The Ballykillduff Dalek Turnip Festival
The Ballykillduff Dalek Turnip Festival
Chapter One: The Tuesday Without a Market
Tuesday, 30th September, dawned damp and suspicious in Ballykillduff. Mist curled around the hedges, the crows croaked disapproval from the telephone wires, and the Daleks gathered at the crossroads in a state of high agitation.
“EX-PLAAAAIN!” roared Dalek Seán, thumping his plunger against the signpost so hard it rattled.
“WHERE… IS… THE TUESDAY MARKET?” screeched Dalek Noreen, swivelling wildly until she nearly tipped into the ditch.
Dalek Pat chimed in, his voice breaking like a rusty gate hinge: “I DEMAND… CARROTS! AND CABBAGES! AND PERHAPS… A NICE HEAD OF LETTUCE!”
But the field where the market usually sprang up like mushrooms after rain was empty. No cabbages, no stalls, no crates of potatoes. Just damp grass and a single dog sniffing disinterestedly at a lamppost.
“IT IS A CONSPIRACY!” declared Dalek Seán. “THE HUMANS HAVE HID THE VEGETABLES… TO STARVE US OUT!”
“OR TO BUILD ANOTHER WIND FARM,” suggested Dalek Noreen darkly.
They whirred and buzzed among themselves, convinced that some terrible plot was underway. That was when Jimmy McGroggan shuffled out of his front gate, wielding a hammer like a weapon. He was in the middle of fixing his lawnmower—or possibly breaking it further, no one could quite tell.
“Would ye ever give over with the screeching?” Jimmy shouted, squinting at them. “You’ll frighten the hens.”
“WHERE… ARE… THE CABBAGES?” demanded Dalek Pat.
Jimmy wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Gone to Tullow. Mrs. Byrne’s van broke an axle, so the market’s been shifted.”
The Daleks froze. Their eyestalks flickered.
“TOOOOOLLOOOOOW…?” they chorused in metallic horror.
“Aye, Tullow,” said Jimmy, giving his lawnmower a thump for good measure. “If ye want your cabbages, ye’ll need to hop the bus.”
There was a pause. The Daleks didn’t like buses. The last time they’d boarded one, the driver had insisted they wear seatbelts, which had ended in considerable confusion and one Dalek dangling helplessly from a luggage hook.
Still, the thought of no vegetables was worse.
“TO THE BUS STOP!” commanded Dalek Seán.
“CAB-BA-GES OR EXTERMINATION!” shrieked Dalek Noreen.
And with that, the entire squad clattered off down the lane in formation, their domes glinting in the watery morning sun.
Behind them, Jimmy McGroggan shook his head and muttered, “There’ll be trouble before tea-time, mark my words.”
But no one heard him except, perhaps, a lone cabbage leaf drifting in the ditch, which gave the faintest sigh, like a lullaby no one else could hear.
The Ballykillduff Dalek Turnip Festival
Chapter Two: The Great Bus Siege
The Ballykillduff bus had never seen such a commotion. At exactly eleven o’clock, the Daleks rolled into the queue like a squadron of angry teapots on wheels.
The driver, Mr. Keogh, was smoking his pipe and trying to read yesterday’s Carlow Nationalist when he looked up—and nearly swallowed the stem whole.
“Ah now, not again,” he groaned. “I told ye lot last time no exterminating the upholstery!”
“WE… DEMAND… TRANSPORT TO TULLOW!” barked Dalek Seán.
“FOR THE PROCUREMENT OF VEGETABLES!” added Dalek Noreen, waving her plunger menacingly at a timetable.
Mr. Keogh sighed. “Exact change only.”
This, of course, was a problem. Daleks were not designed for coin handling. Their plungers could smash concrete and stir soup, but fiddling with fifty-cent pieces? Impossible.
Dalek Pat attempted it first. He hovered a coin above the farebox, dropped it, missed completely, and sent it clattering under the seats.
“ERROR! ERROR! LOST LEGAL TENDER!” he wailed.
In desperation, Dalek Noreen dumped an entire collection of rusty wheel nuts into the driver’s lap.
“THIS IS OUR PAYMENT!”
