It is a truth universally acknowledged that students often feel most compelled to tackle their academic endeavors on the eve of a submission deadline, typically accompanied by a can of their preferred caffeinated, battery liquid-tinted, beverage. What sets a particular group of UCL students apart, however, is their choice to do so in the brightly lit, windowless environment of Floor B1 in the Student Centre. Many of these students remain unaware that they are unintentionally replicating Jürgen Aschoff’s 1965 bunker study, providing further evidence of the human 24-hour sleep-wake cycle.
Jürgen Aschoff set out to investigate sleep patterns in the absence of sunlight. The German scientist must have been both charming and persuasive, as he managed to convince several German students that spending 3-4 weeks in a bunker, completely isolated, was an excellent way to earn some money while enjoying peace and quiet to prepare for their exams. Much like the 1965 participants who descended into the bunker brimming with academic stress-fueled motivation, today’s UCL students routinely head down the concrete steps to Floor B1, planning to stay overnight.
Remarks from a student all-nighter in B1
The final hours of the day on Floor B1 pass quickly and almost unnoticed. Attention spans are at their peak, and students are fueled by the stress of looming deadlines, capitalising on this heightened focus. However, subtle yet unmistakable signs of the passage of time begin to emerge: the once-busy surroundings grow quieter, and empty chairs start to outnumber the occupied ones. If not for a handful of equally weary souls, one might feel completely alone.
At 1 AM, many students fight off their biological urge to doze off by taking a few more sips of their brightly coloured, energy-boosting drink. By 2 AM, some may find themselves zoning out, their gaze drifting toward the imposing concrete pillars, walls, and ceiling. In this dazed state, one student remarked that, if not for the occasional wooden finishes, the Student Centre’s design could serve as a textbook example of brutalist architecture.
By 3 AM, in an effort to stay motivated, some students take short walks and occasionally find themselves pausing to stare at the preserved figure of Jeremy Bentham. His weathered, yet oddly comforting, presence is said to inspire students to return to their keyboards. When 4 AM arrives, the overpowering urge to nap begins to creep in. According to legend, a determined few have ventured to the ice-cold showers on Floor B2 in a desperate bid to stay awake.
The beauty of this involuntary bunker experiment is that despite the advancing hours on phone clocks and the steadily declining energy of the B1 all-nighter students, the room itself remains unchanged, looking exactly as it did when sunlight still graced the world outside. This illusion of constancy is the key to successfully gaslighting oneself until dawn.
Assignment submitted… and what now?
Last Tuesday at 6:03 AM Bob, a first-year psychology undergraduate, submitted his assignment—due at 10 AM—from Floor B1 of the Student Centre. Reflecting on his all-nighter, Bob remarked that finishing the task had created a new problem: he had no more purpose. For the past 24 hours, the assignment had consumed his entire existence, and he admitted struggling to find meaning in anything else.
As Bob reached the ground floor and watched sunlight stream into the building alongside people starting their day, he became convinced he was trapped in a simulation where nothing was real. “I’d be prone to spiralling into existential dread if I had the brain cells left,” Bob confessed, in a tone that can only be described as painfully real.
If you ever find yourself in Bob’s situation, I suggest taking a moment to look around. Notice the handful of equally miserable souls who have been in this space for as long as they can remember. You may discover that a deep sense of connection begins to replace your numbness, and a realisation might almost pry open your weary eyes. Repeat to yourself: *“They are still grinding.”* With this mantra in mind, you might tap your card to exit the gates, carrying with you a newfound respect for these unnamed colleagues—no longer strangers but fellow test subjects— with whom you’ve shared the most genuine form of despair.
