BALLYKILLDUFF UPSIDE DOWN

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BALLYKILLDUFF UPSIDE DOWN

Part One: The Great Floating Fry-Up

No one quite knew what started it. It might’ve been the weather. Or the ley lines. Or Mrs. Kavanagh’s attempt to microwave a turnip soufflé at exactly 3:03 a.m. But on the Tuesday after the bank holiday, gravity in Ballykillduff decided it had had enough.

It began, as these things often do, with sausages.

At precisely 7:04 a.m., Mr. Seamus Mulrooney, postman and amateur philosopher, was frying up his usual breakfast: two sausages, three rashers, one egg (with a twin yolk if he was lucky), a half tomato, and a wedge of last week’s pudding. Just as he reached for the spatula to turn the sausages, they began to float. Not sizzle. Not spit. But float. Upwards. Like little meaty balloons.

“Sweet sacred St. Patrick,” he whispered. “The sausages… they’ve found religion.”

They wobbled gently above the pan, gaining height, spinning ever so slightly, until the whole lot—rashers, pudding, even the tomato—was circling the fluorescent light in his kitchen like planets orbiting a greasy sun.

The egg, however, simply cracked itself midair and oozed onto the ceiling.

“Breda!” Seamus shouted. “Call the Guards! Or NASA!”

His wife, Breda Mulrooney, came downstairs in her curlers and housecoat, looked up, nodded once and said, “Well. It’s finally happened. The world’s gone arse over teakettle.”

The Local Inconvenience

By 8:00 a.m., the entire village was upside down. Or perhaps downside up. Whichever it was, the laws of physics were now about as useful as a chocolate teapot.

In Curran’s Lane, young Micko Doyle opened the door to walk his terrier, Snap. Unfortunately, Snap walked him. Straight into the sky. The two of them were last seen hovering over Mrs. Hoolahan’s rooftop garden, tangled in the bunting left over from the 1993 Ballykillduff Bake-Off.

“I always said that dog had too much bounce,” muttered Mrs. Hoolahan, sipping her morning sherry and watching the spectacle with mild disapproval.

Father Rafferty, meanwhile, was attempting his morning prayers in St. Gubbins Church when his Bible drifted gently upwards and lodged itself in the rafters.

“This,” he said, eyes wide, “is either a miracle… or a very elaborate prank by the Protestants.”

Mass was cancelled. Not because of blasphemy, but because the communion wafers had flown out of the tabernacle and formed a sort of religious snowstorm above the altar. Father Rafferty attempted to gather them using a butterfly net.

Floating Cows and Crashing Theories

On Ballykillduff Farm, things were worse.

Cows, as it turns out, don’t take well to anti-gravity. By mid-morning, Farmer Joe Kinsella’s prized Friesians had floated to the barn ceiling, dangling there like grotesque balloons, udders swinging dangerously.

“Rosie, get down from there!” Joe shouted, holding out a bag of silage like bait.

Rosie, a philosophical cow by nature, blinked slowly and turned in midair, presenting her rear end to the farmer. A moment later, an unpleasant gravity-defying deposit fell directly onto Joe’s face.

“Well,” he said, wiping it off with his sleeve, “that answers that. Gravity might be gone, but cow shite still lands the same way.”

Scientists were, of course, summoned. Not proper scientists, but the best Ballykillduff could muster.

Enter Dr. Kevin “Boffin” Brannigan, a former chemistry teacher with a fondness for cider and a long-disgraced YouTube channel about alien weather machines.

He arrived wearing a lab coat over his pyjamas and carrying a tennis racket “for atmospheric vibration calibration.” (No one was sure what that meant, but he looked the part.)

“It’s a polar inversion,” he announced grandly. “Or a localised dimensional anomaly caused by a rogue flux capacitor buried under McGettigan’s pub.”

“What’s a flux capacitor?” asked Seamus.

“It’s fictional,” said Dr. Brannigan. “But who’s counting?”

The Pub Problem

Speaking of McGettigan’s, things there were truly dire.

