Why a Cambridge term is basically Love Island
I mean they’re both 8 weeks
So the experts have spoken, and it turns out being a nerd doesn't actually pay off. Apparently, surviving the long fight of a Love Island series can pocket you £1.1m in average lifetime earnings, whilst a Cambridge degree cashes in at a measly £815,000.
If I'm honest, I'm not really sure how to make anyone feel better about this travesty, but I am going to try. Wade your way through the other 482450 hot takes and listen to me, and me only: a Cambridge term is a series of Love Island.
And we do three series' per year. Talk about a determined work ethic.
Dear Economists and PrettyLittleThing.com, I demand a re-evaluation of our lifetime earnings and a sponsorship deal immediately. Preferably 20% off with the code HOLLIE20 at the checkout. Attached is a weekly breakdown of my Cambridge term, which, as you will soon see, highlights how similar College life is to the villa. I accept payment via online transfer, cheque or wad of cash. Many thanks.
Week 0 in Cambridge is the equivalent of the release of each Islander's introduction video via Facebook. Except in my case, it is the release of my Personal Statement to several laughing academics.
"Dear Sir or Madam, my name is Hollie and I've had a passion for literature since I was birthed from the womb.
Shaking things up in the Vil–er, I mean, Cambridge, is my middle name. Ahah, it's not really my middle name! Ha. Hum. Anyway, for instance, I once said I thought Shakespeare was overrated. I then quickly retracted that when no-one in the room appeared to agree."
As you can see, I have established my entertainment persona to be both #relatable and controversial. Plus, my profile picture has a few likes so I think that means people can tolerate my face for at least 0.5 seconds.
It's time to enter the….College accommodation. I collect my keys from the Porter, wearing last summer's Primark bikini, and strut down the halls with my bright pink suitcase.
I unlock my new room and I'm horrified to discover not a double bed nor ice lolly wallpaper in sight? Thank god I brought my own. What am I supposed to do with a bookshelf?
Flash forward a few hours, and you'll find me in Lola's. It doesn't have a fire pit, but it does feel sort of…tropical, you know? The perfect place to couple up with Graham the Medic from Caius.
"Look Graham, I am happy with you but I do think I could be happier."
"Sorry who are you again? I'm just in here to pick up some bread I don't kn–"
"Ugh, I knew you would take this the wrong way. FINE. If you want the honest truth I've matched with someone fitter on Tinder and I really do see us getting married and having three children in the next year or so. Sorry, that's just the way it is."
Just screamed "I'VE GOT A TEXT" in the middle of a lecture. Turns out no one actually cares.
Can't stop starting every conversation with "day dot" and ending with "haha, yeah, I'm really laying it on factor 50 THICK this week. Amirite."
I really, quite genuinely, do not know what this means. But if I gain anything from series one of three, it is to be a tan, which factor 50 most definitely cannot achieve. I have purchased several bottles of fake tan, which slot into my bookshelf perfectly.
Oh yeah, and this week I'm coupled up with Terrence the Master's student from John's (love an older man, so mature). He was seeing my best friend last week, but Terrence says he's the happiest he's been in days with me. My pal hasn't spoken to me all week so I think that means she's okay with it.
Terrence has buggered off to Casa Amor (Oxford) for a few days and I think he's cheating on me. Have decided to crack on with Graham again.
I receive a Facebook notification. It's an invite to a panel discussion: "Brexit and the Future of the Trees". I click maybe.
Being the only single one on my staircase is really taking its toll. All my neighbours are so happy. I can see it. I can hear it through the paper thin walls at 3am.
I decide to go to the beach hut diary room thing, then I remember we don't have one, so I perform a dramatic monologue to my supervisor in essay form instead. I receive a 2.2. "Gold star, but what does grafting have to do with 1890's aestheticism?"
My best friend's been voted off the series (gone home for the weekend).
Hopelessly bored, I send myself on a date. There's not a single Ferrari, sunset or hot air balloon in sight. Shocked and appalled, I leave the pub in tears.
Decided to get back with pub boy again. Can't remember his name, but at this point we are days away from leaving, and I have to at least pretend I'm in love to confidently secure the means to forget about my £50,000 of debt. Or at the very worst, to convince my mum I've met my husband here.
Have discovered that there are no winners here. Just a consolation prize of something called a reading list? And bags of….sleep deprivation under my eyes.
On the plus side, I gained 2 followers on Instagram. I now have 24 people who are ROOTING for my sponsorship deal. Please.