It’s a Monday lunchtime in July, and barely 72 hours have passed since the general election results rolled in. On TV screens and live-feeds, the political press pack is exhausted. Not Lewis Goodall. He’s fresh-faced, talking fast, buzzing. “It’s been a slog,” he says, “but this is my Christmas. I hate this journalist tendency to moan about how tired we are. The pace of news is relentless, but only up to a point. It’s not like working down a bloody mine or even being an actual politician.” We’re meeting at a pub behind Oxford Circus. He’s dressed down: tricolour cord shirt, stone-washed jeans and trainers. Goodall is 35. His wife, Tone Langengen, a net-zero specialist at Tony Blair’s Institute for Global Change, recently turned 30. “We were due to go on holiday to celebrate,” Goodall says, “but then Rishi called the election and it was deferred.” On the floor, a small suitcase is nestled next to him. “We managed to get to Margate for a night yesterday. But otherwise it’s been nonstop.” Election day itself was low key. “Broadcasters aren’t allowed to say anything election-related for legal reasons,” he says, “so on the day we pretend nothing is happening.” But he presented through the night. “We recorded a News Agents” – his daily politics podcast, which he co-hosts with Jon Sopel and Emily Maitlis, whom he met as a rising star at the BBC. “One at 5am, another at 7am.” Then it was back to the hotel for a breather. A third episode was taped before lunchtime. “It’s always so exciting. You feel a new era coming into view. It’s one of those rare moments of genuine possibility.” Today, Goodall has no shortage of analysis. “Just a few years ago, it looked as if Labour was going to die,” he says. “The SNP would rule Scotland for ever; the Tories were immovable from Westminster. All of that has been upended.” Measured in seats alone, he says, Labour’s victory is remarkable. “It’s also true that their support is shallow.” Polling shows anti-Tory sentiment prevailed among the electorate, rather than pro-Labour positivity. “And Labour knows this. Talking to people around Starmer, they understand their victory isn’t deep and they have one chance. Not just a chance for them: the entire liberal order hangs in the balance.” The day before our interview, France was on the brink of electing a far-right government after years of Macron’s centrist leadership. “This is Starmer’s one shot. If they can’t deliver, and be seen to deliver – showing to voters that western liberal democracy still works – they’re aware they can be swept away. As can the whole western democratic order.” When talking politics, Goodall comes alive. For as long as he can recall, it has been all-consuming. Today, he’s well-versed in the ways of Westminster – a leading hack. Through his early years, it wasn’t ideology, marches or party meetings that shaped his outlook, but lived experience. “If you don’t have much money,” he says, “you have a deeply political childhood.” Home was an estate in Longbridge, southwest Birmingham. “Looking back, it was an upbringing out of time with the 90s, more like one of the 70s. We lived in an area dominated by one big industry. In the early years, we lived with my nan and grandad, multigenerational. And our council house was shocking for this century.” There was no central heating upstairs, not that they could always afford the gas bill. His mum later retrained as a midwife, while his dad worked as welder at the nearby Rover factory. “I was always aware of the prospect of the plant going under. I’d overhear conversations about shifts drying up. My grandad worked in industry at the Birmingham Mint before he lost his job: that was a defining political experience. They lost their home on Black Wednesday, 1992.” Goodall was only three then; the home was repossessed. “They had very little and worked hard to get that. I remember hearing [former chancellor] Ken Clarke being interviewed fairly recently. He was reflecting on Black Wednesday. And he said: well, it was obviously politically damaging, but the economic effects were very benign.” Goodall was on a run when listening. “I stopped in my tracks. It was not long after my grandad died and I was angry. I welled up. No, I thought, they weren’t benign. Thousands and thousands of people lost their homes.” Major political moments, Goodall understands, can be experienced differently. Goodall’s mum and dad had their own struggles. They met at a Scarborough holiday camp and became young parents: they were 17 and 21 when Goodall was born. “I was aware of the politics around Mum’s age, the challenges she faced as a teenage mother. Yet she was fearless, I owe her everything.” She taught her son to read before starting school. “I came home one day with a book I’d already finished. My teacher thought I was getting too far ahead and asked me to start again. Mum marched up to the school – aged 22 – and said absolutely not. That took guts.” Through his adolescence, Goodall and his mother were often confused for siblings. They remain close. Screenshots of their messages often appear on his social media. “She’s a good barometer,” he says, “of whether a story is only important within the Westminster bubble.” The barometer readings started in 2018. Amber Rudd had resigned as home secretary. Goodall was covering the event and feeling rather self-important. When