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Cambridge: the definitive review (7/10)

(This is definitely not just an entry pulled out of my backside to make it easier on my tired, hungover brain. Oh no siree, you won’t get that kind of thing around here…)

What did I ever do to offend you, Cambridge? I’ve never been to your stupid ‘place’ in my life, yet you do nothing but bully me with shitty rain as soon as I arrive? Well screw you – I’m all for handing out critical maulings to things that don’t treat me with the fairness and respect I deserve (professional note: this is a lie), especially stupid jumped-up little towns that think it’s acceptable behaviour to rain all over me and force me to step in a puddle when you know damn well my trainer has a huge hole in the bottom of it. It’s not like I enjoy having dry feet or anything. Sigh.

Still, stupid wet weather aside there were other things that brought the overall Cambridge experience down. Too many rugby twats, for one. I don’t care if you are the legal definition of a ‘hunk’ and tower over me by half a foot – rugby is shit and… well, get out of my way. I need a piss. Silly town.

£7.50 entry to a club, forcing me to sleep in the same bed as a boy I hardly know, being really shitty to get to and from from Bournemouth, annoying drinking games getting in the way of sitting around in bored silence, 23p orangeade that tastes of nothing, not being able to pay for the guest house as the woman wasn’t there, then being made to feel like we’re scamming them this morning when she comes up to ask for the money – the list goes on. Cambridge, you had a poor showing.

Oh, and the sheer amount of cyclists bring the place down to levels I never thought possible. As such, this mark is the lowest I’ve ever handed out in the definitive review series.


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