Cambridge is world renowned for its first-class education and its beautiful architecture – but how about its clubs? Either way, this was to be my initiation into adult life and uni life by finally going to a nightclub. Rumour has it that it would be filled by loud music, drunken dancing and crazed antics: the dark side to the refined scholarly debates of daytime Cambridge.

I'm with a bunch of people I have just met and we've all exchanged typical conversations of ‘Hi, what’s your name?’, followed by questions about course and where they’re from, the endless, tedious small talk recycled countless times over Freshers' Week. Some of us are a little tipsy, others are downright drunk, with the overall attitude of 'yeah, we’re all best mates, we’ve gotten into Cambridge, time to let loose and party.' It’s Sunday night, Cindies (yes, I know Sunday is Life, but we got sold Cindies tickets by our college), and we’re all ready to have a good time.

What came next was somewhat anti-climactic.

I was stuck in a sweaty room barely able to move, shouting my name to random strangers while bobbing along to music from a bygone era that someone was invariably screaming the lyrics to. A bizarre courtship ritual was unfolding before me as the seemingly quiet and reserved people I’d met hours previously break out their dance moves, legs flailing and arms thrashing, keen to make an impression on their fellow freshers. The floor is a sticky mess; someone is trying to squeeze past you, crushing you into the person in front. Drinks are being spilled, toes are being squashed. If this is the ultimate hedonistic student experience, I don’t think I’ve been missing out.

Call me boring or even a killjoy, but endlessly bobbing in time to the music and pretending to be having a good time is insanely tiring. In desperation for a break I struggle over to the bar to try and get a drink, and ordering a drink itself is akin to a Herculean feat, where swarms of people are crowded around the bar being served by bored and apathetic bartenders probably thinking about when they can go home.

By now the club was filled to around maximum capacity, and being squeezed around I had lost all familiar faces and was half-heartedly dancing around a group of strangers. Alcohol levels had increased and so did the overall rowdiness in the club. One boy grabs my arms and moves them in an attempt to make me dance, his slurred speech explaining how moving would make me feel better as it releases endorphins. Only in Cambridge, I think, would I hear that sort of intellectual chat-up line. Feeling confused, alone, tired and awkwardly out of place, I escape the club, and breathe a sigh of relief in the crisp night air.

Outside, concerned members of the Christian Union offer free bottles of water and sandwiches, evidently anticipating drunk freshers who had gone to out too hard in their first Cambridge night out. I accept the water and smile wryly, thinking how my own disappointing experience contrasted with their expectations.

I haven’t written off clubbing entirely, though. With good friends and perhaps in the right state of delirious drunkenness, maybe it will be fun. Either way, it can only get better, right?