Ah, Cambridge. A city renowned for its prestigious university, stunning architecture, and apparently, the most tragic clubbing scene I’ve ever witnessed. As a Berliner – a creature bred on Berghain’s hedonism and KitKat’s sunrise sets – I came here expecting a slice of sophistication. Instead, I found myself in a parallel universe where techno is butchered, drinks cost a kidney, and the vibe is as dead as the bottom shelf of Tesco on a Friday night.

Innocent, wide-eyed, and mildly optimistic in my first week, I decided to give Cambridge nightlife a chance. Mash was hosting a ‘Berlin Techno’ themed party. Naturally, my curiosity was piqued. Berlin techno? In Cambridge? I should’ve known better. The moment I walked in, I realised I’d been catfished. Instead of thumping basslines and hypnotic beats, ‘We Found Love’ was on full blast. This wasn’t Berlin techno, this was a musical war crime. Somewhere in Berlin, a DJ shed a tear and didn’t even know why.

“Somewhere in Berlin, a DJ shed a tear and didn’t even know why”

And the crowd? Not a single person was wearing black. Not one. In Berlin, black is a religion, a statement, a way of life. But here? Neon dresses, pastel shirts, and shoes that screamed, “I panic-bought these in JD Sports.” I’ve never seen a party so committed to looking cheerful.

Let’s dive into the fine art of public snogging: in Berlin, personal space is more of a suggestion than a rule. People hook up right there on the dancefloor, completely unfazed by the idea that others might be watching. Meanwhile, a British man will spend an entire night making brief, panic-stricken eye contact before deciding it’s safer to just text “u out?” at two in the morning.

Making out in Berlin is practically a form of greeting, like a handshake but with more tongue. And in Cambridge? Oh, get ready. Before anything remotely physical happens, a man in a quarter-zip will lean in, eyes full of forced intensity, and ask, “so, what do you study?” Because nothing sets the mood quite like explaining your thesis on postcolonial literature to someone who absolutely does not care.

In Berlin, it’s just part of the vibe. A British man, on the other hand, requires a strategic combination of alcohol, misplaced confidence, and at least three mates whispering “go on, lad” before he even attempts a cheeky snog. It’s not that Brits don’t want to let loose. It’s just that centuries of conquest and domination seem to have evaporated when it comes to asking someone for a dance. Where is that imperial bravado now? Nowhere to be found. The same country that once claimed entire continents with zero hesitation now can’t even claim a kiss without a full-scale emotional crisis. But sure, tell me more about your dissertation.

Now enter Revolution (or ‘Revs’ as you Brits call it, like it’s a cherished institution). Let me tell you what Revs is: it’s where dignity goes to die. The club has all the charm of a suburban chain restaurant that decided to install a dance floor. The music is a grab bag of chart-toppers from the early 2010s. If you’ve ever wanted to hear ‘Uptown Funk’ while reflecting on missed life opportunities, Revs is your place.

“Clubbing in Cambridge is so incestuous that you’re guaranteed to run into a previous date”

And then, there’s Kiki’s. What even is Kiki’s? It sounds like the name of a tropical cocktail bar, but in reality, it’s a fluorescent-lit purgatory with questionable decor and a DJ who seems to think that playing Sean Paul is an edgy choice. The vibe is a mix between sixth form prom afterparty and your mate’s garage rave that got shut down by the neighbour’s mum. And let’s not forget – clubbing in Cambridge is so incestuous that you’re guaranteed to run into a previous date. Not the fun kind, either. The kind you’d rather avoid but end up awkwardly locking eyes with across the sticky dance floor.

The local wildlife continues: there are the sharks. The third year students circling the dance floor like it’s some kind of feeding ground, shamelessly hitting on freshers as though they’ve been granted some kind of divine sanction to do so. It’s uncomfortable to watch and even worse to exist alongside. It’s basically Planet Earth: Cambridge Edition. Honestly, David Attenborough should be narrating this.

Here’s the thing, Cambridge: I love this city. The people are brilliant, the atmosphere is vibrant, and there’s a charm here that’s all its own. You don’t need to be Berlin – you shouldn’t try to be Berlin. Cambridge is good the way it is. But the clubs? They just don’t live up to the rest of what makes this city so wonderful.

Where’s the grit? The edge? Anything that remotely resembles an actual vibe? Berlin clubs don’t rely on cheap themes and dodgy cover charges. We don’t need Jägermeister deals to make the night bearable. What we do have are queues that test your patience, bouncers who stare into your soul, and music that could rearrange your molecular structure. That’s the bare minimum.

So here’s my advice, Cambridge: stop pretending. Embrace what makes you, you. Own your quirks, your charm, your very British approach to nightlife. You’re not Berlin – and that’s okay. Until then, I’ll stick to my headphones and pray for your salvation.

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