The Ballykillduff Daleks Winter of Madness
Chapter One – The Frosty Arrival
The first frost of winter came sneaking into Ballykillduff one quiet night. It crept over the hedgerows like icing on a Christmas cake, decorated the village pump with shiny icicles, and froze the puddles so hard that even Bridget McGillicuddy’s hens slipped about like ballerinas on roller skates.
The Ballykillduff Daleks had never experienced such a thing. For weeks they had been trundling around the village, muttering about “TOTAL DOMINATION” and “EX-TER-MI-NATION,” but on this particular morning they emerged from their shed only to discover that their mighty treads were no match for frozen mud.
One Dalek gave a mighty shove forward.
“COMMENCING DAILY PATROL!” it announced grandly—then immediately skidded sideways and lodged itself in the ditch.
Another Dalek rolled confidently onto a glittering puddle.
“THESE HUMANS ARE WEAK! WE SHALL—AAAAAGH!” it screeched, spinning in helpless circles like a saucepan lid on polished tiles.
By the time Councillor McGroggan wandered down the lane with his bucket of coal, he found half a dozen Daleks floundering about, their eyestalks fogged with frost, their plungers stuck fast to frozen gates, and one unfortunate unit still wedged headfirst in the ditch.
“Begob,” the councillor muttered, shaking his head. “Would ye look at the state of ye? More helpless than me auntie’s old wheelbarrow. Didn’t I warn ye winter was coming?”
The Daleks did not like being laughed at. They huddled together in the frosty lane, shivering inside their casings, and demanded immediate solutions.
“WE REQUIRE HEAT!” cried one.
“WE REQUIRE DEFROSTING!” shouted another.
“WE REQUIRE… WOOLLY JUMPERS!” wailed a third, though no one knew where it had picked up that particular phrase.
Their first idea was both simple and disastrous: they strapped kettles of boiling water to their backs using Bridget McGillicuddy’s washing line. The kettles whistled merrily as they trundled up and down the road, trailing clouds of steam like mobile tea trolleys.
It did not go well. One Dalek scalded a passing goat. Another boiled over entirely and had to be rescued with oven gloves. A third, sounding exactly like a steam train, was pursued halfway to Myshall by an overexcited railway enthusiast who mistook it for an excursion service.
By sundown, the Daleks were sulking outside the pub, dripping icicles from their casings. They had survived battles with space fleets, robots, and Time Lords, but Ballykillduff’s frost was proving their most fearsome enemy yet.
And winter had only just begun.
Chapter Two – Snow Clearance, Dalek-Style
It snowed that night. Not a polite sprinkle, nor a gentle dusting—oh no. Ballykillduff awoke to a proper, roof-burying, hedge-swallowing, chicken-cooping avalanche of the white stuff.
The villagers were delighted. Children rushed out with saucepans for sledges. Bridget McGillicuddy scooped some into a bowl to make snow-cream. Councillor McGroggan, never missing a chance, announced he’d be charging an “emergency snow-clearing levy,” though nobody quite knew what that meant.
The Daleks, however, were appalled. Their eyestalks poked glumly above the drifts like periscopes. Their voices crackled with indignation.
“WE CANNOT PATROL!” cried one, buried up to its dome.
“WE CANNOT EXTERMINATE!” bawled another, wedged against a snowbank.
“WE ARE BEING… INSULTED BY FROZEN WATER!” screamed a third, sounding more offended than frightened.
After much screeching, they reached a decision.
“WE SHALL CLEAR THE SNOW! HUMANS WILL BE IMPRESSED! DALEKS WILL BE PRAISED!”
The villagers looked on nervously as the Daleks lined up in the village square. With great ceremony, they pointed their death-rays at the towering drifts.
“COMMENCE VAPORISATION!”
ZAP! ZAP! ZAP!
Steam hissed, snow hissed louder, and within seconds the square resembled a Turkish bath. Icicles dripped from the church spire, gutters belched like kettles, and the air smelled faintly of boiled cabbage.
“BY THUNDER, THEY’RE DOING IT!” gasped Mrs. O’Toole, clutching her apron.
But Daleks are not known for precision. In their enthusiasm, they also vaporised three of Councillor McGroggan’s hens, half of Bridget’s washing line, and the lower portion of Paddy Byrne’s trousers (he had been leaning against a snowbank at the wrong moment).
“YER MAD YOKES!” roared the councillor, hopping about with his half-melted poultry. “That’s not snow-clearing, that’s sabotage!”
The Daleks ignored him. Proud of their work, they whirled in formation and announced:
“SNOW HAS BEEN REMOVED! ROAD IS CLEAR! HUMANS WILL EXPRESS GRATITUDE!”
At that precise moment, the newly melted water froze again—into one vast skating rink stretching across the square. The villagers fell in heaps, the milk cart skidded into the church wall, and the postman was last seen sliding uncontrollably towards Tullow.
