The presidential motorcade, usually a beacon of solemnity, was currently attempting a precarious three-point turn in a field that smelled distinctly of prize-winning Kerry cows. Inside, President McMurrow, a man whose silver hair and kindly eyes belied a mischievous wit, chuckled. “Remind me again, Fiona,” he addressed his chief of staff, “why we bypassed the usual diplomatic channels for a direct engagement with… the Ballykillduff Daleks?”

Fiona, a woman who had seen it all – from rogue shamrock presentations to international incidents involving a missing Taoiseach and a particularly enthusiastic hurling team – sighed. “Because, Mr. President, their ‘Exterminate All Humans’ manifesto was getting an alarming amount of traction on TikTok, and Fine Gael were starting to panic about the youth vote.”

Just then, a shrill, metallic voice screeched from beyond the hawthorn hedge. “EXTERNAL-LIN-GUISH! EX-TER-NAL-LIN-GUISH THE GRAZING MENACE!”

“Ah,” President McMurrow adjusted his tie, a subtle nod to the seriousness of the occasion. “Sounds like our welcoming committee.”

They emerged to a truly surreal sight. Five Daleks, unmistakably Daleks, but with a distinct Ballykillduff charm. One had a tricolour painted rather crudely on its side. Another wore a tiny, ill-fitting leprechaun hat. The leader, a particularly rusty specimen, had what looked suspiciously like a hurley stick strapped to its casing.

“GREET-INGS, FLESH-BAG!” screeched the hurley-wielding Dalek. “WE ARE THE DA-LEKS OF BALLY-KILL-DUFF! PRE-PARE TO BE… ENTER-TAINED!”

President McMurrow raised an eyebrow. “Entertained, you say? Not exterminated?”

“EX-TER-MIN-ATE IS SO… LAST SEA-SON,” replied another Dalek, its eye-stalk swivelling to glare at a sheep that had dared to bleat nearby. “WE HAVE DE-CID-ED TO EM-BRACE LO-CAL CUL-TURE!”

It turned out their TikTok fame had come from their surprisingly viral Riverdance routine. “WE HAVE MOD-I-FIED OUR PLUN-GERS FOR PER-CUSS-IVE DANC-ING!” explained the Dalek with the leprechaun hat. “WOULD YOU LIKE A DEM-ON-STRA-TION, MR. PRES-I-DENT?”

Before McMurrow could answer, a local farmer, Seamus O’Malley, ambled over, scratching his head. “Are these the fellas who keep rearrangin’ my hay bales into the shape of the Millennium Falcon?”

The Daleks froze. “NEG-A-TIVE! THAT IS A SLAN-DER-OUS AC-CU-SA-TION!”

“Oh, come off it,” Seamus scoffed. “My prize-winning ram, Brendan, saw you! Said you were humming the Star Wars theme tune!”

President McMurrow, struggling to suppress a laugh, intervened. “Gentlemen, perhaps we could discuss your, ah, ‘cultural integration’ over a cup of tea? I believe Fiona has brought some Tayto.”

The word ‘Tayto’ seemed to short-circuit the Daleks. “POT-AT-O BASED SNACK PROD-UCT? EX-PLAIN! EX-PLAIN!”

Hours later, the presidential motorcade departed, leaving behind a scene of utter bewilderment and joy. The Ballykillduff Daleks were now sporting tiny GAA jerseys, had learned to play a passable bodhrán rhythm with their plungers, and were eagerly discussing the merits of cheese and onion crisps versus salt and vinegar.