Here are the six types of people you’ll definitely meet in your seminar at King’s

Seminars at King’s aren’t really about academic debate, they’re about survival. Surviving the awkward silences, the people who clearly did the reading and will make it known to everyone, or the ones who definitely didn’t but still manage to talk for ten minutes straight.

They’re also where you learn that enthusiasm can be just as dangerous as ignorance. One wrong “I actually thought it was quite interesting” and you’ve volunteered yourself for a five-minute back-and-forth you didn’t want. The tutor keeps smiling, the clock barely moves, and you start questioning why you ever chose this degree in the first place. It’s less about the reading and more about the quiet skill of pretending to care convincingly enough to make it to the end of the hour.

Whether you’re sat in Bush House trying to look engaged in your criminally timetabled 9am, or attempting to get a word in now that you’ve finally done your reading for once, the same cast of characters always turn up. If you can’t tell which one you are, don’t worry…the tutor probably can.

The overachiever 

They’ve done every reading, complete with annotations and are somehow always ten steps ahead of the tutor themselves. They talk with a kind of controlled chaos halfway between a lecture and a live-streamed inner monologue. They don’t just answer the question; they build an entirely new one, referencing scholars you didn’t know existed and you can’t tell whether they’re showing off or just genuinely excited to be there.

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In other words, they’re exactly the type of person you convince yourself you’re going to be at the start of each semester. Either way, you definitely hold a soft spot for them because when the seminar goes quiet, you always find yourself praying for them to start talking again. It’s their world; you’re just there for attendance marks.

The politician

This person doesn’t contribute so much as deliver statements. Every point sounds like it’s been rehearsed complete with pauses and hand gestures. They’ll link anything back to the state of the country, often beginning with “It’s interesting because, in society today…”. To make matters worse being in London only fuels them.

Suddenly, every reading ties neatly to Westminster, the tube strikes, or a protest they “accidentally” walked past on the way to Strand Campus. You could be discussing Aristotle, and they’ll still find a way to mention the prime minister. It’s exhausting and impressive in equal measure. You can already picture the campaign posters twenty years from now and honestly, you’d probably vote for them.

The one-hit wonder

They appeared once, said something brilliant and vanished into thin air. The tutor still remembers them fondly, like an ex-student who moved on to better things. “You know, Tom made a really good point about references,” they’ll say, and everyone nods solemnly, pretending to recall it. Their seat sits empty every week, untouched, but somehow sacred.

You start to romanticise them as a myth and legend, proof that engagement once existed. You start to wonder what happened to them, maybe they transferred, maybe they overslept or maybe they just knew when to quit. They’ve achieved what everyone secretly wants: The perfect ratio of effort to impact, once and done.

The one who’s always late 

Their excuse changes weekly. From the Jubilee line to the Northern line and “signal failures at Waterloo”. But the outcome is always the same: They breeze in 20 minutes late, matcha in hand, completely unbothered. You’d think it would annoy you, but there’s something strangely peaceful about their certainty that time will simply wait.

They drop their bag, whisper “sorry,” and somehow still find a seat without disturbing anyone too much. The tutor pauses politely and then continues as if nothing happened. You know that if you woke up late, you’d probably just stay at home, but it’s hard to resent someone so effortlessly at ease and unbothered. They’re living proof that time is just a suggestion, not a rule.

The tutor’s favourite 

Now they’ve really cracked the code. They laugh at the right moments, ask perfectly timed questions and somehow make the tutor’s decade-old research sound ground breaking. Their comments are measured, articulate and never too long, a skill the rest of you could only dream of.

The tutor remembers their name, quotes them in feedback and probably waves when they pass them in the corridor. You tell yourself it’s not that deep, but every week you watch it happen again. It’s fine. You’re not jealous. You’re not thinking of that reference obviously. You just wish you’d got there first.

The existential crisis 

Week one they were keen. By week five they were coping. By week eleven they’re a silhouette. They sit at the back, laptop closed, eyes glazed over and occasionally nodding to appear conscious. Every seminar becomes part of the weekly grind. They’re not disruptive, just exhausted. When asked a question directly, they give the faintest smile, the universal student signal for “please don’t.”

Everyone can relate, even if no one admits it. They might not contribute much, but their energy says it all; they’ve accepted that with all the deadlines, pages of reading and 9ams, academia is just another endurance sport. And somehow, that makes them the realest person in the room.