he texted his mum to say he’d had a big day, she replied: “That’s nice love, who is Amber Rudd?” “I found it funny,” he says. “I tweeted it and it went viral. Twitter is such a silly hyper-politicised village that sometimes it’s nice to puncture its, and my own, pomposity.” Goodall looks back on his teenage years through a political lens. He was seven when Blair swept away 18 years of Tory government. For families like his, Goodall says, the change of guard was momentous. “Whatever the faults of that Labour government, we felt the difference. Suddenly Mum and Dad had a little more money. I was going to gifted and talented classes that gave working-class kids opportunities that weren’t there before.” Two experiences at his all-boys state secondary felt particularly formative. “At 14, I did a week’s work experience in parliament with our local MP. I could only afford it because the school paid for travel and to bring my grandad down to look after me.” They shared a room at a Holiday Inn. A year later, another life-changing event. “Labour had introduced a new programme – Aim Higher – a summer scheme for kids from schools with little history of university education.” His assistant headteacher suggested Goodall try Oxford. “I knew nothing about it. I spent a week there, living in halls. The experience was totally artificial – all state school kids. But it made me think it could be a place for me.” It was. Goodall returned to Oxford to study history and politics. He was the first in his family to attend university and he thrived. “I never really felt I didn’t belong,” he says, “maybe that was naivety. Oxford was the first time I saw class privilege: thick people who didn’t work hard, but would get further than me because of where they’re from.” But the experience left him stretched. “I started to feel what lots of working-class kids do when they ‘move up in the world’,” he says. “You feel a split personality, never quite fitting. You play up to being a bit of an oik when surrounded by middle-class people. At home, meanwhile, adopting new sensibilities: ‘Mum, why aren’t we having Parma ham?’ I’d go from wearing gowns at the end of term dinners to Sunday lunch at our council house. At times, it was unsettling.” It was then that Goodall’s accent started to fade. Despite being Birmingham born-and-bred, there’s little trace of his roots, audibly. It’s sensitive turf. “I’m ashamed of losing it,” he says. “I think I was robust, even then. But on some level, I can’t have been. Suddenly, I sounded posh. Maybe I felt I had to. What I want to say to working-class kids now is: ‘Don’t do what I did.’” Even dishing out that advice, Goodall feels conflicted. “Because at the same time, I don’t think we can win. If I spoke now how I did as a kid, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have got to this point in my career.” After graduating, he landed a job at Granada TV, researching questions for University Challenge. From there, he moved to centre-left thinktank IPPR. Neither felt like a fit. “I’d always been interested in political broadcasting,” he says, “listening to the Today programme on my pocket radio on the walk to school. Newsnight before bed.” He applied to join a pool of freelancers at the BBC’s Westminster political unit. Within 18 months, he’d been hired as a producer/researcher on Newsnight. The early days in 2012 were heady. He proved himself smart and ambitious. “I was nicknamed the angel of death,” he says, “I was so fascinated by all the old politicians, I’d go and interview them right before they passed away.” The honeymoon glow wore off. “Newsnight was then very public schooly,” he says. “It was a great apprenticeship, but still. After my second onscreen appearance someone high-up said: ‘You need a new suit.’ I’m not often speechless or embarrassed. But that made me feel awful.” His was a charity shop buy. “I didn’t have the money for anything else. I was always in such a rush to get ahead. But I felt there was a slight sense of: who does this guy think he is? Like I was being put back in my box. If I’d had a different background, I think I would have progressed differently.” In 2016, he jumped ship to Sky News, reporting on the Brexit fallout and two general elections. In January 2020, however, he returned to the BBC. “It was tricky to go back,” he says. “I hadn’t always been happy there.” When Newsnight’s policy editor post was dangled, however, it was just too tempting. “This was a step up to a high-profile position… I’d idolised Newsnight for so long.” After much back and forth, Goodall accepted. “Every time someone used my title on air, I’d feel the hairs on my neck stand up. I get that even repeating it now.” He started pre-pandemic. “Through that time, I did so much reporting that I’m hugely proud of. Some made a real difference, I think.” This included his work on the A-level grading scandal. “It was a last flourish for Newsnight, too. We were on later, audiences were huge, we made a lot of noise.” Goodall had only been away from the BBC for a few years, but its culture had shifted. “The Conservative party was more powerful.” The 2019 election saw a hung parliament traded for a comfortable Boris Johnson-led Tory majority. “Some people in Downing Street were bullies and wanted to settle scores.” Goodall believes he was seen by some in No 10 to