In the grand pantheon of bad ideas, inheritance tax sits enthroned as a particularly odious monarch, a fiscal vampire that sinks its fangs into the necks of the grieving, slurping up their hard-earned legacies with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to a Fabergé egg. And who better to champion this ghoulish levy than LBC’s own Lewis Goodall, a man whose earnestness is matched only by his apparent allergy to common sense? With the Labour government nodding approvingly in the background, like a chorus of dour undertakers, Goodall has taken to the airwaves to extol the virtues of taxing the dead, as if the Grim Reaper himself needed a commission. Oh, Lewis, you beacon of progressive piety, you’ve outdone yourself this time, haven’t you? Let’s unpack this travesty with the gleeful disdain it so richly deserves.
Goodall, once a resident of Longbridge, Birmingham (as amazingly is yours truly ?! Just HOW did we turn out so differently ??) with his boyish countenance and the sort of earnestness that makes one suspect he’s still checking under his bed for monsters, has proposed—brace yourself—a 100% inheritance tax. Yes, you read that correctly. Not content with nibbling at the edges of your grandmother’s savings, Goodall wants the state to swoop in like a kleptomaniac magpie and snatch every last penny from your inheritance, leaving you with nothing but memories and a tax bill the size of a small country’s GDP. In his August 2025 LBC screed, he argues this would “rethink our society’s relationship with wealth,” as if wealth were some toxic ex-lover we need to ghost rather than the fruit of a lifetime’s labour. One can only imagine young Lewis, sitting forlornly at the family table, unloved and unnoticed, dreaming of a world where no one else gets to enjoy the fruits of parental devotion either. Poor lad, did Mummy and Daddy forget to tuck you in? Is that why you’re so keen to punish those who dare to pass on their love in the form of a nest egg?
Let’s be clear: inheritance tax is not just a bad idea; it’s a moral abomination dressed up in the sanctimonious rags of “fairness.” It’s the government saying, “Sorry, your parents worked their fingers to the bone, but we’ve got potholes to fill and quangos to fund, so hand over the cash.” It’s a tax on death itself, a final kick in the teeth to those already mourning. And Goodall, with his boyish fervour and a voice that sounds like it’s perpetually auditioning for a sixth-form debate club, thinks this is the key to a utopian society. “You don’t have a right to inherit money from mummy and daddy that you did nothing to earn,” he bleats, as if the act of being born into a family that loves you enough to plan for your future is some kind of moral failing. Oh, Lewis, you quivering apostle of envy, do you lie awake at night, tormented by the thought that someone, somewhere, might be enjoying a legacy they didn’t personally sweat for? Perhaps if your own parents had shown you a smidgen of that affection, you wouldn’t be so hell-bent on ensuring no one else gets to feel it.
The Labour government, ever the willing accomplice in this fiscal farce, is reportedly mulling over hiking inheritance tax or tweaking its rules to plug a £40bn deficit, because apparently squeezing the bereaved is easier than, say, trimming the bloated bureaucracy they so dearly love. Rachel Reeves, the Chancellor with the warmth of a tax inspector’s handshake, has already signalled her enthusiasm for taxing the wealthy, as if farmers passing on their land or small business owners leaving their life’s work to their kids are the modern equivalent of feudal barons. Labour’s approach is less Robin Hood and more Sheriff of Nottingham, robbing the grieving to fund their latest pet projects. And Goodall, their eager cheerleader, stands at the forefront, waving his microphone like a pitchfork, ready to storm the estates of Middle England (can you believe he and I actually went to the same school? Not at the same time though, thank goodness!). One wonders if he practices his sanctimonious rants in front of a mirror, puffing out his chest to compensate for what we can only assume is a profound lack of manly vigour. After all, only a man insecure in his own potency would advocate for a policy so emasculating as to strip families of their right to provide for one another.