As for the Daleks, they trundled forward to admire their handiwork, only to skid straight across the frozen square and collide in a heap by the pump.
It was official: Ballykillduff’s winter was winning.
Chapter Three – The Igloo Headquarters
After the snow-clearing catastrophe (and Paddy Byrne’s trousers being declared a total loss), the Daleks sulked for an entire afternoon. They muttered darkly about “INCOMPETENT HUMANS” and “UNFAIR FROST-BASED CONDITIONS.”
By evening, they had devised a new plan.
“WE REQUIRE A STRONGHOLD!” barked one Dalek.
“A WINTER BASE OF OPERATIONS!” screeched another.
“A GLORIOUS FORTRESS OF SNOW!” shrieked a third, its voice echoing off the hills.
The villagers, curious, gathered on the green to watch. The Daleks had decided to build an igloo—though none of them had ever seen one before.
They began by blasting great chunks of snow out of the drifts, then stacking them in a wobbly circle. Their instructions were contradictory:
“BLOCKS MUST BE UNIFORM!”
“BLOCKS MUST BE MASSIVE!”
“BLOCKS MUST BE IMMEDIATELY EXTERMINATED IF THEY DO NOT FIT!”
Before long, their “fortress” looked less like a proud headquarters and more like a collapsed blancmange. Children giggled from the sidelines, pointing and whispering.
“COMMENCE ROOF CONSTRUCTION!” ordered the leader.
This proved more difficult. One Dalek tried to balance a block on top by lifting it with its plunger, but the plunger froze solid. Another attempted to heat the snow into shape, only to melt half the wall.
At last, they managed to heap enough blocks together that the structure could almost be called an igloo. They rolled inside with great pomp, announcing:
“THE BALLYKILLDUFF DALEK WINTER HQ IS COMPLETE!”
The children, unable to resist, immediately climbed on top and began sliding down the sides, shrieking with delight. The Daleks roared in protest.
“THIS IS A RESTRICTED AREA! THIS IS NOT A PLAYGROUND!”
It was then that the roof gave way with a mighty whump.
Snow cascaded down like an avalanche, burying the Daleks up to their eyestalks. From within the mound came muffled cries:
“STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY HAS BEEN… COMPROMISED!”
“UNSUITABLE FOR MILITARY PURPOSES!”
“REQUEST… SHOVELS!”
The villagers laughed until their sides ached. Bridget McGillicuddy wiped her eyes and declared, “Sure, that’s the best entertainment we’ve had since the donkey won the pub raffle.”
As the children gleefully rebuilt the igloo into a slide, the Daleks admitted—grudgingly—that their winter fortress had been a failure.
But Ballykillduff’s winter still had more tricks in store.
Chapter Four – The Great Skating Disaster
The pond at Ballykillduff was frozen solid. The villagers tested it the old-fashioned way—by poking it with sticks, throwing stones across it, and finally sending Bridget McGillicuddy’s cousin (who was lightest on his feet) to shuffle gingerly across.
When it didn’t crack, the children rushed onto the ice with whoops of delight. Soon they were sliding and spinning, their laughter ringing across the frosty fields.
The Daleks looked on suspiciously.
“WHAT IS THIS HUMAN ACTIVITY?” asked one.
“GLIDING WITHOUT TREADS DETECTED!” reported another.
“WE MUST TEST SURFACE INTEGRITY FOR STRATEGIC PURPOSES!” declared the leader.
Before the villagers could protest, one brave (or foolish) Dalek trundled forward onto the ice.
There was a pause. A creak. Then a whoosh.
“INAPPROPRIATE GLIDE! INAPPROPRIATE GLIDE!” it shrieked, whirling across the pond like a demented spinning top.
The others, determined not to be outdone, rolled on after it. Within moments the pond was alive with Daleks skidding in circles, crashing into each other, and bouncing off the banks.
“COLLISION ALERT!”
“LOSS OF TRACTION DETECTED!”
“THIS ACTIVITY IS NOT IN THE DALEK MANUAL!”
The villagers, far from being alarmed, began cheering and placing bets.
“I’ve a fiver says the red one tips over first!” shouted Paddy Byrne.
“No, the blue fella’s gone too wide—he’ll be in the rushes any second!” cried Bridget.
Sure enough, the red Dalek spun so violently it toppled on its side, waving its plunger helplessly like an upturned beetle. The blue one skidded straight into the reeds with a tremendous splash! as the ice cracked under its weight.
The children were in hysterics. Councillor McGroggan was nearly doubled over, clutching his sides. “Be the hokey,” he gasped between laughs, “it’s the finest entertainment Ballykillduff pond ever saw!”
Eventually, ropes were fetched and the soggy Dalek was dragged out. The others, dented and bruised in dignity, assembled on the bank.