be more critical of the Conservatives than they could countenance. “Even before I started back, stories were appearing. The Mail ran a piece about how ministers were set to boycott Newsnight because of my return. It felt like a hostile environment. Then came the pandemic: the government didn’t know if they could control the story, so they put the boot on the neck of the BBC even more.” He goes on, “They were driving a wedge between the media and listeners or viewers we serve: making out that we’re all part of a liberal, metropolitan elite who didn’t care.” Goodall refused to be cowed. “I didn’t buy it. With my background, people like Jacob Rees-Mogg were never going to tell me I was part of the establishment. But too many people at the BBC fell for it.” Then came run-ins with Sir Robbie Gibb, BBC newsman turned director of comms for Theresa May’s premiership. In May 2021, he was appointed to the BBC board to cries of Tory cronyism. Goodall and Gibb clashed. After Gibb publicly, on Twitter, questioned Goodall’s impartiality, he hit back: “Thanks for this Robbie. Maybe one day, if I’m as impartial as you, I can get a knighthood, too.” Cordiality deteriorated. Gibb later followed up: “Is there anyone more damaging to the BBC’s reputation for impartiality than @lewis_goodall?” Goodall remains incandescent. “This from a man who shortly after being a Tory comms chief was appointed to the BBC board. My great Labour achievement was becoming the youth officer at Birmingham Northfield Constituency Labour party.” Soon, Goodall felt his personal scrutiny go up a gear. “I had a few experiences where editors told me to be careful: Robbie is watching you. It was improper for someone on the board, not supposed to be involved in editorial, to be interfering. People high up at the BBC didn’t seem to be pushing back enough. It was McCarthyite: I would have felt the same if he was a Labour appointee.” Might it be true his political outlook did inform his output? “When I started out,” he says, “I was on Twitter too much, yes. I did say too much. I was young and hungry. But that was a long time ago. I’ve been far more measured since. But no, I don’t think my views affect my work. There’s a difference between being impartial and acting impartially. Nobody is entirely impartial. Nick Robinson was a Conservative activist once.” He also points to ardent right-winger Andrew Neil. “And they’re two journalists I respect hugely.” In 2022, Maitlis – a colleague and friend – announced she was trading Newsnight for Global. Alongside fellow BBC heavyweight Sopel, she was starting a new podcast. She asked Goodall to join. “I found an exciting mind at Newsnight,” Maitlis tells me. “He’s driven, thoughtful and tends to question the herd.” Sopel and Maitlis had podcasted together before. “We thought it was important to widen the gene pool: each of the three of us comes from a slightly different generation. Lewis is an exciting thinker.” While his cohosts had long, illustrious BBC careers under their belts, even on departure Goodall was a relative newbie. “I did worry about the consequences,” he says, “but those pressures had taken a toll. I was dispirited. The BBC didn’t fight for me to stay when I floated leaving. I got the message.” In November 2023, major cuts were announced to Newsnight. The News Agents launched on 30 August 2022. There have already been extensions to the brand: the News Agents USA and the News Agents Investigates, which – alongside a new Sunday morning LBC radio show – Goodall helms solo. “It’s been far more successful than we expected,” he says, “listeners up 45% since the election was called. We’re approaching 100m downloads. All the socials, too: 25-30m impressions a month. And I feel so much more freedom. I never worry about a ridiculous phone call after an idiot has complained or moron tweeted. I felt the boot being lifted from my neck. No matter what you do at Newsnight or Sky News, you always feel there’s a sense of decline. However well you’re doing, audiences are decreasing.” Growing a new listenership feels energising. “I used to get stopped by people in their 60s to chat, now it’s teenagers, or listeners in their 20s, 30s.” And what, I ask, if Downing Street called? It’s not beyond the realms of possibility. Goodall is well connected and politically astute. He firmly feels the last Labour government changed his life for the better. Being part of this one might be a once in a generation opportunity. “I don’t know,” he replies, eventually. “I love journalism. It has never been more important. I’ve worked hard to get here and would be reluctant to give it up…” But that’s not a no. “Anyone interested in politics wonders what it would be like to be a practitioner.” He paraphrases Theodore Roosevelt: “‘The critic is irrelevant; the man in the arena is the only one that matters.’ Boris Johnson once explained his desire to enter politics by saying: ‘They don’t put up statues to journalists.’ I’m not interested in statues. I’m so happy in what I do: political journalism is my mission. I don’t want to close anything off – I’m 35. I don’t know what the future holds. I can’t see the circumstances yet.” In almost two hours of conversation, it’s Goodall’s first politician’s answer. Listen to Sunday with Lewis Goodall from 10am on LBC and The News Agents every weekday on Global Player