Political Diaries: The Outlandish World of Greg Goode

Between October 2008 and April 2009, Greg Goode serialised his rebellion against food fascism and fitness gurus in real-time via his online blog. Now he is back, living in London… with a brand new column in Searchlight Magazine. This monthly missive details his heartfelt quest for a political party he can truly believe in… welcome to the outlandish world of Greg Goode.


Part IX: The Rise of the Bee
October 8th 2014 by Kathryn & Nick

Rising plucky from our seats before the gathered throng
We addressed the noble 56 who governed true and strong
Mike articulated gamely, his speech was just sublime
The Leader of the Council barked, “Now is not the time.”
“I questioned you in writing, please let me have the floor…”
Before Mike Franks could finish, we were marched right out the door

“Do not be disheartened,” the beeman grinned at me
“For this bunch have got nothing on my darling old MP.”
So we hit the office of the local Tory blue
And although she nodded sweetly, the Member had no clue
Mike appealed with feeling: “You can’t allow this crime.”
“My bees are in grave danger from this fracking pantomime…”
“I’m sorry,” said the lady, “But we’ve run right out of time.”

“Told you so,” said Mr Franks, “Nobody’s for the bee.”
“Come come,” I ventured, “That’s not true, they’ve got you and me.”
“And more than that I’ll wager,” I said, warming to my theme
“This is England’s garden, who wouldn’t want to keep it green?”
“So instead of moaning… and singing this lament
Let me be your agent for a tilt at Parliament!”
Mike Franks’ eyes blazed brightly, “Do you think that we can win?”
“Of course,” I told the beeman… he replied, simply: “I’m in!” Continue Reading…


Part VIII: My Epic Quest
September 6th 2014 by Kathryn & Nick

Danny Perez Photography via Flickr 300 x 225With inspired fervour I cast out my net
And snared a great horde of potentials to vet
The journey that followed was completely unplanned
And it feels like I’ve travelled every road in this land

I met a Brummie in Bracknell who thought he was Jesus
A roofer in Rugeley enticed me with cheeses
Two sisters in Stafford had planned a new town…

But only for white folk, no place for the brown
There’s a lady in Leicester who eats lots of glass
“It’s political art,” she said with a laugh

An old chap in Perth jogs round naked at night
It’s nice that he’s happy, but I can’t join his fight

Now, it sounds like my process of sifting is flawed
But there was no hint of loopy till I knocked on their doors
Though their mails were all normal and their claims were serene
They were the maddest collection of bonkers I’ve seen

But I was not disheartened as I criss-crossed this land
With a dream in my heart and mead cup in hand
I knew I must find them, they had to exist
The one perfect person to join my epic quest Continue Reading…


Part VII: Tramping the Halls of Westminster
July 28th 2014 by Kathryn & Nick

Westminster Hall 300x225“Ed,” sang the high pitched female voice emerging briskly from the second set of security gates which separated the public from the tree-lined interior of Portcullis House. “Anyone for Ed… Miliband?” she continued, her voice starting sing-song, but getting steadily flatter as her request barely raised a glance from the hot, gathered throng.

This was Wednesday. I had grudgingly removed my shoes and belt to pass through the airport-style security and enter the open-plan holding pen at the Palace of Westminster’s more modern annexe. Here I had dutifully handed in my name and joined the crowds of waiting guests who, like me, all needed collecting by the aides, secretaries and interns who busily swept in and out, announcing their respective political personages and chaperoning guests into the seat of power.

“Ed Miliband,” called the girl, by now sadly, as she pushed her way through the bored yet expectant herd: “Ed Milieeeeeband…” Continue Reading…


Part VI: Is it all Just a Little Bit of History Repeating?
June 18th 2014 by Kathryn & Nick

300 x 225 Country road, Microhori Drama by Theophilos PapadopoulosThere’s dancing and chanting and donkeys on skates
Strange flaming robes and young girls spinning plates
An odd little boy with a bright red balloon
And a pack of wild dogs howling up at the moon
They’re all pointing at me, I just want to run
A knot in my stomach says this won’t be fun

“Dance!” boomed a voice from on high…

A low whirling kicked up from the floor in front of me and a wave of dust edged me further back into my seat. The low grey hum gave way to grinding gears and clanking metal as a huge platform rose up from the ground and towered over us.