The pints were floating.

This, in and of itself, would have been forgivable, even welcome. But the pint glasses were floating upwards, spilling the precious black stuff onto the ceiling, which now resembled the inside of a dripping barrel.

Worse still, the darts refused to obey the rules. Flung toward the board, they now arced around mid-throw and stuck into patrons’ shoes. Old Tommy Hanrahan had already been rushed to the GP with “dart foot,” a condition never before diagnosed in Ireland.

“This is a pub emergency,” declared Maura McGettigan, owner and reigning Tiddlywinks Champion of Leinster.

“We’ll need to turn the whole place upside down,” said her barman, Conor.

“No time for philosophical discussion,” snapped Maura. “I mean literally! Get the stepladders. We’re drinking on the ceiling!”

Within minutes, the furniture had been bolted upside down, and Ballykillduff had its first reverse-gravity ceiling pub, complete with sky-slung barstools and ropes to tether the patrons.

The Guinness still floated, but now so did the spirits—literally and figuratively.

Emergency Council Meeting (In the Attic)

By midday, panic had well and truly set in.

People were clinging to fenceposts, holding onto lampposts, or strapping themselves to trees with old bicycle inner tubes. Birds, confused by the lack of down, had decided to walk.

A makeshift town hall meeting was called, hastily relocated to the attic of the community centre (the highest point still reachable without floating away). Everyone sat cross-legged on the rafters, arguing.

“I blame the mobile masts,” said Mrs. Byrne, flinging her arms wide and nearly losing her handbag to the stratosphere.

“I blame the Americans,” muttered Seamus. “They’ve been trying to nuke the moon for years.”

“No, no, it’s clearly the fault of all them yoga classes,” said Ned Finnegan. “Too much deep breathing. Loosened the gravity ropes.”

Dr. Brannigan cleared his throat and stood on a box of old bingo prizes.

“We need to think outside the atmosphere,” he began. “It’s possible that gravity, fed up with our abuse, has packed its bags and left. But don’t worry—science has a plan.”

“What’s the plan?”

“We tie ourselves down and wait for it to come back.”

Silence.

“That’s it?”

“Well, I’m also open to suggestions involving magnets, jam sandwiches, and divine intervention.”

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Part Two: Anchors Aweigh

Flying Furniture and the Fashion Crisis

By the second day of anti-gravity, Ballykillduff had divided itself into two types of people: the Floaters and the Clingers.

Floaters were the free-spirited ones (in some cases, literally free-spirited), who had given up fighting the reverse gravity and instead floated gently from room to room, bouncing off ceilings, sipping tea from upside-down mugs.

The Clingers, on the other hand, had turned their homes into fortresses of downness. They wore kettlebells strapped to their backs, held heavy encyclopedias in each hand, and walked around with the determined look of someone trying to remain tethered to a world that no longer cared.

Old Miss Murphy, Ballykillduff’s self-proclaimed fashionista, was both.

She had invented a range of haute couture “gravitywear”: skirts filled with bricks, handbags lined with dumbbells, and the latest trend—a “ballast bonnet,” containing precisely one sack of potatoes, nestled atop the head.

“It’s for stability and style,” she declared, nearly concussing herself on a doorway as she passed.

Meanwhile, teenagers took to the skies with great enthusiasm, launching themselves into the air like sky dolphins, bouncing between clouds and rooftops using nothing more than skateboard helmets and elasticated trousers.

“YEAAAAHHHHHHHH!” roared Eamon O’Leary as he cannonballed off the steeple of St. Gubbins, bounced off the flying statue of St. Francis, and landed—gently—on the thatch of Mrs. Doyle’s cottage.

“Get OFF me roof, you little eejit!” she screamed, throwing a broom into the air. It hovered above her like an angry ghost.

Reverse Rescue Squad

Elsewhere in the village, a rescue mission was underway.

Snap the terrier and Micko Doyle were still missing. Locals reported sighting them circling above the GAA pitch at high speed, tangled in bunting and what appeared to be a child’s hula hoop.

