As the long-awaited UCL200 celebrations rapidly approach, I sat down with Michael Spence to discuss how far UCL has come over the past 200 years and where it’s going next.
The first thing you notice when you step into Spence’s office is its extravagance. The walls are draped in velvet and covered with expensive artwork. His shelves are filled with expensive bottles of Vegemite alongside his crystallised UCL200 decanter set.
The door slams behind me and I flinch. Spence says “g’day”, lets out a bark of maniacal laughter, and calls me a “useless leftie snowflake”. Then, he points to a piss-soaked cushion on the royal blue carpet and tells me to sit immediately.
“DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING”, he yells, “I can’t stand you undergrads and your sticky fucking fingers”. He then pauses before throwing a copy of his own autobiography at my head, “print that quote and I’ll fucking sue you. Do you understand?”
I pull out my handy microphone, and before I can ask him a question he rips it out my hand and throws it out the open window. As someone from the ground floor screams “OW! MY LEG!” he bends down, his face so close to mine that I can smell his UCL200 coffee-scented breath.
“No microphones, you sweaty little hack cunt. I know what you’re doing, you stupid little cheesy piece of shit. You’re trying to take me down. You’ve tried before and you’ll keep fucking trying. Well, let me tell you: it won’t fucking work.”
I can’t see the look of victory on his face. Because he’s spat directly into my eyes.
“So, uhh..” It’s extremely hard to focus when he’s pacing around his office, occasionally throwing more possessions out of the window, “what is the best part about being Provost of a university with such a rich history?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Money.”
“Is that... I mean... Can you expand?”
He drags his stare away from the window long enough to cast me a look of pure hatred, “don’t think I don’t know who you are. Fucking full maintanence, bursary receiving, Access UCL softie. I see why you need me to expand. ” He pulls out a fiver and waves it in my face, asking me, “have you ever seen one of these before?”
Moving on, quickly, because I’m scared of what he’s going to do next, I ask him about the UCL200 celebrations. Which part of the festivities is Spence most looking forward to?
“We all know that’s all a gigantic waste of time,” he replies, pouring himself a treble whisky and debating whether to launch the glass at me, “we all know none of these light shows and new logos have any value to them. UCL200 is just an excuse for me to undertake a new vanity project.
“It’s not even UCL200 yet, it’s actually only UCL176. What are you gonna do, fucking factcheck me? You heard of the Portico renovation, cheesy fucking softie? That’s what it’s all about.
“When you die, all that will be left over is pointless articles on a stupid kitchen utensil-named website where you lament about how everything is so hard for you. When I die — I know a pure golden statue of me will remain erect in the main Quad. That is a real fucking legacy to have.”