Steer clear of Cindies

Why do we even bother

Cambridge Cindies Clubbing column failure Life university

Upon my re-entry to the magical streets of Cambridge this year, I was quietly confident in my newly asserted ability to ‘do life’. This time round, Freshers’ Week was to be a mix of nostalgia and irony, rather than the shit-show of emotions and confusion I experienced as a first year.

Poor, innocent fresher

I was gloriously deluded.

Clearly summer had been just too long, as I found myself despairing once more at things I thought I had gotten used to. Within twenty four hours of being here I had somehow undergone a kind of devolution; all of my second year savvy withered away. I was constantly exhausted, having far too many feelings, and was back on the phone to my mother on a twice-daily basis.

Right in the feelings

It was during one of these phone calls to said mother that I was given an ultimatum – either I start sacrificing my extra-curriculars, or I give up da clurb.

I weighed up the pros and cons, and even got to the point of drafting a few flaky emails. I was ready to start pulling myself out of all sorts of committees that I had eagerly signed up for last year and since lost interest in. But then it occurred to me – I had lost the most interest in da clurb.

I envy you parD animals who can swan into 9ams on a Thursday with hair that has been washed, underwear that is fresh, and dignity that is undamaged. If I was one of you, I wouldn’t have to be writing this now. However, that’s not me. When I have been up on that dance floor, lack of sleep alone puts me out of action for most of the following day. Mix that up with an unhealthy dose of Aldi’s finest gin, a horribly heaving to-do list, and some self-indulgent morning-after melancholy music, and you are left with a human being so incapable of doing life that the simple act of waking up feels like a mammoth effort, let alone summoning the wherewithal to actually attend a lecture.

Sometimes, the club is an unattainable goal

And what’s it all for? The banging tunez? The hot boiz? The cheap VKz? We are all aware that Cindies isn’t even legally allowed to play the full length of said banging tunez, and I’ve been through all the hot boiz within my reach, who were actually never very hot to start with. And as for the cheap VKs, I will never trust them after I made a rogue outing to Cindies one Saturday, and was unknowingly charged £4.50 for one.

Betrayed by the booze

To all you who are sat crying at your computer screens at the idea of never seeing me again in the smoking area, never fear: realistically, one can never give up the Cambridge clubs entirely.

Who could ever give this up

There’s just something too good about being somewhere where Mambo no. 5 is not the most ridiculous song on the playlist, and where you can dance awfully with that slightly weird girl from lectures who you’ll then have awkward eye contact with for the rest of the term. But the days of my bi, if not tri-weekly journeys out into the night are over.

Though ask me in a few essay crises time, because I will have probably changed my mind.