GOODHALL'S INHERITANCE INSANITY: FROM LBC TO WTF?

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.

CONNOLLY, JONES, AND KIER'S KANGAROO COURT

Ladies and gentlemen, strap yourselves in for another grim chapter in the tragicomedy that is modern British justice, where the scales are less balanced than a drunk tightrope walker and the rule of law bends like a yoga instructor on a good day. The recent release of Lucy Connolly, a childminder who made the fatal error of venting her grief-fuelled spleen on social media, and the acquittal of Ricky Jones, a Labour councillor who thought “cut their throats” was a catchy slogan for an anti-racism rally, have together hoisted the flag of “two-tier justice” so high it’s visible from space. This is not merely a glitch in the system; it’s a neon-lit billboard proclaiming that under Keir Starmer’s Labour government, justice is a buffet where the Left gets caviar and everyone else gets crumbs. With his trademark blend of sanctimony and spinelessness, Starmer presides over a regime that makes Kafka look like a cheerful optimist, and the stench of hypocrisy wafting from Downing Street could choke a camel.

Let’s start with Lucy Connolly, a woman whose crime was to post a single, ill-judged tweet in the wake of the Southport murders, a tragedy that would make any parent’s blood boil. On July 29, 2024, reeling from the slaughter of three young girls, she tapped out a message calling for “mass deportation” and, in a moment of raw anger, suggested setting fire to hotels housing asylum seekers. It was crude, it was reckless, and—crucially—she deleted it within four hours, long before any mob could grab a pitchfork. Yet, the British state, ever vigilant for thought crimes, swooped in like a SWAT team at a book club. Lucy, a mother who’d already lost a son and cared for children of all backgrounds, was slapped with a 31-month sentence for inciting racial hatred, a punishment so disproportionate it could only have been cooked up by a judge with a grudge or a government with an agenda. Her appeal, predictably, was dismissed in May 2025, with Lord Justice Holroyde praising her solicitor’s “conscientiousness” while ignoring the screaming injustice of jailing a grieving woman for a tweet that incited precisely nothing. She’s due for release soon, having served 40% of her sentence, but the stain of this farce will linger longer than a bad curry.

Now, contrast this with the case of Ricky Jones, a Labour councillor and self-professed lefty who, on August 7, 2024, stood before a crowd in Walthamstow, microphone in hand, and declared, “We need to cut all their throats and get rid of them all,” referring to far-right protesters he charmingly dubbed “disgusting Nazi fascists.” This wasn’t a fleeting tweet; it was a public performance, complete with a throat-slitting gesture that would make a pantomime villain blush. The video went viral, the outrage was palpable, and yet, at Snaresbrook Crown Court on August 15, 2025, a jury deliberated for a mere half-hour before deciding that Jones was not guilty of encouraging violent disorder. Half an hour! That’s barely enough time to make a decent cuppa, let alone weigh the evidence of a man caught on camera preaching bloodshed. Jones, naturally, mouthed “thank you” to the jurors, no doubt marveling at his luck in dodging a bullet—or a blade.

The juxtaposition is so stark it could star in a satire of its own. Lucy Connolly, a nobody with a broken heart, gets two-and-a-half years for a deleted tweet that caused no harm. Ricky Jones, a Labour insider with a flair for violent rhetoric, walks free after inciting a crowd in a “tinderbox” setting, as the prosecution described it. If this isn’t two-tier justice, then I’m the Queen of Sheba. The evidence is not just compelling; it’s screaming from the rooftops. Shadow Home Secretary Chris Philp called it “astonishing” that Jones was “let off scot-free” while Connolly rots in a cell, and Nigel Farage, never one to miss a bandwagon, labeled it “another outrageous example of two-tier justice.” Even James Cleverly, not exactly a firebrand, called the verdict “perverse.” They’re not wrong, but they’re understating it. This isn’t just a double standard; it’s a double-decker bus of bias, driven by Keir Starmer and his Labour cronies, who seem to think the law applies only to those who don’t share their politics.

Starmer, that dour knight of the Left, has the gall to stand in Parliament and bleat about being “strongly in favour of free speech” while condemning “incitement to violence.” Oh, Keir, you silver-tongued hypocrite, you. If free speech is your passion, why is Lucy Connolly a “political prisoner,” as FairCop’s Harry Miller rightly called her, while Ricky Jones is back home polishing his megaphone? Starmer’s government, with its grim determination to police words rather than crimes, has turned the justice system into a weapon, wielded with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. The Labour Party suspended Jones the day after his arrest, but the ongoing “investigation” into his membership smells like a formality to keep the headlines at bay. Meanwhile, Lucy’s life lies in ruins, her family torn apart, all for a moment of anguish expressed online. This is not justice; it’s a vendetta, orchestrated by a man whose moral compass spins like a weathervane in a storm.

