Thame, our little wildcard, nestled at the foot of the Chilterns is slowly being overrun by chain stores, overtly gregarious Polish men in doner kebab vans enticing already faintly obese middle-aged men to their early deaths by mystery meats, and a cancerously prolific abundance of very mediocre Asian restaurants and takeaways that all taste the same with ever ingeniously hidden signs displaying their substandard hygiene ratings. And now the staple diet of Thamensian residents; dominoes. I call it the Dominoes effect, fomenting the ever growing feud between it and the Pizza Parlour.
Alas, the knob and balls of the little boy statue at the war memorial is long gone, a telling parallel to the excess of liberals and bollockless ‘men’ that wear very tight jeans and probably front an Indie band called ‘Pretentious, whiney-voiced Music Taste’ and have a local crowdfunder that gained no momentum.
Interestingly, the town doubles up as an animal concentration camp, the whimpers of marketed cattle at the ever more irrelevant cattle market help keep us twinned with a town we’ve never heard of somewhere in France and remind the oxymoronic pompous resident vegans why they’re validated.
In the small world of Thame, the political and social concerns are equally as small; the shenanigans of the legendary Tescos development proposal, the heartwarming ‘save the elms’ campaign, the riveting annual duck race, the glitzy fair, and the absolute banger that is music in the park; it’s hip and happening in Thame, and if you dare suggest otherwise we’ll force you to visit here to see for yourself.
We’re a bible-bashing bunch, the annual Christian ‘lighthouse’ event helps us remind ourselves that we’re not completely alone, as we come together to shriek ‘Jesus is my superhero!’ in innumerable repetitions in a rather large tent. Works a charm in keeping Jesus as far away from Thame as possible if his second coming does now ever occur.
We have a leisure center that has changed owners more times than fingers can count, although the tad inbred Thame folk might manage with that. The stench of piss, chlorine and misery is great for a morning work-out in the TLC gym, complete with an amazing view over the luscious green, English hills of an AstroTurf, not to be missed for you sightseers.
Now it’s not all bad, the yearly carnival is a top event, lasting a grand total average of five minutes. Proving unanimously that us Thame folk can honestly put on quite the show beyond the bedstead, replete with all the exotic trappings of an out-of-service bus plastered with tinsel and an obscure ad for the local scaffolding company. If you want to dodge a barrage of pens with telephone numbers for the local solicitors thrown at you from the far summit of some abhorrent, barely moving continent that appears to be off Scrapheap challenge, flanked by party-popper brandishing transvestites smothered in sequins, this is the event for you.
The Big Issue is the biggest issue for us busybodies, as more often than not the daily struggle culminates at Swan Walk, with not making eye-contact with the apparently deprived guilt-tripping distributors of the famed reading material that nobody has actually read beyond a brief glance-over of the front cover. At least it’s safe to say the lads at the tip have something to read as a pastime.
Our Mayor(s) (that nobody has ever seen) are the pioneering forces of the on-goings of the town, making tectonic decisions such as the colour scheme of our pointless flagpole that never has a flag flying, and sheepishly anointing the compulsively house proud victors of Thame in bloom. Yes, those mysterious ribbon-cutting, Prosecco swilling, red-faced, probable tax evaders are quite the characters that nobody looks up to, but are nevertheless an ‘absolute credit’ to the township and obviously are only in the job to wear that absolute cracker of a gold necklace.
Our market day is not one to overlook, a host of lucrative paraphernalia is conglomerate there; most namely polystyrene gnome garden statues, spiderman themed towels and counterfeit rolexes are of no shortage in what appears to the untrained eye to be a gypsy encampment, maybe it is? Who knows. What we do know is that is a low-key haven for ‘drug dealers’ selling rizlas and assorted herbs allegedly from Asda.
Please come to Thame, the gene pool is rapidly stagnating.