If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise. Because the way things are going, you’re going to find a bunch of fighting-age migrant men, fresh off the super-dinghies, being treated to a Teddy Bear’s Picnic, with Paddington himself (surely the new spirit animal of our de-fanged nation, having replaced the rather-too-pleased-with-themselves lion and unicorn) doing the honours with the tea pot.

And if Edwina Currie has anything to do with it, they’ll be able to take a lovely trip to a makeshift local brothel to exploit sad sex workers when the cucumber sandwiches run out.

Currie is currently giving Dawn French and Narinder Kaur a run for their money in the gaga online-posting stakes. She was always a showboater – in 1988, as a junior health minister, she made egg sales drop by 60 per cent when she proclaimed that most of them were riddled with salmonella, leading farmers to destroy a whopping 400million of them and slaughter four million hens. She also appointed Jimmy Savile, expressing her ‘full confidence’ in him, to run a taskforce in charge of Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital, where he went on to rape female patients.

At least she could be forced to resign when she was a politician, which she did a fortnight after the salmonella scandal. Now nothing can shut her up. I blame sex. Once she was revealed as former prime minister John Major’s mistress, she re-invented herself as a somewhat ‘racy’ lady and milked it for all it was worth. As the BBC put it in 2002 in a report called Westminster’s Odd Couple, ‘The man who tucked his shirt into his underpants had a four-year affair with the most outspoken and sexually interested woman of her political generation – a sort of Essex girl Margaret Thatcher’. Though Major somewhat embarrassingly issued a statement saying that he was ashamed of their fling, she hung on in there, calling him ‘the love of her life’.

She has written six novels stippled with sex, but stopped in 2001; that would tie in with the rise of the internet, when a lot of media blabbermouths discovered that sitting in front of a camera in your ‘study’ for a few minutes every morning is far easier than bashing out thousands of words about throbbing members. The words ‘gob on a stick’ invariably come to mind when thinking of Currie, and never more than this week on Times Radio.

Whereas once delightfully common, she has grown into the most patronising Lady Muck this side of Emily Thornberry, and the first thing she did was correct the presenter who called them migrants – ‘I think you mean asylum seekers!’. The second was to say of the current controversy about whether it is wise to put over a thousand young male migrants next to a small village: ‘The obvious thing that 1,200 young men are gonna need is a brothel!’

I’ve heard it all now. I thought that Care4Calais was bad enough. Its annual report boasted that it had handed 62,000 items to would-be migrants to Blighty on French beaches, including ‘snug-packs’ and SIM cards. ‘Asylum seekers’ can get free laptops, on which they can while away the hours watching pornography, from charities and ‘inclusion’ programmes like Screen Share UK and Solidaritech. Other donors will provide free mobile phones, chargers and, ahem, internet access.

If the people who do these things weren’t be-clowning themselves enough, there are also actual clowns for Calais, charity workers on the appropriately named ‘Loon-Plage’. The Telegraph reports that 67-year-old Laurence Quetel and her dungaree-clad troupe’s attempts to entertain migrants while they waited to be served lunch, made for an ‘incongruous performance in the squalid camp of Loon-Plage on the outskirts of Calais… Only 50 metres away, gangs of Kurdish people smugglers huddled in tents and plotted the next batch of crossings over the English Channel.’ The accompanying photographs show lines of baffled migrants, clearly wondering why anyone would make such a show of themselves. The one upside is that Quetel trained as a hospital clown but has for some years moved her skills to migrant camps – so that’s a bunch of sick children who don’t have yet another trial to endure.

Getting a far better reception are the young female charity workers who sometimes go to the beaches to dance for the young men. You can see the migrants grinning at them and thinking: ‘You absolute slag – I bet all Western women are like you!’ These are the sort of women who would have a nervous breakdown if a white man called them ‘darlin’. And now Edwina Currie is opining that opening brothels in areas where there are high numbers of migrants would be a useful move. I’ve heard of ‘the Pull factor’ but this is ridiculous.

Offering an unreserved welcome to fighting-age men from cultures that see women as a cross between children and chattel and who come into your country illegally does not seem like a very smart move. It’s like someone – with a sad backstory, maybe even homeless – breaking into your house and you react by giving them soup, a SIM card and your spare room for an indefinite period. And, if Currie gets her wicked way, a bunk-up seems likely too. Now, there’s an offer many a sex-starved lad from a sexually segregated society will find hard to resist.

Of course, it won’t be Edwina or any of her female friends and relatives (certainly not her ghastly lookalike daughter Debbie) staffing these grim sex factories. It’ll be the youngest and poorest and most easily exploited women, many of them from overseas themselves, the nature of prostitution being what it is. Importing female migrants to be used as sexual spittoons by male migrants – O brave new world, that has such people in it! Put that in your next ‘Isles of Wonder’ pageant, Frank Cottrell-Boyce, between the NHS and the Blitz Spirit!

Can you imagine how Edwina Currie’s throwaway line – while she goes about the business of mouthing off to earn her daily sourdough – will add to the lure of our tiny island? We’ve already got economic migrants masquerading as asylum seekers; now we’ll have sex migrants pretending to be economic migrants.

If Currie seeks to persist with her crusade to facilitate illegals getting their end away, perhaps she might posit the notion that – just as at many sex clubs – no man is allowed in without being accompanied by a female. It would certainly give pause for thought to the cowards leaving all their mothers, sisters and girlfriends at home (in ‘war zones’, don’t forget, according to the aid workers) while they rush to fill their boots with all the bounty – booty, even – that our ineffably degraded old country has to offer.