The trouble began…

The trouble began, as it often does in Ballykillduff, with Old Seamus Fitzgerald thinking he’d had one too many pints of Murphy’s. He was staring out the window of his cottage, past his prize-winning turnip patch, at a large, bell-shaped object that had crash-landed in Father O’Hanlon’s petunia beds.

“Bridget,” he called to his wife, “am I seein’ things, or is there a great lump of a pepper pot in the Father’s garden?”

Bridget, who was kneading soda bread dough with the force of a woman who had raised six sons, didn’t even look up. “If it’s not a pepper pot, it’s a new abstract sculpture for the village fête. Now pass the butter.”

It was not a pepper pot, nor was it abstract art. It was a Dalek scout ship. And with a hiss, a door slid open, and a creature of pure hatred rolled out onto the manicured lawn.

It was bronze, covered in strange bumps and slats, with a single, malevolent blue eye that swivelled around. One arm ended in a plunger, the other in what looked like an elaborate egg-beater. It surveyed the quiet village, the rolling green hills, and the one pub, The Giddy Goat.

“ALERT! ALERT! THIS ENVIRONMENT IS UNFAMILIAR! SCANNING FOR LIFE-FORMS!” it screeched in its metallic, grating voice.

Mrs. O’Donnell, who was hanging out her washing next door, nearly dropped her favourite pegs. “Well, would you listen to that,” she muttered to her tabby cat. “Sounds like one of them noisy city fellas on a motorbike. No respect for the peace.”

The Dalek rolled forward, its eyestalk fixing on Old Seamus. “YOU! YOU WILL DIRECT ME TO THE NEAREST URBAN COMMAND CENTRE! YOU WILL BE EXTERMINATED IF YOU FAIL!”

Seamus, now joined by Bridget at the window, squinted. “A command centre, is it? Well, the only one who gives commands around here is Mrs. Flanagan at the post office, and she’ll be closed for her lunch. You’re best trying the pub. Jimmy the barman might know.”

The Dalek processed this. “THIS ‘PUB’… IS IT A SEAT OF PLANETARY DOMINATION?”

“Oh, aye,” said Bridget, wiping her floury hands on her apron. “Many a takeover has been planned at the corner stool. Tell him Jimmy sent you.”

Confused but following orders, the Dalek began to roll down the main street. Its progress was immediately hampered. Daleks are designed for smooth, futuristic cities and spaceship corridors. They are not designed for the pothole-riddled, sheep-dropping-adorned lanes of County Kerry.

“UN-STAB-LE! UN-STAB-LE!” it whined as it bounced and jolted along.

It reached the stone bridge over the lazy river. A large, philosophical-looking ram named Derek stood in the middle of the road, chewing thoughtfully.

“MOVE, INFERIOR CREATURE! YOU WILL OBEY THE DALEKS!”

Derek simply stared, then took a step forward and butted the Dalek’s dome with a solid thunk.

“RECALIBRATING! RECALIBRATING! HOSTILE FAUNA!” The Dalek spun in a confused circle.

Finally, it arrived at The Giddy Goat. It couldn’t get up the two steps to the door. “ELEVATE! ELEVATE!” it demanded futilely.

Young Liam Donnelly was leaning against the doorframe, smoking. “You’ll not get in that way, boyo. Here,” he said, taking pity. He grabbed the Dalek’s casing. “On three. One… two… HEAVE!”

With a grunt from Liam and a screech of protest from the Dalek, it was manhandled into the pub.

Silence fell. Every patron in the dimly lit pub turned to stare.

The Dalek recovered its composure, its eyestalk scanning the room. “WHICH OF YOU IS THE SUPREME COMMANDER?”

Jimmy the barman, polishing a glass, didn’t blink. “We don’t have one of those. But I’m the landlord. What can I get for you?”

“I DO NOT CONSUME ORGANIC LIQUID REFRESHMENT! I REQUIRE STRATEGIC DATA AND GLOBAL SUPREMACY!”

“Right so,” said Jimmy, putting down the glass. “Well, the global supremacy is off today, but I can offer you a pint of plain, or perhaps a nice cup of tea and a ham sandwich.”

The Dalek was flummoxed. It extended its plunger arm towards a nearby stool. “THIS OBJECT IS AN INEFFICIENT SEATING APPARATUS! IT WILL BE EXTERMINATED!”

It fired a tiny bolt of energy. The stool smoked slightly.

There was a moment of pause, then old Paddy Murphy in the corner roared with laughter. “HA! Will you look at that, Jimmy! He’s fixed the wobbly leg on that one!”

The Dalek, now the centre of amused attention, tried another tactic. “THE DALEKS ARE THE SUPERIOR BEINGS! YOU WILL ALL BE EXTERMINATED! COMMENCE EXTERMINATION!”

It aimed its egg-beater gun at Paddy. A low hum filled the air.

Just then, Father O’Hanlon burst in, his face red. “Right! Which one of ye eejits left a great metal yoke in my petunias? It’s flattened them! They were for the church fête!”

He spotted the Dalek. “Ah! There you are! You’ll be coming with me, my lad. We’re having a word with the Gardaí about criminal damage.”

The Dalek, utterly defeated by the sheer, impenetrable force of Irish rural normality, could only emit a weak, static-filled whisper. “This… is not… logical…“

And so, the most feared creature in the universe was last seen being gently, but firmly, escorted out of the pub by a furious priest, while Liam Donnelly offered it a crisp for the road. The Daleks never did try to invade Ballykillduff again. The gossip, they decided, was worse than the time vortex.