“Right,” said Breda Mulrooney, strapping a pair of shinty sticks to her arms like wings. “I’m going up.”

“You can’t just go up,” said Seamus, holding a length of rope and a concerned sandwich.

“Watch me.”

With a running start and a mighty leap, Breda launched herself skyward. She floated a few feet, then rose, drifting like a curmudgeonly angel, arms flapping, muttering obscenities.

Seamus followed, albeit reluctantly, tied to a dustbin for ballast.

They spotted Micko clinging to a TV aerial on top of the old Ballykillduff cinema, Snap growling at passing seagulls.

“I thought I was gonna die!” shouted Micko.

“You’re still grounded!” Breda bellowed back. “Metaphorically speaking!”

After some struggle, they lassoed the boy and dog using Seamus’s sandwich string (he’d eaten the sandwich in the meantime). The villagers below cheered, only to immediately duck as all four rescuees drifted into the statue of Daniel O’Connell and tangled in his tricolour.

The Ballykillduff Rescue Squad was declared both a triumph and a complete mess.

The Ballykillduff Protocol

The Ballykillduff Council, desperate for some semblance of order, dusted off an ancient document from 1952 titled The Ballykillduff Protocol, a collection of rambling emergency scenarios written by the village’s former mayor, who was also the town hypnotist, beekeeper, and known eccentric, Harold “Hapless Harry” Furlong.

It included such pearls of wisdom as:

• “In case of temporal confusion, wear odd socks and speak in riddles.”
• “If chickens begin singing, do not engage.”
• “Should the sky fall, consult your umbrella.”

And most relevant of all:
“In the event that gravity inverts, refer to the Tether Code, Section 8: Tie thineself to the heaviest object nearest to thy person. Ideally a piano.”

It was unclear whether this was satire or genuine advice. But as Ballykillduff now floated in semi-coordinated confusion, people began tethering themselves to anything weighty—radiators, tractors, Uncle Liam.

Uncle Liam, though massive and fond of Guinness, was getting tired of the responsibility.

“Get yer own ballast, ye freeloaders,” he grunted, dragging three teenagers and a priest behind him like a meaty blimp.

Father Rafferty’s Sky Confessional

Realising the spiritual needs of his airborne flock, Father Rafferty opened Ballykillduff’s first-ever “Sky Confessional.” He floated gently above the church, tethered by rosary beads to the steeple, holding onto a modified birdhouse with a velvet curtain.

People floated up to confess midair, hovering in a gentle queue shaped like a religious conga line.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” said Maura McGettigan, breathlessly.

“What is it, my child?”

“I drank Communion wine that wasn’t mine, pushed old Ned into a hedge, and sold a potato with the face of Our Lord on eBay.”

Father Rafferty paused, then said, “Ten Hail Marys, and maybe delete your account.”

It was the most well-attended Confession in years, though the occasional confessor drifted off during penance and had to be retrieved by drone.

The Bureau of Odd Events

That night, strange visitors arrived.

A black van bearing the insignia “Irish Department of Anomalous Affairs” rolled quietly into the village and parked beside the now-inverted postbox.

Four figures emerged, dressed in matching charcoal suits and boots weighted with what appeared to be cement.

They introduced themselves simply as “Inspectors Gráinne, Boyle, Sweeney, and Dennis.”

“Department of Anomalous Affairs,” said Gráinne. “Level Seven alert. Reversal Event.”

Seamus blinked. “There’s a department for this?”

“Oh yes,” said Boyle. “You think it’s only Ballykillduff that goes haywire? You should see Ballyhaunis after a meteor shower. Donkeys with predictive dreams. Frightening stuff.”

Gráinne tapped her clipboard. “We need samples. Ceiling mould, airborne biscuits, and any cow that’s mooing backwards.”

Rosie the upside-down cow gave a mournful bellow that sounded remarkably like “wub.”

“Perfect,” said Sweeney.

By morning, the department had installed a small device on the church roof—a glowing orb the size of a football, humming faintly.