The Left, of course, will cry foul at the comparison. Lawyers like Laura Allen have the cheek to call it “frankly offensive” to question the jury’s decision in Jones’ case, as if the public are too dim to spot the glaring inconsistency. They argue that Connolly’s tweet had a “racial element” absent in Jones’ rant, and that she pleaded guilty while he fought his charge. Fair enough, but let’s not pretend the charges weren’t cut from the same cloth: both were accused of inciting violence in a volatile climate, yet one walks free while the other’s life is shredded. The racial aggravation in Connolly’s case is undeniable, but Jones’ call to slit throats was hardly a love letter to peace. The real difference? One was a Tory councillor’s wife, the other a Labour loyalist. If that’s not two-tier justice, then perhaps we should all start practicing our throat-slitting gestures for the next anti-racism rally.

This is where Starmer’s Labour reveals its true colours: a sickly shade of sanctimonious red, tinged with the green of envy for anyone who dares think differently. The Left’s obsession with controlling speech, punishing dissent, and protecting their own has turned Britain into a judicial dystopia where the rules bend to fit the narrative. Lucy Connolly’s tweet, born of grief and deleted in remorse, was no more a threat to public order than Jones’ amplified call to violence, yet she’s the one branded a “far-right thug” by a Prime Minister who wouldn’t know a thug if one nicked his briefcase. The message is clear: if you’re on the Left, you can scream for blood and walk away; if you’re not, a single misstep online will land you in the slammer.

So, people of Britain, it’s time to wake up and smell the injustice. This is not the country of Magna Carta or the land of fair play; it’s Starmer’s Britain, where the law is a cudgel for the Left to bash their opponents while shielding their own. Grab your metaphorical pitchforks—not to burn hotels or slit throats, but to tear down this rotten system. 

Demand a justice system that judges actions, not affiliations. Call out Labour’s hypocrisy, from Starmer’s pious platitudes to the party’s winking indulgence of its own firebrands. And above all, fight for a Britain where a grieving mother’s tweet doesn’t cost her more than a councillor’s call for slaughter. The two-tier travesty must end, and it starts with sending Starmer and his sanctimonious socialists packing. Let’s make justice blind again, not just selectively near-sighted.

A FLUTTER OF DEFIANCE

Ah, England, that green and pleasant land where the national pastime seems to be apologizing for existing. One might think, in this enlightened age of self-flagellation—pardon the pun—that the simple act of hoisting a flag would be as innocuous as brewing a cup of tea. But no, dear reader, we find ourselves in 2025, amid a "surge in public frustration," as the euphemism goes, and suddenly the St. George's Cross is waving like a red rag to a council bureaucrat. Enter the "raising the colours" campaign, a grassroots movement that's less a revolution and more a polite reminder that some people still remember what country they're in. It's as if the English have finally decided to stop being embarrassed about their own backyard and start decorating it with the national bunting. How terribly uncouth.

Picture the scene: in the heart of Birmingham and Tower Hamlets, ordinary folk—builders, workers, the sort who actually get their hands dirty rather than pontificating on Twitter—have taken to draping Union Jacks and St. George's flags over lampposts and buildings. A GoFundMe springs up, because nothing says "spontaneous patriotism" like crowdfunding your dissent. This, we're told, is a response to the great British tradition of uncontrolled immigration, which has, according to Migration Watch UK, swollen the population by a casual seven million over the past two decades. Seven million! That's like inviting the entire population of Switzerland for an indefinite stay and then wondering why the housing queue resembles a Soviet bread line. Exacerbating tensions in housing and social services? Perish the thought; it's merely the price of progress, or so the elites assure us from their gated enclaves.

But oh, the horror when the local councils swing into action. The Labour-run outfit in Birmingham and the pro-Gaza Aspire Party in Tower Hamlets—bless their inclusive souls—deem these flags a "safety hazard," distracting motorists as if the average driver isn't already dodging potholes the size of craters. Meanwhile, Palestinian flags flutter undisturbed, and Pakistani independence gets a taxpayer-funded fanfare. It's a two-tier system, you see: one for the natives, who mustn't get uppity, and another for everyone else, who are encouraged to celebrate their heritage with all the gusto of a World Cup final. In Tower Hamlets, the 2025 decision to yank down those offending St. George's banners was executed with the efficiency of a health-and-safety inspector at a funfair. One imagines the council workers, hi-vis vests gleaming, muttering about "distractions" while ignoring the irony that the real distraction is a government that can't control its borders.

