When I meet Rex Knight he is stood suited and shoeless in his office. A busy man with little time for pleasantries, he picks up a pint glass and throws it at a crude drawing of David Dahlborn ren- dered with human excrement on the back of the door, and points wordlessly and forcefully at a damp cushion in the middle of the concrete floor.
“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Print a word of what I just said and I’ll fucking sue you.” Knight is surprisingly relaxed for a man tasked with overseeing much of the day- to-day management of one of the biggest universities in the country. Charming and engaging, he conducts the interview with his hand around my throat and a let- ter opener pressed into my midriff.
“The problem with tertiary education these days is that you ‘people’ don’t know what’s fucking good for you” says Knight, spitting in my eyes.
Knight is something of a bogeyman with the UCLU crowd, but when his execu- tive guard comes down, his boyish charm shines through. He spots my dictaphone, grins, and rocks back on his heels before throwing another pint glass in my direc- tion. It hits me in my face and I begin to bleed.
“You can put that away for starters, you sweaty little hack cunt. You try and take me down and I’ll fucking sue you.”
I’ve yet to ask a question when Knight announces that there are to be no more questions. He has a meeting with UC- LU’s sabbatical team and asks me to leave, but I am bleeding too heavily. Omar Raii enters with a warm hello. Knight punch- es him in the neck and he begins to cry.