My palms began to sweat as six ghost-like figures lined up on the edge of the raised plinth and took turns lighting their hand held torches one by one. Gently they began to sway from side to side, getting faster and more erratic, then darting in between each other like a collective of dervishes, careering round the tiny platform at an alarming rate… before leaping from the ledge with a swirl of togas, capes and spinning flames as they careered maniacally towards the ground. Continue Reading…


Part V: Rev J W Simpson vs Fab Farage
May 20th 2014 by Kathryn & Nick

I’ve been reading manifestos, looking to find a cause,
Elections are looming, though I don’t have a vote,
Still I haven’t seemed to find a voice that echoes with my own,
But I know we need integrity … not awful racist blokes.

There is something odd and faintly offensive about the Rev J W Simpson cocktail bar in Fitzrovia. This is the former home of the eponymous ecclesiastical gentleman who, according to the mock blue plaque outside, lived here between 1963 and 1987. Today it blends spanking new sofas with peeling wallpaper and crumbling plaster, whilst the layout retains all its original design. The draw for me, of course, was the mead. Continue Reading…


Part IV:  All My Loving Says Boris Johnson Shoooooo!
April 5th 2014 by Kathryn & Nick

Boris and a Routemaster by Matt Brown 300 x 225

I’m in the Agora waiting my turn,
The sun’s bearing down and it’s starting to burn,
I cast my vote straight into an urn:
Chucking him out is the way that he’ll learn!

The summit of the Acropolis seems like it is level with the endless blue sky. The heat is so strong it feels as if my skin might decide to simply fizzle up into flame any second. The whole Agora is fit to bursting as I push my way through the worst of the crowds outside the rope barrier of the voting area. There are thousands of us, both inside the cordon and beyond – all swarming like bees – and here for one reason alone: to choose who will be thrown out of the city. Continue Reading…


Part III: Anarchy in the UK
March 4th 2014 by Kathryn & Nick

The Strand (Jackie L Chan) - featThey chanted for freedom, I didn’t know why
Whirling around me their placards raised high
I only stepped out for a walk in the sun
When half-baked rebellion squashed all my fun
“Death to the fat cats!” rang out their decree
“Good golly!” I stammered… they may well mean me

The scampering behind me grew louder and the low murmured chanting became clear. I quickened my pace, but the steps grew closer and disembodied slogans boomed out to deliver messages of doom to the rich, powerful and oppressive. There was no escaping it, they were coming for me. As I slipped into top gear, old legs pumping as fast as they would go, the throng of noise and revolution enveloped me and I stared into the face of Guy Fawkes… hundreds of them. Continue Reading…


Part II: Meeting of the Liberal Sub-Conservatives
February 2nd 2014 by Kathryn & Nick

Southwark Bridge 300 x 225He spoke of the future and who they oppose
Of battling all evil, defeating vile foes
He pledged up their ‘Freedom’ to raucous applause
And Partisans gave themselves to his epic cause
Then as he paid tribute to those who he led
I slipped away quietly, scratching my head

His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edges of the lectern and coaxed it into life, swaying it from side to side like a giant metronome preparing to set the beat for what was coming next. As the rhythm of his lurch quickened pace, the air in the hall became hot and a low hum raised itself around the room. Without warning the speaker burst forth, spraying the waiting pew-dwellers with a million words a minute and causing the entire room to move in time with the small wooden podium. As the fervour grew, men, women and children jumped to their feet, whooping approval in a chorus that built to a deafening crescendo inside the small church. Continue Reading…


Part I: Pilgrimage for Truth
January 6th 2014 by Kathryn & Nick

South Bank 300 x 225 I’m a capitalist, yank, damn baby boomer
Labelled in the past as a zealot consumer
But I will not pray in a church made of greed
It’s more like-minded people of which I have need
Partisans, comrades, Searchlight’s optioned my voice
I hope you’ll listen as I hunt for a choice

Partisans, my name is Greg Goode and I am an evil capitalist billionaire recently moved to Britain from the US via central France. My first business was oil. My second art. On the continent I tried – and failed – to build an agrarian paradise in the grounds of my 18th century chateau. Now my wife Victoria and I are settled in London and life has never been better. Dual citizenship with this fine country and my own looms pleasantly in the distance and a number of people are telling me that I should be looking to slow down. But I can’t. I find myself restless, unfulfilled and desperate to find some higher purpose.  Continue Reading…


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