Into this farce steps the ghost of Sir Roger Scruton, that lamented philosopher who, back in his 2010 essay "The Need for Nations," dared to suggest that national symbols might actually be good for something beyond propping up a garden fence. Scruton, with his characteristic understatement, observed that the English are "reluctant to display their identity—reluctant to sing their national anthem, to wave their flag, or to affirm their nationhood." Reluctant? That's putting it mildly; we're talking about a people who treat their flag like an embarrassing relative at a wedding, best kept in the attic lest it offend the in-laws. Post-imperial guilt, mass immigration, and a multiculturalism that bends over backwards for minorities while giving the majority a stiff upper lip— these, Scruton argued, have conspired to make flag-waving taboo. And yet, he posited, such symbols aren't mere xenophobic relics; they're the glue that binds a shared identity, a collective memory, a way of life. Without them, we're left with "the steady erosion of something precious—a shared first-person plural," or in plainer terms, a nation that forgets what "we" means.

Scruton, ever the optimist in a world gone mad, warned that this reluctance invites cultural fragmentation and rootlessness. People wandering about, unsure of who they are or where they belong, like tourists in their own country. And lo, a 2019 study in the Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies obligingly confirmed his fears: multiculturalism's laser focus on minority rights has, quelle surprise, weakened cohesion among the majority. Who could have predicted that prioritizing everyone else's culture might leave the host feeling a tad overlooked? It's as if we've engineered a society where the English are the awkward guests at their own party, mumbling apologies while others raid the buffet. Recent events only amplify this delicious absurdity. Beyond the flag-pulling in Tower Hamlets, there's the charming tale of a school in Rugby turning away a girl for daring to wear a Union Jack dress—presumably because nothing screams "threat" like a child in patriotic attire. Echoing Scruton's warnings of "oikophobia," that peculiar fear of one's own home, these incidents paint a picture of a Britain where displaying national pride is treated like a faux pas at a diplomatic dinner. And let's not forget the 2023 YouGov poll, which revealed that a solid 60% of Britons feel their concerns about immigration are being blithely ignored. Sixty percent! That's not a fringe moan; that's a national chorus, drowned out by the cacophony of progressive platitudes.

One can't help but chuckle at the irony. Here we are, in a land that once ruled the waves, now reduced to guerrilla flag-hoisting as a form of protest. The "raising the colours" campaign isn't just about borders or billions squandered on housing migrants while locals queue for crumbs; it's a deeper cri de coeur against the erosion of that elusive "we." Scruton saw it coming: without symbols to rally around, nations splinter into tribes, each clutching their own banner while the common ground crumbles. The elites, of course, decry it as exclusionary, but as Scruton noted, a flag can be a unifying emblem, connecting the individual to a greater inheritance. It's where the solitary soul finds its place in the collective tapestry—or, if you prefer, where the bloke down the pub remembers he's part of something bigger than his pint.

Yet, in our satirical age, this movement feels almost quaint, like a Monty Python sketch where the Ministry of Silly Flags decrees what can and cannot fly. The participants—those viral videos of builders scaling lampposts—aren't firebrands; they're just fed up, articulating a frustration that's been simmering since the days when "multiculturalism" meant everyone gets along, not everyone but you. And as the councils scurry to remove the offending cloths, one wonders if they're not inadvertently fuelling the fire. After all, nothing unites like a common enemy, especially when that enemy is a clipboard-wielding official tut-tutting about "safety" while the real hazards—broken borders, social strain—go unaddressed.

In the end, perhaps Scruton was right: nations need their symbols, lest they dissolve into a rootless soup. The "raising the colours" campaign, with its makeshift defiance, is a sardonic nod to that truth. It's England stirring from its slumber, not with a roar but with a wry shrug and a flagpole. Will it spread? Will the elites finally notice that ignoring the majority is a recipe for backlash? Or will we continue this charade, where patriotism is pathologized and the flag treated like a guilty secret? One thing's certain: in this topsy-turvy isle, the act of waving a banner has become the ultimate act of rebellion. How very British.