The argument for inheritance tax, as peddled by Goodall and his Labour overlords, hinges on the tired trope of “intergenerational inequality.” They claim it’s unfair that some inherit while others don’t, as if life’s lottery can be legislated into oblivion. But let’s dissect this with the precision of a surgeon wielding a chainsaw. Inheritance isn’t just about money; it’s about love, legacy, and the human instinct to care for one’s kin. When a parent leaves their savings, their home, or their business to their child, they’re not perpetuating some aristocratic conspiracy; they’re saying, “I worked for you. I sacrificed for you.” To tax that act of devotion is to spit in the face of every parent who ever stayed late at the office or skipped a holiday to secure their child’s future. And yet, Goodall, with the smugness of a man who’s never had to change a nappy or pay a mortgage, thinks this is the path to fairness. Perhaps he imagines a world where we all start from zero, raised by wolves in a state-sanctioned commune, free from the oppressive burden of parental love. Forgive me if I don’t sign up for that dystopian nightmare.
The Spectator, in a rare moment of clarity, skewers Goodall’s argument with a simple question: “Do you want to live in a world in which you are forbidden from giving things, such as your time, your money or your labour, to other people?”. It’s a point so obvious it’s almost embarrassing that Goodall missed it. If you can buy your kid a car or pay for their university fees, why should you be penalized for giving them your savings after you’re gone? Goodall’s response, one imagines, would be a spluttered lecture about “unearned wealth,” delivered with the conviction of a man who’s never had to earn a living outside the cosy bubble of broadcasting. His credibility, already hanging by a thread thinner than his vocal cords, collapses under the weight of this contradiction. He’s not just wrong; he’s bonkers wrong in a way that suggests a fundamental disconnect from the human experience. Did no one ever give you a birthday present, Lewis? Did you return it to the shop, insisting you hadn’t earned it?
And let’s talk about that credibility, shall we? Goodall, the self-styled voice of the everyman, is less a journalist and more a performance artist, peddling his brand of sanctimonious socialism to an audience he assumes is too dim to notice the holes in his logic. At 35, he’s carved out a niche as a political commentator, but one suspects his rise owes more to his ability to parrot progressive platitudes than to any deep well of insight. His LBC rants are less analysis than tantrums, the kind of thing you’d expect from a precocious teenager who’s just discovered Marx but hasn’t yet figured out how to pay his own bills. To hear him lecture on inheritance tax is to witness a man so out of touch with reality that he might as well be broadcasting from a parallel universe where love is taxable and families are optional. His manhood, such as it is, seems to shrivel with every word, as if the very act of advocating for this policy is a confession of his own inadequacy. No wonder he’s so keen to dismantle the family unit; it’s a structure he seems to have missed out on entirely.
The Labour government, for its part, deserves no less scorn. Their flirtation with inheritance tax hikes is not just economically illiterate but politically suicidal. Farmers, already reeling from last year’s budget cuts to agricultural relief, are up in arms, with the Conservative Party gleefully pointing out the “palpable feeling of betrayal” in rural communities. These aren’t the landed gentry we’re talking about; these are honest, hard working, everyday people who work the land, feed the nation, and ask for little in return. Yet Labour, egged on by Goodall’s sanctimonious drivel, seems determined to punish them for daring to pass on their legacy. It’s a policy born of spite, not sense, and it’s hard to imagine a more effective way to alienate the very voters they claimed to champion. Perhaps Keir Starmer, staring blankly into the abyss of his own leadership, thinks this is the path to a fairer Britain. If so, he’s been listening to Goodall for too long.
In the end, inheritance tax is not about fairness; it’s about control. It’s the state asserting its right to dictate what you can do with your own money, even after you’re dead. It’s a policy that assumes you’re too selfish to be trusted with your own wealth, too foolish to know what’s best for your family. And Lewis Goodall, with his boyish indignation and his unerring knack for missing the point, is its perfect spokesman. A man so bereft of warmth that he’d tax a mother’s love if he could, he stands as a cautionary tale of what happens when ideology trumps humanity.
So here’s to you, Lewis, you joyless crusader for a world without legacy. May your microphone never falter, and may your heart one day find the love you so clearly lack. As for the rest of us, we’ll keep fighting to protect our families from your horrendous dystopian dreams.