“CONCLUSION: ICE IS… HOSTILE ENVIRONMENT.”
“REQUEST: BAN ALL FURTHER SKATING.”
“ALSO REQUEST: DRYING FACILITIES AND HOT CHOCOLATE.”
But Ballykillduff’s winter was only just warming up—or rather, freezing up. For with Christmas drawing near, the Daleks would soon discover that the festive season posed even stranger challenges than snow and ice.
Chapter Five – A Dalek Christmas Carols
As Christmas drew near, Ballykillduff sparkled under fairy lights. The cottages glowed with turf fires, the hedges twinkled with tinsel, and even Councillor McGroggan grudgingly hung a bauble from his gatepost (he claimed it was “strictly for taxation purposes”).
The villagers gathered nightly to practise their carol singing. Children chirped “Away in a Manger,” Bridget McGillicuddy led a rousing “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” and old Mr. O’Toole tried (and failed) to remember the words to “Good King Wenceslas.”
The Daleks, observing from the shadows, were intrigued.
“WHAT IS THIS VOCAL ACTIVITY?” asked one.
“COLLECTIVE HUMAN NOISE-MAKING DETECTED,” replied another.
“POSSIBLE SIGNAL OF WAR. MUST PARTICIPATE TO ENSURE DOMINANCE!” declared the leader.
And so it was decided: the Daleks would join in.
The following evening, just as the villagers launched into “Silent Night,” the Daleks trundled into the square and raised their voices.
Unfortunately, Dalek voices are not built for harmony.
“JINGLE BEEEEEEELLS! JINGLE BEEEEEEELLS!” they blared in tones resembling pneumatic drills.
“EXTERMINATE IN A ONE-HORSE OPEN SLEEEEEEEIGH!” screeched another, slightly off-key.
One particularly enthusiastic Dalek attempted the high notes of “O Holy Night” and shattered three church windows.
The villagers clapped their hands over their ears. Children howled. Dogs fled. Councillor McGroggan was knocked backwards into the manger scene by the sheer volume of it.
“STOP! FOR THE LOVE OF SAINT BRIGID, STOP!” Bridget McGillicuddy roared. “Ye’ll bring down the steeple!”
The Daleks, oblivious, continued their “performance,” ending with a triumphant, ear-splitting rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”—which came out more like:
“WE WISH TO DOMINATE CHRISTMAS! WE WISH TO DOMINATE CHRISTMAS! RESISTANCE IS… FESTIVE!”
By the time they finished, half the candles had blown out, the snow had slid from the church roof, and old Mr. O’Toole was clutching his hearing aid in shock.
The villagers, though rattled, had to admit one thing: it was the loudest carol service Ballykillduff had ever known.
And the Daleks, convinced they had “WON CHRISTMAS SINGING,” rolled away in smug formation—already plotting their next seasonal triumph.
Chapter Six – Santa Dalek and the Stew
By Christmas Eve, the Ballykillduff Daleks had convinced themselves they were the true guardians of the festive season.
“THE HUMANS RELY ON A BEARDED ELDERLY MAN FOR GIFT DISTRIBUTION,” the leader announced.
“INEFFICIENT!” barked another.
“DALEKS SHALL TAKE OVER! CHRISTMAS SHALL BE… EX-TER-MINATED!” cried a third, rather missing the point.
The plan was simple: they would impersonate Santa Claus.
They found an old turf cart in Bridget McGillicuddy’s shed and painted it red with leftover barn paint. Instead of reindeer, they borrowed a flock of sheep from Councillor McGroggan (without asking). The sheep were not amused. They stood in the lane chewing their cud while the Daleks attempted to fasten them to the cart with baler twine.
“COMMENCE FORWARD MOTION!” ordered the leader.
The sheep did not budge. Instead, one sneezed violently, covering a Dalek in frosty snot. Another sat down entirely and refused to move, staring mournfully at the sky as if questioning its life choices.
“OVERRULE REINDEER-PROTOCOL!” shrieked the Daleks. “COMMENCE… PUSHING!”
And so, with much clanking, they shoved the cart themselves through the snowy streets, shouting “HO HO HO! PRESENTS SHALL BE DISTRIBUTED!”
Their presents, however, left much to be desired. One child received a rusted spanner. Another found an old bicycle tyre in her stocking. Paddy Byrne’s family got a kettle missing its lid. The Daleks beamed (or at least hummed smugly) as they announced, “GIFTS ARE FUNCTIONAL! HUMANS SHOULD EXPRESS GRATITUDE!”
Meanwhile, Bridget McGillicuddy had taken pity on them. She had spent all day preparing a massive cauldron of stew—potatoes, carrots, onions, and enough beef to feed an army (or six Daleks). She set it outside by the pump to cool.
