The Ballykillduff Daleks Go to Dublin

A Most Unusual Day Out — Extended Edition (12 Chapters)

Here’s the list of Dalek names on the extended Ballykillduff Dublin adventure:

• Chief Dalek McSpud – the self-appointed leader, dramatic and bossy.
• Dalek Murphy – practical, often points out the obvious, and wears the juggler’s hat.
• Wee Dalek O’Toole – sleepy, grumbly, fond of tea, surprisingly poetic at times.
• Dalek Breda – the organised one, arrives with a checklist, buys seeds at the Botanic Gardens, and pins a hair bobbin to her bumps.

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Chapter One — The Journey Begins (With a Smell of Cabbage)

Ballykillduff woke to birdsong, the clink of milk bottles, and, moments later, a noise like an orchestra falling down the stairs.

“BOREDOM LEVEL: MAXIMUM,” declared Chief Dalek McSpud, spinning on the boreen until a hen fainted. “SOLUTION: ADVENTURE.”

Dalek Murphy rolled out of the tool shed, still dripping from last night’s rain. Wee Dalek O’Toole yawned so loudly his eyestalk fogged. A fourth, practical unit—Dalek Breda—appeared with a travel checklist taped to her dome: Polish bumps, bring map, don’t shout EXTERMINATE at civilians (unless necessary).

“DESTINATION?” asked Murphy.

“DUBLIN! CITY OF STRANGE HUMANS, UNUSUAL STATUES, AND SNACK OPPORTUNITIES,” boomed McSpud.

“COUNTER‑PROPOSAL: TEA FIRST,” said O’Toole.

No one listened. With a spectacular WHOOSH and a puff of cabbage-scented smoke, their travel engines ignited. A sheep executed an Olympic‑standard side‑hop as the four Daleks rattled off down the lane.

“STATEMENT: SHEEP ARE DRAMATIC,” Murphy noted.

“COUNTER‑STATEMENT: WE ARE MORE DRAMATIC,” McSpud replied, and on they zoomed, destiny (and Dublin) just over the horizon.

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Chapter Two — The LUAS Problem

They arrived with a squeal of brakes and a chorus of confused pigeons. The LUAS tram glided in beside them like a silver eel.

“OBSERVATION: CITY SNAKE ON RAILS,” said Murphy.

“CORRECTION: PUBLIC TRANSPORT,” Breda said. “RULES: TAP ON. STAND CLEAR. DO NOT BLOCK DOORS WITH PLUNGERS.”

They tapped nothing, blocked everything, and boarded anyway. The tram chimed; the doors tried to close; the doors met Dalek. The tram gave up.

“ANNOUNCEMENT: PLEASE MOVE DOWN THE TRAM,” said a voice.

“RESPONSE: WE CANNOT MOVE DOWN. WE ARE THE DOWN,” McSpud replied, which made no sense and yet felt true.

A child waved his Leap card. “Mister Robot, you forgot to pay!”

“WE POSSESS NO POCKETS,” O’Toole confessed. The driver arrived, took one look, and decided to escort them off personally—very politely—at the next stop. The whole carriage applauded. A lady handed Breda a hair bobbin “for the bumps,” which Breda accepted solemnly as a cultural offering.

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Chapter Three — The Wellington Monument (and a Juggling Emergency)

Phoenix Park opened like a green sea. Deer stared; cyclists swerved; a jogger shouted, “Welcome to Dublin, lads!” as if Daleks were just very determined wheelie bins.

The Wellington Monument stabbed the sky like the world’s most moral pencil.

“STATEMENT: GIANT STONE CARROT,” Murphy said.

“CORRECTION: OBELISK,” Breda read from a brochure. “BUILT TO COMMEMORATE—”

“COMMENCE CELEBRATION!” McSpud ordered. A street performer appeared, juggling clubs. The Daleks gazed, mesmerised.

One club dropped. Three Daleks shouted “EXTERMINATE!” on reflex. The juggler teleported (emotionally) and bequeathed them his cap. Murphy wore it at a jaunty angle.

A deer approached, sniffed O’Toole’s plunger, and attempted to eat it. O’Toole, touched by the gesture, promised to name his next squeak of hydraulics “Bambi.”

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Chapter Four — The Mummies of St. Michan’s (Customer Service, Afterlife Division)

They clattered down into the crypt, overtaking a tour group with cheerful cries of, “MAKE WAY FOR CULTURAL APPRECIATION.”

