As a Cambridge resident, I am painfully aware of the state of its nightlife—both through experiencing it myself and working in clubs. When I paid a visit to my hometown last term, I was tricked into attending Sunday night Life at Kuda: a night for Cambridge University students, aptly named due to the evening’s capacity for making me feel as if mine was no longer worth living. Upon paying entry, my first impression of the bleak, unassuming venue was one of overwhelming despair and regret. The dank, harsh reddish lighting, the faux-plush décor, the hordes of post-crewdate hedonists, decked out in flashy suits, and pathetic fancy dress desperately grinding on one another: it all made me feel sick to my stomach.The music was widely varied.
From The Lion King, which led me to the disturbing conclusion that an infantile obsession with Disney was considered acceptable among Cambridge students, to Icona Pop’s ‘I Love It’, a Number One I hadn’t had the displeasure of hearing since spending most of summer 2013 in the gym in a vain attempt to impress my girlfriend, who had in fact been cheating on me the whole time. This brought back less than pleasant memories. When a venue claims to have a ‘smoking terrace’, I don’t believe it’s unreasonable to expect a pleasant(ish) rooftop area where everyone can have a chit-chat about memes and the sesh, conveniently forgetting they’re vastly increasing their risk of cancer. Not the fucking back alley of Waterstone’s: a side street that for permanent residents is distinguishable only for its abnormally high levels of public urination.
If you’re going to take the Cellar approach, by all means—just don’t lie to me. It’s insulting. I thought I had hit rock bottom when the DJ repeatedly interrupted Katy Perry’s ‘Firework’ to shout “Cambridge Uni!” to lukewarm cheers from the crowd. Then ‘Blurred Lines’ came on. Watching the primitive, drunken mob crudely mash their body parts against one another whilst they perfectly lip-synced the lyrics crushed my spirit. Less than an hour had passed before I cut my losses and fled. Attempting to give myself some nostalgia to remedy my traumatic state, I indulged in a portion of cheesy chips: a staple of any Oxford night out. I was charged £2.50 for a small portion. Are you fucking joking?! Hassan’s would be disgusted. Bunch of pricks. Cambridge is shit.