But Ballykillduff’s frost was quicker than any refrigerator. By the time the Daleks rolled up, their “Christmas feast” had turned into one solid block of frozen stew, harder than a boulder.
“COMMENCE EATING!” ordered the leader.
They jabbed their plungers into it. CLANG. Nothing budged. They tried lasers. ZAP! The beam bounced off and singed Paddy Byrne’s new scarf. One desperate Dalek even attempted to sit on it to warm it up, but only succeeded in freezing itself to the cauldron.
“CONCLUSION: STEW IS HOSTILE!” screeched the leader.
“REQUEST: DEFROSTING FACILITIES AND GRAVY!” cried another.
The villagers roared with laughter. Children clapped. Councillor McGroggan declared it “the finest Christmas entertainment since the donkey ate the curate’s sermon.”
And so, on Christmas Eve, the Ballykillduff Daleks learned that being Santa was far trickier—and colder—than they had imagined.
But Christmas night still had one last surprise in store…
Chapter Seven – Fairy Lights and Woolly Hats
By Christmas morning, the Ballykillduff Daleks were a sorry sight. Their “Santa cart” was stuck in a snowdrift, their sheep had gone home in disgust, and one of them was still attached to the frozen stew cauldron.
The villagers, though, were feeling generous. Christmas does that to people—even people who’ve just had a kettle stuffed in their stocking.
Bridget McGillicuddy, with her great heart and her even greater knitting needles, decided something must be done. She stayed up half the night clacking away, and by dawn she had produced six enormous woolly hats—each one big enough to cover a Dalek dome, with a neat little hole cut for the eyestalk.
“Here ye are, ye poor shivering lumps,” she said kindly, plonking the first hat onto the leader’s head.
The Daleks froze. Literally. Then:
“THIS GARMENT IS… WARM!”
“THERMAL LEVELS ARE INCREASING!”
“DALEKS ARE EXPERIENCING… COMFORT!”
Soon, all six Daleks were trundling around proudly in brightly coloured hats—red, green, yellow, purple, blue, and one particularly flashy one in orange stripes.
The children, giggling madly, rushed forward with strings of fairy lights. Before the Daleks could protest, they had been wrapped from dome to base in twinkling bulbs.
“WARNING! WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!” cried one.
“CORRECTION: ATTACK IS… SPARKLY!” admitted another.
By evening, the Daleks stood on the frosty hillside, glowing like mechanical Christmas trees. Their hats bobbed, their lights twinkled, and every so often one would hum faintly as its circuits recharged from the fairy bulbs.
The villagers gathered below, singing real carols this time—softly, sweetly, without a single window shattering. Even Councillor McGroggan joined in, though he insisted it was only so he could “keep an eye on the electricity bill.”
And for once, the Daleks said nothing about extermination. They simply hummed along in the frosty air, blinking contentedly in their woolly hats.
Epilogue – The Cold, Hard Truth
New Year’s Eve arrived in Ballykillduff with a sky full of stars and frost so sharp it made the hedges sparkle like glass. The villagers crowded into the pub, where turf fires roared, fiddles played, and glasses clinked in cheerful defiance of the cold.
And then the Daleks arrived.
They trundled in from the night, their woolly hats dusted with frost, their fairy lights still twinkling faintly. The door banged shut behind them, and for once nobody screamed or ran—though Mrs. O’Toole did shove her handbag protectively over the mince pies.
The Daleks lined up by the bar and made their announcement.
“ATTENTION, HUMANS OF BALLYKILLDUFF!” boomed the leader.
“AFTER CAREFUL CALCULATION AND MULTIPLE HUMILIATIONS, WE HAVE REACHED A CONCLUSION.”
The pub fell silent. Even the fiddler lowered his bow.
“BALLYKILLDUFF WINTER… IS STRONGER THAN THE DALEK EMPIRE!”
A pause. Then all six Daleks shouted together:
“WE SURRENDER TO THE FROST!”
The villagers burst into cheers. Councillor McGroggan raised his pint. Bridget McGillicuddy dabbed her eyes with her apron. The children rushed forward to stick party hats on top of the Daleks’ woolly ones, until they looked like tin-foil Christmas puddings.
And for the first time in recorded history, the Daleks did not argue, did not threaten, and did not exterminate. They simply sat steaming gently in the corner of the pub, sipping (through mysterious internal tubes) hot cocoa that Bridget had insisted they try.
At midnight, when the bells rang and the villagers shouted, “Happy New Year!” the Daleks joined in with their own thunderous chant:
“HAPPY NEW YEAR! HAPPY NEW YEAR! CELEBRATION IS… MANDATORY!”
The villagers roared with laughter. For everyone agreed that life in Ballykillduff was never dull—especially when the Daleks were trying, and failing, to conquer the Irish winter.
And so the year turned, the frost sparkled, and Ballykillduff’s strangest Christmas season came to a warm and noisy end.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 