Dry air, echoing arches, open coffins. The famous mummies rested inside, looking suspiciously delighted.

“OBSERVATION: DEAD HUMANS STORED IN BOXES,” reported Murphy.

One mummy propped himself up on an elbow. “Speak for yourself, love. I’m having a grand afterlife.”

“CLARIFY: ARE YOU HAUNTING?” asked Breda, producing a feedback form.

“Only on weekends,” the mummy winked. “Do you do birthday parties?”

The guide rushed in, horrified. “Mind the humidity! And no touching the historic persons!”

“REASSURANCE: WE ARE TOUCHING NOTHING EXCEPT THE PRESENT MOMENT,” O’Toole said, which was poetic and therefore suspicious. They posed for photos, were shooed firmly, and left a five‑star review: EXCELLENT CRYPT. WOULD REPOSE AGAIN.

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Chapter Five — Moore Street Masterclass

The market called to them: spices, fruit, the proud roar of banter.

“STRAWBERRIES, LOVE! THREE FOR A FIVER!”

“OBSERVATION: VOLUME SET TO MAXIMUM,” McSpud said approvingly.

A stallholder sized them up. “Ye’re fierce shiny, lads. Want a bag o’ turnips for them bumps?”

“CLARIFY: WILL TURNIPS IMPROVE AERODYNAMICS?” Breda asked.

“No, but they’ll keep ye regular.”

They attempted haggling. O’Toole offered a juggler’s hat, two metro maps and a squeak of hydraulics. The stallholder, delighted, threw in a free cabbage. The Daleks, deeply moved, held a short ceremony in which they named the cabbage “General Wellington.”

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Chapter Six — Trinity College (Shushed by the Best)

They rolled into Trinity like four golden walnuts. Students pointed, then shrugged: exam season had already shown them stranger things.

Inside the Long Room, the air smelled of time and polished wood.

“RULE: NO SHOUTING,” Breda whispered.

“ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: WE SHALL WHISPER AT MAXIMUM VOLUME,” McSpud whispered, rattling the dust.

They queued for the Book of Kells.

“QUERY: IS THIS THE BOOK OF SPILLS?” asked Murphy, respectfully wiping a coffee ring off a brochure with his plunger.

A librarian appeared, all quiet thunder. “No flash, no touch, and absolutely no… exterminating.”

“AGREED,” said the Daleks, chastened. O’Toole bought a bookmark that said Mind Yourself. He promised to display it somewhere visible and immediately lost it behind a bump.

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Chapter Seven — A Grand (Post) Office

They crossed O’Connell Street to the GPO, where history hummed under the marble. A re-enactment was in progress.

“OBSERVATION: HUMANS SHOUTING AT HISTORY,” said Murphy.

“JOINING,” said McSpud, rolling onto the set. “DECLARATION: I TOO PROCLAIM A REPUBLIC OF REASONABLE QUEUES.”

The actors paused. The director sighed the sigh of a man who has directed the GPO for twenty years and never once scheduled Daleks. “Fine,” he said. “You can be artillery.”

The audience applauded wildly as the Daleks provided tasteful pew‑pew noises. Someone handed O’Toole a tricolour; he wore it like a sash, wept metal tears, and ate an emotional mint from a lady’s handbag.

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Chapter Eight — The Botanic Gardens (Now with Extra Camouflage)

Green surged around them: glasshouses, palms, flowers as loud as trumpets.

“STRATEGY: BLEND,” McSpud ordered.

They crouched in the shrubbery. Their gold bumps shone like disco balls. A school tour spotted them instantly. “MISS, THE JUNGLE HAS BINS!”

Gardeners attached polite Please Do Not Photosynthesise on the Paths signs to their casings. Breda bought seed packets. “FOR BALLYKILLDUFF. PROJECT CODE‑NAME: EX‑GERMINATE.”

A butterfly landed on Murphy’s eyestalk and refused to leave. “STATEMENT: VISION FILTERED THROUGH DELICATE BEING,” he murmured, reversing slowly so as not to disturb it and immediately rolling into a begonia.

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Chapter Nine — Dublin Zoo: Penguins vs. Plungers

“PENGUINS: ARMOUR‑PLATED BIRDS,” McSpud announced at the habitat.

