Ticketbridge: the highest stage of capitalism

In the manic market of Ticketbridge, Lucas Pringle reflects on the lengths we will go to secure a night out

Lucas Pringle

Was it worth it?Instagram: @vinylcambridge

At a university where library desks are a second home, and where isolation is laughed at as ‘what we signed up for’, the Cambridge Facebook pages play an integral role in university life, offering small communal windows into the lives of the student body. Yet putting aside the forlorn love songs of Crushbridge and Camfess’s secret confessions (and overused memes), Ticketbridge will always be my virtual home.

At first glance it appears to be just a ticket exchange, but it is truly the marketplace of our age. Yet Ticketbridge doesn’t have the energy of a calm weekend grocery stall, but rather the desperate chaos of the stock exchange, the frenetic energy of the bazaar. To look deep into this page is to understand the sheer desperation that Cambridge nightlife can cause.

The stories, of course, are familiar. You are ‘that guy/girl’: Fez lineup for the next five-to-eight months memorised, in depth knowledge of boiler-room performances with >5000 views, a zany pair of sunglasses ready for any moment. But when it comes to the big day, you find the college rep is MIA. Your wrist is undeniably wristbandless. After so many nights listening to ‘NOW that’s what I call Oxbridge!’ anthems, pretending to have a good time, the thought of missing a guaranteed ‘sick night’ is unbearable. With hours to go, only one option remains. Facebook is opened and the Ticketbridge begging begins.

“To look deep into this page is to understand the sheer desperation that Cambridge nightlife can cause”

But alas, the marketplace is in anarchy. You scan over the desperate calls – “Fourteen Cindies Tickets please!!” – knowing that in some room in Cambridge (with a pres in motion), your fellow Cantabrigians are praying for deliverance over Facebook messenger. It’s time to thrust yourself into the market, screaming for someone to make that sale. You write your first draft:

“Two cindies tickets. £10”

You suddenly know how your supervisor must feel each week, looking in disgust at your work. How can you hope to catch a seller’s eye with such bland and inoffensive information? Drawing on the ‘takes themed nights too seriously’ energy within you, you try again:

“!!!DESPERATE!!! in need of two of your finest cindies tickets sir/madam, one for myself and the other to finally bring [insert here your preferred ‘partner in sesh’] on a night out, god help us. £123,456,789”

You gaze at your creation, and see the smile form in your own Mona Lisa. The semi-ironic tone eloquently disguises your desperate desire to buy overpriced jaegerbombs listening to tech-house, and the comedically large price is sure to impress all readers with your wit. But masterpieces require masterstrokes, and you need these tickets. Yet do you dare go the extra step? Do you test the limits of ‘Cambridge irony’? The voices of past alumnus whisper in your ear: be the visionary your college wants you to be, change the paradigm, break the mould!


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And so with the deft hands of a prodigy and an entirely misplaced sense of confidence, you attach a photo of yourself wearing wacky glasses.

It’s perfect. There is nothing more to say or add – it’s uploaded, and after securing the tickets in a hastily performed bank transfer, you head out into the night…


A night that can charitably be called underwhelming is recalled in drips as you check your pockets. No Camcard, no ID, no coat, no keys, no phone, no wallet, no recollection of awful decisions and questionable amounts of dignity remain in your possession. But ultimately, this is no problem.

You crack your fingers and open your laptop.

“[LOST ITEMS] pleeeeeeeeeaaaase help a cindies legend out :((((((( £98765431242069”

And thus the marketplace rages on.