Mr. Keogh stared at the heap of oily metal. “Well… it’s not euros, but sure, it’ll do for ballast.” He pocketed them with a shrug.
The Daleks rolled triumphantly onto the bus only to be blocked immediately by Old Mrs. Doyle and her shopping trolley.
“You’ll not be getting past me,” she sniffed, wedging the trolley sideways in the aisle. “You nearly upset my eggs last time, with your screeching and shouting.”
“MOVE… OR BE” began Dalek Seán.
“—offered a nice biscuit,” interrupted Dalek Pat hastily. He had spotted Mrs. Doyle’s handbag bulging with Custard Creams.
A tense stand-off followed. Mrs. Doyle refused to budge. The Daleks whirred. Passengers shuffled uncomfortably. Finally, Dalek Noreen whispered in her most diplomatic metallic tone:
“SHARE… THE BISCUITS… AND WE WILL… ALLOW… YOUR TROLLEY A FREE SEAT.”
Mrs. Doyle considered. Then, with a regal sniff, she produced a packet and passed it around. Even the driver got one. Peace was restored.
Almost.
Because Dalek Fintan, who had tried to climb into the luggage rack to secure “SUPERIOR OVERHEAD DOMINANCE”, was now stuck fast, legs dangling, shrieking:
“I AM… THE HATBOX KING! BOW BEFORE MY STORAGE CAPACITY!”
The other Daleks ignored him. The bus engine coughed, spluttered, and lurched out of Ballykillduff with a full load of humans, hens, and belligerent aliens, bound for Tullow.
Somewhere near the back, a cabbage leaf fluttered loose from Mrs. Doyle’s trolley and landed in Dalek Seán’s lap. He swore he heard it hum a lullaby.
The Ballykillduff Dalek Turnip Festival
Chapter Three: The Vanishing Cabbages
The bus jolted into Tullow, brakes squealing, hens clucking, and Dalek Fintan still wedged in the luggage rack singing “I AM THE HATBOX KING” to anyone who would listen.
The Daleks tumbled out in a flurry of plungers and squeaks, rolling straight towards the market square. But when they arrived, they stopped dead.
The stalls were empty. The tables bare. Not a cabbage, carrot, or cauliflower to be seen.
“EX-PLAAAAAIN!” boomed Dalek Seán, swivelling in rage.
Dalek Noreen poked a wooden crate. “THE HUMANS… HAVE STOLEN OUR PRODUCE!”
The villagers of Tullow shuffled nervously. Mrs. Byrne raised her hands.
“They were here a minute ago,” she protested. “Two dozen heads of cabbage, stacked as neat as soldiers. And then…”
She gulped.
“Then they were gone.”
The Daleks clustered, muttering in metallic tones. Could vegetables simply… vanish?
Just then, Dalek Pat spotted something. A leaf. A cabbage leaf, bright and green, fluttering gently on the cobbles. He followed it, and found another, and another. Soon, the Daleks were clattering through the lanes of Tullow, following a breadcrumb trail of cabbage leaves that wound its way towards the church.
The trail ended at the graveyard gate.
“ANCIENT BURIAL SITE DETECTED,” intoned Dalek Seán.
“IRRELEVANT,” replied Dalek Noreen. “CABBAGES TAKE PRIORITY.”
They pushed the gate open.
And there, among the headstones, stood three scarecrows. Each wore a wide-brimmed hat, a patchwork jacket, and in their straw-stuffed hands… shopping bags. Shopping bags bulging with cabbages.
The Daleks froze. Their eyestalks twitched.
Dalek Pat crept forward. “IDENTIFY YOURSELVES!” he demanded.
One scarecrow tilted its head, and in a perfectly ordinary Carlow accent, replied:
“We bought these fair and square at the market. Three euro for the lot. Bargain.”
The Daleks screeched in outrage.
“ILLEGAL TRANSACTION! VEGETABLE THEFT! EXTERMINATE!”
The scarecrows only smiled with their stitched mouths and clutched their cabbages tighter. And then, stranger still, their shadows began to move. Long, leafy shadows that slithered across the grass like vines, reaching out to the Daleks’ wheels.