A penguin waddled up and stared into O’Toole’s lens with the gravity of a tiny admiral. O’Toole saluted. The penguin saluted back (by falling over). Diplomatic relations were established.

At the flamingos, Breda attempted yoga (“POSE: TALL BIRD”) and toppled gently into a bush. A keeper approached, looked at the four of them, and decided that today was already interesting enough. “Grand altogether,” he said, and walked away at a meaningful speed.

They considered adopting a meerkat. The meerkat considered adopting them. Everyone slept on it for twelve seconds and agreed to remain friends.

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Chapter Ten — The Storehouse and the Snug

The Guinness Storehouse rose like a dark, fizzy castle. McSpud delivered a lecture on foam management he had just invented. A guide, unflappable, guided them past the giant pint glass.

“TECHNICAL ISSUE: NO MOUTHS,” Murphy confessed at the tasting.

“WORKAROUND: PLUNGER PROTOCOL,” Breda said, deploying the rubbery solution. The group cheered. A barman wrote SLÁINTE, BALLYKILLDUFF in the foam with a stick like a calligrapher of stout.

That evening they tucked themselves into a snug off O’Connell Street. Locals raised glasses; a fiddler struck up; the Daleks joined the chorus with metallic harmonies. On the high notes they accidentally shouted “EXTERMINATE!” which everyone took as the chorus. A woman crowned McSpud with a flat cap and declared him “SOUND.”

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Chapter Eleven — Bridges, Buskers & Viking Splash

They trundled over the Ha’penny Bridge very slowly while tourists took 4,000 photographs. “MODEL: HA’PENNY,” Breda said. “WEIGHT LIMIT: DO NOT ASK.”

In Temple Bar, buskers battled for supremacy. The Daleks formed a folk band called The Rolling Plungers. Their debut single, I Will Ex‑Foliate (You), drew three euros, a banana, and a strongly worded letter from a bodhrán.

A Viking Splash Tour rumbled by. The guide handed them plastic helmets. “RAID DODDER, YES?” McSpud asked. “AFTER LUNCH,” said the guide. They shouted “RAID! RAID!” and then “WAVE! WAVE!” at pedestrians, who waved back because that is the law.

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Chapter Twelve — Heuston, We Have a Problem (and a Home)

At Heuston Station the inspector examined their tickets (nonexistent), their casings (scuffed), and their cabbage (heroic).

“Sorry now, lads. No Daleks beyond this point. Ye’ll scratch the carriages.”

The Daleks sighed in their metallic way and turned toward the sunset. “ANNOUNCEMENT: WE ARE UNWANTED,” Murphy grumbled.

“CORRECTION: WE ARE SIMPLY TOO MUCH,” Breda said gently. “AND DUBLIN IS FULL.”

They fired up the travel engines one last time. WHOOSH. Back to Ballykillduff they went, rolling into the yard as the first stars popped on like fairy lights.

McSpud looked at his friends: one in a flat cap, one with a butterfly still perched like a medal, one clutching seed packets and a tricolour sash.

“DECLARATION: WE FIT RIGHT IN,” he said.

“ADDENDUM: NEXT TRIP—TULLOW ON MARKET DAY,” O’Toole proposed.

“UPGRADE: INTERCONTINENTAL,” Murphy countered. “PARIS? NEW YORK? ATHY?”

Breda pinned the hair bobbin to a bump like a campaign ribbon. “MISSION REPORT: LAUGHS HAD, HISTORY ACCIDENTALLY JOINED, PLANTS RESPECTED, PENGUINS SALUTED. STATUS: SUCCESS.”

Somewhere in Dublin, a juggler told a story about the day artillery applauded him. A librarian smiled in her sleep. A penguin dreamed of commanding a tiny fleet. And in Ballykillduff, four ridiculous, wonderful Daleks powered down—ready to roll again at the first scent of cabbage and adventure.

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Bonus: Helpful Glossary for Non‑Daleks

• EX‑GERMINATE: Gardening undertaken with unnecessary drama.
• PLUNGER PROTOCOL: Approved method for tasting Guinness without a mouth.
• WHOOSH: Proprietary Ballykillduff Travel Engine sound; faint aroma of cabbage is a feature, not a bug.
• SOUND: Dublin adjective meaning entirely acceptable; also, what the Daleks make when singing.

The End (for now).