretend to be higher class than they really are.
They shun the fringe estates like Van Diemans, and enslave the abundance of chavs & plastic roadmen who make up bricklayers and failed white-van-man driving cowboy builders and landscapers, who unsurprisingly love to throw bricks at the local gypsies.
In the evenings you’ll often be able to hear and appreciate the speeding, moped-riding delinquents letting out their insecurities through the revving roar of their compensating-for-something large exhaust pipes and the rambunctious whiteness of their overplayed contemporary music taste. It is undoubtedly a mating call to the horny excess of materialistic white-trash bimbos and single yummy-mummies that crawl the guttural streets; often congregating outside martins or having a fag at the bus stop, twiddling their thumbs and still holding out for a hero. Also known as the dead-end rags-to-riches concept that they’ll get a man to pay for their downtrodden ruins; unfortunately, not even the national trust would take that offer.
On better days, you may see a Wiggo in the Co-op café giving out a cheeky smile through the bird s**t encrusted window as you pass by. Not to be missed if you’re a single lady.
Alternatively, the car-that-daddy-bought-for-me white hoes and fake nirvana-plaid-shirt wearing indie girls that take a fine art degree at Oxford and probably have a Zumba subscription, prowl the aisles of Waitrose looking vainly for “Mr Right” — sitting smugly outside Costa, with a caffeine-induced bloodshot stare brimming with sexual tension and self-deprecation. Not to forget their poorly dyed, batshit blue hair and butterfly ankle tattoos, intentionally exposed wrist cuts and self-made lovebites; that really shows their virtuous, christian true colours. They’ll often proclaim themselves as more “edgy” than you and as a “nineties kid” — but were really born in ’96 and onward, and know sweet f*ck all about the period.
It really is a one-of-a-kind, incestual clusterfuck. A queer crossroads between people who go to Oxford and people who go to Aylesbury College; there is few and far between in Thame, the town even has a convenient wall around it to keep the swine inside. Steer clear.