Dalek Noreen shrieked:
“THE CABBAGES… ARE HAUNTED!”
The bells of Tullow church rang noon, and with each toll, the scarecrows seemed to grow taller.
Behind them, Jimmy McGroggan muttered, “I warned ye there’d be trouble before tea-time.”
The Ballykillduff Dalek Turnip Festival
Chapter Four: The Subterranean Turnip Conspiracy
The scarecrows did not move, though their shadows crept like ivy across the graveyard grass. The Daleks, hissing with outrage, rolled forward, only for the ground to give way beneath them.
With a metallic chorus of “ERROR! ERROR! GRAVITY MALFUNCTION!” they tumbled into the earth, down a steep, damp tunnel, bouncing off roots and stones until they landed in a cavern deep below the church.
What they saw was stranger than any vegetable stall in Tullow.
The cavern glowed with a soft, green light. All around them stretched row upon row of enormous turnips, pulsing faintly like lanterns. Their leaves rustled though there was no breeze, and as the Daleks regained their bearings, a sound rose: a low murmur, like hundreds of voices whispering all at once.
Dalek Seán rotated in alarm. “AUDITORY DISTURBANCE DETECTED!”
Dalek Noreen’s eyestalk quivered. “THE TURNIPS… ARE SPEAKING!”
And indeed, they were.
One particularly large turnip, glowing brighter than the rest, wobbled on its roots, sprouted a tiny mouth, and intoned in a booming (yet distinctly Carlow) voice:
“We are the Ancient Vegetable Guardians of Carlow! For centuries we have slumbered beneath this graveyard, protecting the land from famine, pestilence, and the occasional greedy scarecrow.”
The Daleks screeched in unison:
“EX-PLAAAAIN!”
The turnip ignored them. Instead, its glowing eyes narrowed.
“You have disturbed our rest. Therefore, you must host a festival in our honour. You will celebrate the glory of the turnip with fire, music, and dancing, or face eternal indigestion.”
Dalek Pat tried to protest. “TURNIPS… ARE INFERIOR VEGETABLES! CABBAGES ARE SUPERIOR!”
At once, the cavern shook. The walls echoed with the chorus of hundreds of turnips chanting, “Turnips! Turnips! Turnips!” Their voices rose until the Daleks’ sensors nearly cracked.
Dalek Seán backed down quickly. “ACKNOWLEDGED. TURNIPS ARE… ADEQUATE.”
The glowing turnip smiled smugly.
“You will build us a festival, or you shall regret it. Begin at once.”
Before the Daleks could object further, another turnip hopped free of the soil on spindly legs and piped up in a squeaky voice:
“Actually, I am the High King of Carrots!”
“YOU CLEARLY ARE NOT,” the other turnips muttered in irritation. The self-declared carrot king sulked into a corner, muttering something about destiny.
The Daleks had no choice. They trundled back up through the tunnels, carts piled high with glowing, whispering turnips, their minds already turning to the strange preparations awaiting them in Ballykillduff.
As they emerged once more into the sunlight, Jimmy McGroggan, leaning on the graveyard wall, raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t even want to know,” he said.
The Ballykillduff Dalek Turnip Festival
Chapter Five: Preparations in Ballykillduff
The Daleks returned from the cavern dragging carts piled high with glowing turnips. Each vegetable muttered, hummed, or offered unwanted advice. The villagers of Ballykillduff watched in silence as the convoy rattled into the crossroads, green light spilling from the carts like fairy fire.
“COMMENCE FESTIVAL PREPARATIONS,” barked Dalek Seán.
“TURNIP WORSHIP IS MANDATORY,” added Dalek Noreen.
The Daleks set to work at once. They plastered posters across every gatepost and telegraph pole, all crudely painted with slogans like Dance or Be Exterminated! and Turnip Glory Forever! Jimmy McGroggan was press-ganged into carpentry duty, though he spent most of his time muttering that it would end in disaster.
Meanwhile, Dalek Pat unveiled the centrepiece: a towering bonfire shaped like a giant teapot. It leaned slightly to one side and smoked ominously whenever the wind caught it. “SYMBOLIC STRUCTURE COMPLETE,” Pat announced proudly, even as sparks rained down on his casing.
