It’s no revelation that practically no-one enjoys clubbing. We tell ourselves that we will at pre-drinks, of course we do, but the truth is that once we’re there, we quickly get bored and tired. A successful clubber is a confident clubber, who can somehow appear social even inside what is essentially a sweaty box of deafening sound. They know how to dance, what to wear, and even what to do with the arm that isn’t attached to a drink or draped around the person they’ve decided is their new best friend. This is not your average Cantab.

I first went to Cindies in Freshers’ Week after matriculation dinner, where I had the largest quantity of port I’d ever drunk in my life (i.e. any at all). I was in the faze of inebriation in which you just sort of stare at inanimate objects with a dreamy, contented smile on your face, and also probably try to high-five the bathroom mirror. But when a sudden, dramatic mash-up of the Pirates of the Caribbean themetune came on, complete with streaks of strobe lighting, I sobered up instantly. I enjoy boardgames and name my soft toys, but even I am too cool for this. We left shortly afterwards.

Despite the well-known naffness of the Cambridge clubbing scene, we all love it a little bit. I’m sure I can’t be the only one who would defend it: we are, after all, the students who flood to college bops and complain that we have 9am lectures over jaegarbombs at Fez. I imagine it’s the kind of thing where we moan about how much crazier/cooler/cheaper clubbing is at home to each other, but God forbid anyone from home should sneer at Cindies.

And clubbing at home – in my case, Manchester – is a far cry from the cheesy-but-fun vibe of Cindies (or the Van of Life, for that matter). After pre-drinking in the vicinity of a friend’s mum and spending £10 on a taxi, you are greeted with scenes that wouldn’t look out of place on a David Attenborough documentary. Men (usually) circle groups of girls and try to separate the weakest from the pack. People get off with people they’d be too shy to say hi to at a bar, and everyone assumes everyone else is single.

I take issue with this. Getting off with someone is fine, but lunging in before you’ve done the ‘are you (as would be in my case) a heterosexual, single, female with no romantic or psychological barriers in the way of us kissing (and happen also to be mutually attracted to me and want to kiss me too) test’. You don’t have to double-check that we both want three kids and live in the city, but obtaining definite consent would be a start. As it happens, I don’t fulfil the above criteria – I have a boyfriend – which means I’m often left standing alone, surrounded by people kissing, and wondering what the point of clubbing is.

There are more clubbers in Cambridge who are just out for a laugh and a dance. It’s fine to go clubbing in jeans (most will just be thankful you’re not in chinos), whereas at home people get ridiculously dressed up. The air of objectification and desperation for validation is far less intense when you’re wearing the ‘edgy’ turtleneck you wore to lectures that morning.

I swear people also stand on your toes more in big-city clubs. I’m not saying I haven’t come back from a Cambridge club with slightly sticky soles, but in Manchester the floor will leave huge black smudges on your feet: something which makes you feel even more like some kind of Oliver Twist street urchin than the fact that our main club is called ‘Factory’.

Clubbing in big cities is more predatory than in somewhere like Cambridge (although that’s not to say that serious incidents don’t happen), so we feel safer here. We can also “ironically” dance to terrible music, but better the Pirates of the Caribbean theme tune than mashed-up techno beats on an Apple Mac.

Embrace that a night out means a laugh with your friends, not trying to bat off strangers; embrace that you can probably name half the people in the club, and have seen most of the others in Sainsbury’s. Embrace that you can walk home whenever you’re ready (unless you’re from Girton) and expect a delicious snack on the way.

But most of all, embrace that the pressure to go (and enjoy) clubbing is relatively low: if Cambridge clubbing is just too clammy/cheesy/claustrophobic for you, no Cantab will judge you for a night in with a cup of tea and a game of Risk.