The Annual Ballykillduff Soap Box Race

The annual Ballykillduff Soap Box Race was, by all accounts, a simple affair. A few dozen homemade contraptions, a steep hill called “The Mad Mile,” and a finish line at the door of The Thirsty Leprechaun pub. This year, however, things were a bit… different. For weeks, a strange, metallic whirring had been heard echoing through the valley, and the local sheep had been unusually agitated.

Young Finn O’Malley, whose hair was the same shade of orange as his “Spud Rocket” soapbox, was busy giving his cart a final once-over. The Spud Rocket was a masterpiece of questionable engineering, built from a repurposed potato crate with bicycle wheels and a single, wonky googly eye on the front. His competitor, “Big Mick” Murphy, scoffed as he polished his “Green Goliath,” a brute of a vehicle that looked like a lawnmower had a baby with a shopping trolley.

“Yer wee toy won’t last ten feet, Finn,” Mick rumbled, his laugh shaking the ground. “This here’s a machine of pure, beautiful physics!”

Just then, the whirring sound peaked, and two strange, bronze canisters with plungers and single eye-stalks rolled into the village square. They were Daleks. The villagers, who had never seen anything like them, were a mix of confused, terrified, and slightly impressed.

“EX-TER-MIN-ATE… ALL… HU-MAN… VE-HI-CLES… THAT… ARE… SLOWER… THAN… US!” declared the first Dalek, its voice a horrific combination of a blender and an angry robot.

“WE… HAVE… AS-SESS-ED… THIS… SPORT… AS… ‘FUN’!” proclaimed the second. “WE… WISH… TO… PAR-TI-CI-PATE!”

After a moment of stunned silence, Old Man Fitzpatrick, who was halfway through his fifth pint of stout, simply shrugged. “Sure, why not? They look like they’re just here for the craic.”

And so, the Daleks were allowed to compete. Their “soapboxes” were just… them. The race began. Big Mick’s Green Goliath took off in a cloud of dust, while Finn’s Spud Rocket wobbled precariously but held the line. The Daleks, however, didn’t just roll. They levitated a few inches off the ground, zipping along with an unsettling high-pitched whine.

The first major obstacle was “The Widowmaker,” a nasty hairpin turn around a giant oak tree. Big Mick, desperate for a lead, took the corner too fast, over-correcting and ending up in a field of very confused cows. Finn, with a calm touch, navigated the turn perfectly. But the Daleks… they simply opted for a shortcut.

“A-CU-TE… AN-GLE… OF… AT-TACK… IS… THE… MOST… EF-FIC-IENT!” yelled the first Dalek, as it careened directly into the oak tree, sending a shower of leaves and bark flying. “DAL-EK… TRA-JECT-O-RY… IS… SU-PER-IOR!”

The second Dalek, following closely behind, clipped its partner, lost control, and veered wildly into Mrs. O’Malley’s prize-winning flower stall.

“I-NTER-CEPT… THE… FLO-R-AL… OB-STA-CLES!” it shrieked, as its plunger became hopelessly entangled with a pot of geraniums. “DE-FEAT… IS… IM-POS-SI-BLE… WITH… A… PLUN-GER!”

Finn saw his chance. With the Daleks in a horticultural meltdown and Big Mick stuck in cow traffic, he put his head down and pedaled for all he was worth. He crossed the finish line in a blaze of glory, the lone eye on his Spud Rocket blinking triumphantly.

The Daleks, covered in flower petals, eventually stumbled across the finish line, arguing bitterly with each other.

“YOU… WERE… IN-AC-CUR-ATE… WITH… THE… TREE!” “YOU… HAVE… WEAK… PUSH-ING… MECH-AN-ISMS!”

Big Mick arrived a few minutes later, covered in both dust and cow slobber, shaking his head.

“I don’t know what they were,” he grumbled, “but they’re not natural.”

The villagers, of course, were in hysterics. The legend of The Spud Rocket’s victory over the alien vacuum cleaners was born, and to this day, you can still find the occasional withered geranium stuck to the side of a certain oak tree in Ballykillduff.