I have to start by saying that this was the most overpriced hotel I’ve ever stayed in! When I arrived, it looked nice enough from the outside, slightly like the Barbican on steroids, but that didn’t bother me, because I did grow up in one of the ugliest towns in northwest England. What I didn’t know when I checked into Hotel Murray Edwards was that I’d be spending much more time in my room than I was expecting, but given the extortionate room prices, that was an advantage.

“... no amount of Pinterest worthy decor was going to stop me from feeling like my room was HMP Medwards”

The room itself was fine. It was just fine. It had a bed. It had a desk. It had windows. It had a sink (which I may or may not have occasionally had a wee in so I’m glad it was a deep sink). On that note, why is it when I have a wee in my sink when I’m not in self-isolation, I’m “disgusting” and “unhygienic”, but when I wee in my sink when I’m self-isolating, I’m “heroic” and “saving my household from COVID”?!? Anyway. I was allowed to decorate the room according to my personal tastes, so naturally, that included fairy lights, photos of me and my friends (to prove to everyone on my Zoom lectures that yes, it’s true, I have friends) and a tasteful Mandala tapestry from Etsy, as seen in the bedroom of every teenage girl attempting to look like she’s edgy™. However, after a total of four weeks of self-isolation spent in my room, no amount of Pinterest worthy decor was going to stop me from feeling like my room was HMP Medwards.

Meanwhile, the kitchen was, in the words of one famous Scottish mother of YouTube fame, DISGOSTENG. In fact, I was overjoyed when I had to self-isolate, because at least it meant I no longer had to pick penne pasta out of the plughole before I washed up. Instead, I was provided with a mini-fridge, kettle and microwave, which ensured that I was able to exclusively live off Sainsbury’s ready meals, microwaved pasta and rubbery mug cakes. Still, it was better than the e coli I would have contracted from the kitchen. Overall, though, I thought the accommodation was a satisfactory place to spend my self-isolation - even if the cuisine was so malnutritious that I now have a Vitamin B12 deficiency - although I do wonder if I would have had a nicer (cheaper) stay at the Premier Inn down the road.

“I missed the sweaty sweating sweatiness of Friday Fez more than I ever thought possible”

However, something I was UNSATISFIED with at Murray Edwards was everything else apart from my accommodation. Firstly, the entertainment was not to my taste. I was expecting more of a social life than going for “nighttime walks” on Jesus Green with a maximum of five friends. I did not like waving forlornly at friends from my window. I did not appreciate the pure faff of pre-booking every pub or restaurant I wanted to go to so that I only managed to get to the pub three times in four weeks. I missed the sweaty sweating sweatiness of Friday Fez more than I ever thought possible. I missed studying* (*eating cake) in coffee shops.

It only went downhill even more when the lockdown started - how am I supposed to select one friend at a time to go for a walk with? Having to tell one friend that I was going for a walk with another friend so I couldn’t go for a walk with them made me feel like Boris picking which advisor he wanted to sack and which one he wanted to save. I never knew whether I was Cummings or going and I’m not gonna lie to you, it wasn’t a Priti sight. And I appreciate that all this was not Murray Edwards’ fault, but as is the gold standard for disgruntled TripAdvisor reviewers, I will still blame them for every single thing that went wrong anyway because I love scapegoating people for my misfortunes more than Camfess loves Stephen Toope memes. Overall, then, poor entertainment. I knew my social life had taken a turn for the worse when, during my second bout of self-isolation, I started to scream at strangers out of my window, just to feel something. But I did not feel anything. COVID had not just deprived me of my sense of taste and smell: it also deprived me of emotions. I don’t want to make this the Hunger Games of COVID Induced Suffering, but if it was, I’d be Peeta: a sexually frustrated, blonde sadboi, yearning for friends.

Still, for all of my grumbles, my stay at Hotel Murray Edwards was somewhere between yellow and crimson phases on the Cambridge University Traffic Light COVID-19 system. Michaelmas term was memorable in its own way, if not in a way that I want to remember until I’m at least forty and have forgotten enough of it to remember it nostalgically. I had some fun. I cried. I laughed. I howled. I became proficient at wearing the same pair of M&S thongs for three days because I wasn’t allowed out of my room to do my laundry in self-isolation. I am now an expert in microwaving pasta (I offer video tutorials on OnlyFans for the low low price of £27), although I still haven’t quite mastered mug cakes. I suppose I’d recommend it, if you like solitude, Sainsbury’s ready meals and 1960s brutalist architecture. Otherwise, I’d recommend cryogenically freezing yourself and being defrosted in October 2021, ripe and ready to start Michaelmas afresh.

OVERALL RATING: 6.5/10