Six cretinous ways to house migrants twats will suggest on radio phone-ins

OVERCROWDED migrant centres? More arriving every day? Home secretary given permission to unleash your most bigoted flights of fancy? Here’s where they should go: 

Prison hulks, suggested by Joe of King’s Lynn

Racists love the idea of migrants being in cramped, 18th century, rat-infested conditions offshore. Far better than simple, cheap migrant centres on land where you’re not impeded by the bloody sea all the time. No-one has ever said ‘We’re a bit short of space. Let’s turn HMS Hermes into a Waitrose.’

Anthrax Island, suggested by Norman of Wallasey

Gruinard Island isn’t close to anywhere but Scotland, and proponents of this solution don’t regard the Scots as human. The host of the phone-in may point out the impracticality of housing migrants somewhere without any infrastructure. Norman will handwave this away, saying there are plenty of seabirds to eat. And if there’s a bit of anthrax left, so be it.

POW camps, suggested by Joan of Seaford

A few Stalag Lufts would delight migrant-loathing obsessives. The barbed wire and machine guns would keep migrants in and they’ve got a lovely nostalgic wartime vibe to them. Given the sheer number of dewy-eyed WW2 buffs in Britain they’ll become a massive tourist attraction.

Caverns, suggested by Bill of Castleton

Britain has loads of caverns with underground streams to drink, so set a few aside for migrants. Obviously you’d have to seal them in and if they evolved into blind cannibal monstrosities that hunt by scent, issue hunting licences. Bill, a regular caller to Radio Derby, humbly accepts the nation’s thanks for his visionary idea.

Moon colonies, by Margaret of Guildford

Pro: stops migrants escaping to commit vile crimes like working for less than miniumum wage at a car wash. Con: requires trillions of investment in technology over decades. Utterly deranged and if Margaret is contemplating this, even for a few seconds, she may be Suella Braverman herself.

Throw them out of RAF transports at 32,000ft, by Tony of Acton

With a parachute. We’re not murderers. Fly over Libya, Tanzania or wherever and out they go through the cargo doors. Wholly impractical but Brexiters like Tony voted against international law and for the right to a foreigner-free Britain. Who’s with him?

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How to make a spooky Halloween playlist that runs out after four songs

HALLOWEEN parties need Halloween playlists, but as Strictly discovers every year there aren’t enough songs for it to work. Try these: 

Thriller by Michael Jackson, 1983

Brilliant start. Great song, lyrics about horror stuff, zombies doing a formation dance, Vincent Price intoning spooky shit, an absolute copper-bottomed Halloween floor-filler. You’ve shot your best shot and everyone knows it. You begin to sweat.

Ghostbusters by Ray Parker Jr, 1984

Now you’ve panicked and shoved this on, your most engagingly chanty song that gets even little kids gorging on Maoms jumping around. This would be going great if you had anything even half-decent to follow it, which you haven’t. You thought this would be easier. Shit.

Black Magic by Little Mix, 2015

All but the tween girls abandon the dancefloor as you put on a Halloween song in name only. The lyrics mention potions and crystal balls but it’s just your standard sexy come-on track really. Desperately you try to save it with an undeniable trick-or-treat classic.

The Monster Mash by Bobby Pickett, 1962

As Halloween as f**k, you beam proudly from behind your fake-cobweb-bedecked Bluetooth speaker, so why are the girls leaving the floor? Why are you now playing exclusively to toddlers on sugar highs? It’s because the Monster Mash is a crap novelty song from the 1960s, isn’t it?

Werewolves of London by Warren Zevon, 1978

Left with no other choice, you play some of your more original material. This song’s great and it’s got howls in the chorus. The crowd don’t know it and don’t like it. Nor do they enjoy Zombie Nation, Ghost Town, Black Sabbath or Nine Inch Nails. You’re getting looks from adults that say ‘play the f**king hits, dickhead’.

Thriller by Michael Jackson, 1983

You give up, put the first four songs on shuffle, and get a drink. When asked why you didn’t play the Time Warp, you tell your neighbour to piss off in front of their baby who’s dressed like a pumpkin.