The whispering turnips were not satisfied. They insisted on costumes. Soon, every villager was ordered to wear a hat made entirely of turnips. Mrs. Doyle complained that hers smelled of compost. Jimmy’s kept sliding down over his eyes. Father Hanratty’s collapsed altogether and rolled away into the ditch, where it continued to mutter prayers in Latin until the cows came home.
Music was next. The Daleks rounded up every fiddler, accordion player, and bodhrán beater they could find. The musicians were told that refusal would result in extermination. They nodded politely, then asked if they might have a few sandwiches first. The Daleks, not understanding the ways of céilí musicians, granted them a full tea break which lasted nearly an hour.
By sunset, Ballykillduff was transformed. Turnip lanterns glowed from every window. The teapot bonfire loomed over the crossroads, creaking and threatening to topple. The villagers shuffled in their hats, muttering about health and safety regulations. And the Daleks rolled in circles, shrieking with glee.
Dalek Fintan, still obsessed with vertical superiority, attempted to perch on top of the bonfire. He wobbled dangerously, shouting “I AM THE HIGH TEAPOT LORD,” before tumbling into a haystack. The haystack muttered, “Ouch.” Nobody knew why.
The stage was set for the strangest festival Ballykillduff had ever known.
The Ballykillduff Dalek Turnip Festival
Chapter Six: The Festival Begins
As the sun dipped below the hedgerows, Ballykillduff glowed like a lantern. Turnip hats wobbled on every villager’s head. Turnip lanterns swung from tree branches and cottage windows. The teapot bonfire crackled merrily, spitting sparks into the twilight.
Dalek Seán rolled to the centre of the square and shouted, “COMMENCE THE CÉILÍ. ALL HUMANS MUST PARTICIPATE. RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.”
The musicians sighed, wiped crumbs from their beards, and launched into a lively jig. At once, villagers were hauled into the dance, pushed and spun by the overexcited Daleks. Mrs. Doyle’s trolley was commandeered as a dance partner, whirling around with surprising grace. Jimmy McGroggan shuffled in circles, his turnip hat slipping over his eyes every third step.
The Daleks tried to join in. They wheeled forward, then backward, bumping into one another with metallic shrieks. Dalek Noreen attempted a set dance figure, collided with a milk churn, and sent it skidding into the fiddler’s shin. The fiddler yelped but kept playing, for he feared extermination more than bruises.
Then came the strangest sight of all. Dalek Pat spun too quickly on his axis, creating such momentum that his casing rose slowly into the air. He floated a full three feet above the ground, shrieking triumphantly.
“I AM LEVITATING. I AM THE CEILÍ MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE.”
The villagers gasped. Some clapped politely. Others wondered whether the laws of physics had simply given up for the night.
Dalek Pat twirled higher, his eyestalk swivelling wildly. His turnip hat flew off and landed on Father Hanratty’s dog, who barked with such solemn dignity that the musicians shifted into a slower, more reverent tune.
Meanwhile, the whispering turnips grew restless. They glowed brighter, their voices rising above the music. Some chanted encouragement, others offered unsolicited critiques of the dancing. One particularly rude turnip shouted, “Yer footwork is dreadful,” which caused Mrs. Doyle to trip over her trolley.
The céilí continued in a whirl of sparks, music, and vegetables. Ballykillduff had never seen such chaos. Yet amid the madness, laughter rang louder than the Daleks’ metallic commands.
The festival had truly begun.
The Ballykillduff Dalek Turnip Festival
Chapter Seven: The Great Turnip Revolt
Midnight struck, and the céilí was still going strong. The fiddles scraped, the bodhráns thumped, and Dalek Pat continued to hover proudly in mid-air. Villagers staggered in their turnip hats, some laughing, some dizzy, and Father Hanratty’s dog snored under the bench, still wearing its borrowed crown.
Then it began.
The turnips. The whispering ones. They had grown restless throughout the evening, muttering criticisms and singing half-remembered hymns. Now, as the final chime of midnight echoed across Ballykillduff, they glowed brighter than ever.
