The Falkland Solution

I had suggested last week that the most virulent of the Brexiteers might be persuaded (hey, or forced) to move to the Falkland islands once the noxious Brexit plan has been hit on the head and the ringleaders have been meekly escorted to The Tower.
It works quite well. There are no pesky foreigners in Stanley (a thriving city which features hourly on the Sky News weather forecast), no European nurses, no Remoaners (besides the entirety of the tiny native population), no tropical festivals to worry about and, I am reliably informed, there's not a single mosque in the whole archipelago.
Better still, the accursed Brussels is almost eight thousand miles away. 
Only slightly smaller than Yorkshire - at 12,000 square kilometres -  there's definitely plenty of room for a meaty chunk of  'the seventeen million', and hell, we'll even throw in South Georgia next door.
While there are no foreigners in the Falklands to contend with (a leading point with the Gammoners), there are of course the fiendish Argentinians lurking just across the (sizeable) channel to shake their fists at on Saturday nights after the pub closes.
For the rest of us, a United Kingdom without the Faragistas would be pleasant, and the EU, I am reliably informed, would immediately drop all plans to stop British tourism next year to Benidorm.