Part One: The Definitive Archetypes of Cambridge University

I think if you were to corner a personified Cambridge University, it would try to insist that it is not a bubble. Cambridge would insist it is a community.

What Cambridge actually is, however, is a carefully curated ecosystem of recurring character types who regenerate every October. Here, then, are the first 4 archetypes of Cambridge University, where they probably live, what they say, and why they should frighten you.

The Male Union Hack:

The Union Hack says, “when I chaired”, he uses the phrase “optics” unironically, and with the utmost seriousness. He has, at some point, described something as “a good room” and meant it as the highest possible praise. He went to public school, but in a very leftist, “rebel against the system from within” sort of way, which, conveniently, still involved prefectship and a debating scholarship.

He is usually at Trinity. Occasionally at Peterhouse (if you want Union Hack: Right-Leaning Collector’s Edition). Once every often from a non-central/post-grad college, which the Male Union Hack™ insists was a “strategic application decision” (cough, how’s the summer pool treating you, cough).

He knows everyone. Or at least he believes he does. He refers to Cabinet ministers by their first names despite having met them once, briefly, in the corridor outside a chaotic speaker dinner, stammering whilst clutching a sweaty glass of 9-pound Orator house white. He has a LinkedIn headshot where you can practically hear him finishing a sentence about the benefits of proportional representation. At the same time, a traumatised female fresher nods politely and calculates her escape route.

He will say:

• “I actually think the real issue here is platforming.”
• “The chamber was electric.”
• “It’s not about left or right.”

He does not attend lectures. He attends events. He has never, in his life, queued. He claims to be “exhausted” but has not, in living memory, read a book that was not bound in his hypothetical future political career. His supervision essays are “ongoing.” His degree is “flexible.” See archetype ‘The Shark’ or ‘I’m 30, and I’ve decided to go to JBS’ for the Male Union Hack’s endgame destinations.

The Female Union Hack:

Let me be very clear.

The female Union Hack is one of the most impressive, composed, intellectually formidable women you will ever meet. She has read the briefing pack. All of it. Twice. She has chaired panels where the speakers were twice her age and half her competence. She knows the Standing Orders better than the people who wrote them. She has perfected the art of saying, “With respect,” in a tone that communicates the exact opposite.

Her hair is always neat. Her notes are colour-coded. Her calendar is terrifying. She has never once forgotten a name. She does, in fact, know everyone, and they know her.

She will say:

• “If I may just clarify that point.”
• “That’s not, really, what the documents suggest.”
• “Shall we return to the motion?”

And yes, she may be a bit sexually repressed. But what did you expect? The Union dating pool is essentially a live-action, homoerotic LinkedIn feed.

In ten years’ time, the male Union Hack will be explaining something in upper-middle management, still saying, “When I chaired.” In ten years’ time, she will be running the country.

The Infamous Sidge Girlie:

The Sidge Girlie is powered entirely by two renewable energy sources: the unshakeable conviction that she is the main character, and a raging sense of moral superiority.

She is, I would argue, patient zero of the Cambridge Pick Me Girl, except the ‘otherness’ of a true Sidge Girlie is completely and utterly real. A true Sidge Girlie’s eccentricity is not curated or manufactured; it simply just: is.

She owns at least one tote bag with a slogan that is either faintly politically problematic, faintly sexual or both. She has a separate social media account for photos she takes with her film camera. She has strong feelings about milk (cow or oat?) and even stronger feelings about neoliberalism. She owns a long coat and says she “doesn’t really believe in labels” but has several, academically speaking.

Most Read

The heartbreaking final post MAFS’ Mel Schilling shared before her death was a tragic update

Man who wrote The Lion King song sues comedian for $27m over podcast ‘joke’ and it’s wild

Here are the toys inside the new KPop Demon Hunters McDonald’s meals, revealed

She will tell you she’s “just going to Sidge for a bit”, leave the house in a banging fit and will return four hours later having annotated only half of her reading and having been crushbridged three times (she’s a fan of a situationship, the Sidge girlie.)

Her laptop is covered in stickers. In her spare time, she scopes out the law library for her future husband (to afford that nice four-bedroom house in Kensington on her Pinterest board). She had a brief “rebel against the man” phase, which manifested in one of three ways: a sharp bob haircut, bleached eyebrows (guilty, guilty), or falling catastrophically in love with a fellow Sidge Girlie with an enviable and well-curated Instagram grid.

She is either at Newnham, in which case, despite wearing something faintly risqué and slightly socially inappropriate, she could almost certainly destroy you in a debate within five sentences.

Or she’s at Selwyn (que fur coat), in which case she will still dismantle your debate, but is just slightly more heterosexual. (Marginally. Let’s not get carried away.)

She will say:

• “I’m not making the 11 am.”
• “Can I just be a social member?”
• “That’s capitalism (exasperated).”

She is correct more often than you would like, because beneath the tote bags and the oat milk discourse and the mildly chaotic romantic life is a brain that works at alarming speed. People will roll their eyes at her. They will mock her tote bag. Those same people will quote her in supervision.

The Shark:

You know exactly who this is.

When you read “The Shark,” I can guarantee a face surfaced. Possibly with stubble. Possibly holding a bottle of a 2010 Bordeaux that costs more than you set aside for your termly budget. Possibly saying, “It’s just easier to connect with undergrads, you know? They’re less worn down.”

The Shark is a postgraduate. MPhil, PhD, “just finishing up” (he has been “just finishing up” for three years). And yet…

And yet he is always, inexplicably, at the Freshers’ Fair.

He is “just helping out a friend on the committee.” He is “dropping by pres.” He is “checking out ADC auditions.” He has a pastoral concern for 18-year-olds that feels… proactive. The Shark does not date within his own cohort. He prefers someone who still finds the UL intimidating, or someone who has not yet realised that a PhD is not a personality.

He will say:

• “Age is just a number.”
• “I don’t usually do this.”
• “You’re so mature for a fresher.”

He texts at 1 am. He calls it “intense.” He calls it “connection.” He calls it “complicated.” He does not call it what it is: convenient. You will spot him by the way he hovers slightly too long at college bop entrances. By the way he drools, “What year are you in?” with evaluative interest.

Sometimes, the Shark is suave. Sometimes he is painfully obvious. Sometimes he genuinely believes he is just misunderstood and tragically drawn to “old souls.”

Cambridge is small. The Cam is murky. And the sharks?

Well, they are always circling.

Do you have a Cambridge archetype you’d like to see in The Tab? Message our Instagram @TheCambridgeTab for the chance to see them in the next article!