One rolled off the cart. Another shook itself free of a lantern string. Then, with a great crackling sound, the entire pile of turnips exploded into motion.
They rolled in every direction, glowing like green fireballs. Some darted under hedges. Others bounced across the céilí floor, toppling dancers like ninepins. A particularly cheeky one knocked Jimmy McGroggan’s hat clean off and shouted, “Freedom!” before vanishing into the dark.
Dalek Seán shrieked, “RECAPTURE THE ROOT VEGETABLES!”
Dalek Noreen spun in circles, firing warning shots into the sky.
Dalek Fintan, still levitating, tried to give chase, but drifted helplessly into the branches of a sycamore tree.
The villagers scattered, torn between fear and laughter. Mrs. Doyle pursued a glowing turnip into the ditch, shouting that it still owed her two euro. Father Hanratty tripped over his own cassock and landed in a wheelbarrow, which promptly wheeled itself away, pushed by three turnips working together.
Then came the strangest sight of all. From the hills above Ballykillduff, a flock of sheep appeared, their eyes wide, their hooves pounding the earth. They charged straight into the village, not to trample but to join the chase. At their head, faint music played, though no musician could be seen. It was the sound of invisible pipes, drifting eerily from the night sky.
The sheep herded the turnips like old friends, chasing them across fields and over stone walls. The Daleks clattered after them, shouting, “CEASE AND DESIST! RETURN TO CONTAINMENT!” but they could barely keep up.
By dawn, Ballykillduff lay in ruins. The teapot bonfire had collapsed into a pile of smoking timber. The céilí musicians slept where they had fallen, their instruments still in hand. Villagers stumbled back from the fields, scratched, muddy, and utterly baffled.
The turnips were gone.
Every last one had vanished into the hedgerows, leaving behind only faint whispers and the lingering smell of compost.
Dalek Seán rolled to the centre of the village square and announced grimly, “THE FESTIVAL… HAS FAILED.”
The villagers, however, were not so sure. They agreed quietly among themselves that it was the finest night of entertainment Ballykillduff had ever seen.
The Ballykillduff Dalek Turnip Festival
Chapter Eight: Resolution and Revelation
Dawn spilled gold across Ballykillduff. The village lay strewn with turnip hats, broken fiddles, and the smouldering wreck of the teapot bonfire. Villagers sat slumped on fences and doorsteps, bleary-eyed but still chuckling about the night’s absurdities.
The Daleks, however, were not amused. Their casings were scuffed, their plungers dented, and their voices rasped with indignation.
“THE FESTIVAL WAS INEF-FI-CIENT,” declared Dalek Seán.
“TURNIPS ARE UNRELIABLE ALLIES,” added Dalek Noreen.
Dalek Fintan, still tangled in sycamore branches, croaked weakly, “I AM… HUNG UP.”
Yet in the middle of the chaos, Dalek Pat lifted his plunger. In its grip was a single glowing turnip, the last of the whispering kind. Unlike the others, this one did not mutter orders or criticisms. It simply glowed softly, like a nightlight.
The Daleks fell silent. For the first time in their history, they looked almost… content. Dalek Seán cleared his throat.
“THIS ONE… WILL BE KEPT AS A PET.”
The villagers stared. Jimmy McGroggan rubbed his eyes. “A pet turnip? That’ll end well, so it will.”
The villagers began to drift home, yawning and shaking their heads, already wondering how on earth they would explain this to anyone outside Ballykillduff. Father Hanratty’s dog padded by, still wearing its turnip crown, looking more regal than any king.
Jimmy lingered by the ditch. He bent down to pick up what he thought was just another leaf. Then he froze. It was a cabbage leaf, fresh and green. And just as he touched it, the leaf gave him a sly wink.
Jimmy blinked hard. “Ah now,” he muttered, “that’s not natural.”
He looked around, but no one else had seen it. The Daleks were busy fussing over their new turnip companion, and the villagers were too tired to care. So Jimmy kept the secret to himself.
Somewhere deep in the ditch, a soft lullaby echoed for just a moment, carried away on the breeze.
And thus ended the first and possibly last Dalek Turnip Festival of Ballykillduff.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 