The Cambridge clubbing scene may look casual and inclusive, but it's all about self-advertising, says Gabrielle McGuinnessBryan Ledgard

There is a particular sort of existential moment that occurs in Cambridge clubs.

It’s about 2:15am and you’re on the dance floor at Life but wishing you were at Gardies. Perhaps you’ve had one too many tequila shots and the salt has left an uncomfortable burning feeling at the back of your mouth. One of your friends is in the toilet, and you’re walking through the clumps of dancing people to try and find your other friends, all set to that atrocious remix of R Kelly’s ‘Bump n’ Grind’ booming through the scratchy speakers.

You can’t find them, and some lanky fresher keeps shoving into you with their overzealous and off-beat dance moves. Instead of moving away, you just freeze for a moment, absorb your surroundings, and ask yourself: “Why on earth did I agree to come here?”

Whether you’re a Turf goer, devout Wednesday Cindies follower, or a lover of Thursday Lola’s, clubbing in Cambridge is uncomfortably image-conscious. Nights out are like job interviews or networking events for many. It’s a sort of ‘Cinderella shall go to the ball’ moment in which the studious student beavering through their work in the day becomes a loquacious socialite by night, only to have the dream whipped away from under your feet by the unwelcome sound of the next morning’s alarm and the sweaty rush to a 9am lecture.

“There will be club photos to feature in or snapchats to take, people to flirt and friends to dance with”

In theory, nightlife is liberating. The techno scene or early rave culture was able to provide a space where one’s identity could slip away: sexuality, gender, race, class, or religion could be forgotten for a moment. Music, or at least drugs, meant no one noticed these things. Music, drugs and booze are hardly absent from Cambridge clubbing – yet who you are, who you know, what you do, and what college you attend seem to make a regular appearance.

I understand that clubbing is an incredibly voyeuristic activity regardless of the location. We put a lot of effort into selecting our outfits and preening ourselves in front of a mirror because we know we will be watched. There will be club photos to feature in or snapchats to take, people to flirt and friends to dance with. This is not unique to Cambridge. But there is the added sense that the social circles that we move within are incredibly claustrophobic. Moments of successful escapism are rare.

Strategic conversations in smoking areas and careful groupings on the dance floor are the mainstays of Cambridge nightlife. There are different nights associated with sports teams, drinking societies, and the Union committee, and on some nights certain colleges will invade specific areas of a club. I’ve found some incredible friends here whom I hope to remain in close contact with for years to come, but this doesn’t stop the Cambridge nightlife scene as a whole from feeling suffocating: on nights out, the conversations and friendships we have at Cambridge turn into forms of self-advertising.

Unlike my hometown where clubbing involves high heels and a lot of preparation, here anyone, regardless of gender, can just rock up to Kuda in jeans, a pair of trainers, and a T-shirt. Even this in itself is a social expectation. Flirting in most other places is pretty overt, sometimes uncomfortably so. Somehow Cambridge has managed to transform it into a subtle academic art form with its own unsettlingly self-conscious code of etiquette. I’m not exactly saying conversation transforms from an in-depth analysis of Theresa May’s approach to handling Brexit to sexual innuendo, but this is not far from the truth. It is as though we spend too much time in supervisions so that the only form of communication we feel comfortable with is either intellectual or about Cambridge. 

Granted, the dynamics change over the years: freshers are eager to branch outside their college friendships and spread their wings to uncharted territory. For the most part this is due to many VKs and a lot of self-consciousness. Second years have established connection with first and third years while they’ve also got the enviable position of knowing that their grade at the end of the year is of little importance. Third year has been a nice escape from the social pressure since friendship groups have been consolidated, but this in itself relies on a basis of networking over their first two years here. The whole thing is a form of self-advertisement.

Take the recent ArcSoc Cabaret night: tickets seemed to sell out faster than Glastonbury. It is a fun night, but the tickets did not disappear so quickly because the event rivals a globally famous festival. Rather, they did so because people want to be seen there. They want to be seen wearing the most elaborate and creative fancy dress they will probably spend atrocious amounts of money on. And the photo needs to go on Facebook, ideally to be a credible profile picture.

I’m as guilty of all my claims as anyone, which is why I feel fairly certain about making them. But it’s not all bad: there’s always not going, not caring, or drinking till it stops mattering.