Living in Thame, Oxfordshire
Written by Anonymous Visitor and posted in Oxfordshire

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.

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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.