“This,” explained Dennis, “is a Gravistabiliser. If we can recalibrate the local field, we can bring Ballykillduff down to Earth. Gently.”

“But there’s a problem,” Gráinne said. “We need one final thing.”

Everyone leaned in.

“We need someone to jump up into the Gravistabiliser’s node and reset the system from inside.”

A pause.

“Who?” they asked.

Gráinne turned to Seamus, who was halfway through his fifth slice of floating toast.

“You’re the only one light enough to make the jump. And stupid enough to say yes.”

Seamus nodded solemnly. “Well, at least I’ve got the stupid bit covered.”

 

Part Three: The Ballad of Seamus and the Gravistabiliser

The Suit of Certain Disaster

Seamus Mulrooney had never worn a jumpsuit before. Least of all one made of aluminium foil, reinforced string, and bubble wrap. But according to the Department of Anomalous Affairs, it was the best they could whip up in an hour.

“This is the worst idea I’ve ever agreed to,” Seamus muttered, eyeing the shimmering contraption with all the enthusiasm of a man about to parachute into a volcano.

“Don’t worry,” said Gráinne. “It’s designed to protect your organs and scramble your common sense. You’ll be fine.”

“What about my dignity?”

“Oh, that was sacrificed the moment you agreed.”

Around them, the villagers gathered—some floating gently, others clinging to hedges, all cheering as Seamus was strapped into what looked suspiciously like a modified washing line basket.

Above them hovered the Gravistabiliser—an orb of glowing green light, pulsing gently like a very smug jellyfish. It bobbed above the church tower, tethered loosely by rope and one large sack of potatoes (Uncle Liam had refused to help any further).

“Now remember,” Boyle warned, “once you’re inside the Gravistabiliser’s field, you’ll experience intense weightlessness, visual hallucinations, and possibly the sound of distant bagpipes.”

“Is that normal?”

“No, but we had to test it somewhere. Apologies to the lads in Tipperary.”

Maura McGettigan stepped forward and pressed a medal of St. Jude—the patron saint of hopeless causes—into Seamus’s gloved hand.

“Go on now, ya eejit,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “Make Ballykillduff proud.”

The Launch

The countdown was dramatic.

“Three!”

“Two!”

“One and a half!”

“Wait—!”

“LIFT-OFF!”

With a screech of elastic and the collective gasp of a floating crowd, Seamus was flung skyward, yelping like a frightened kettle. He soared past the confessional booth (Father Rafferty gave him a thumbs-up mid-hail-Mary), rocketed over the upside-down cowshed, and tumbled into the glowing core of the Gravistabiliser.

There was a flash of green light.

A small pop.

And then silence.

Total, echoing, humming silence.

Inside the Gravistabiliser, Seamus floated in a dazzling void filled with symbols, drifting kettles, and what appeared to be a talking goat.

“Who dares enter the stabiliser?” boomed a voice.

“Er… Seamus. Postman. Amateur philosopher. Part-time knitter.”

“You have passed the Trials of the Sky,” the voice continued. “Now you must answer one question.”

“Is it about tax? Because I’ve been meaning to—”

“Why should gravity return to Ballykillduff?”

Seamus blinked. The goat bleated encouragingly.

He scratched his helmet. “Well… because cows are not designed for ceilings. Because upside-down Guinness is sacrilege. Because no man should be forced to chase sausages across a kitchen ceiling in his underpants. And because… we’re Ballykillduff. If anyone’s going to break the laws of physics, it should be on our own terms.”

A long silence.

Then the goat nodded. “Good answer.”

With a musical hum and a warm whoosh of wind, the light intensified.

And Seamus fell.

The Reversal

Back in the village square, the crowd held its collective breath. Breda held a frying pan, just in case.

There was a distant whistling noise. Like a kettle. Or a man in distress.

Then—THUMP.

Seamus landed butt-first in a hay cart, blinking wildly, the Gravistabiliser humming proudly overhead.

“It worked!” shouted Dr. Brannigan. “The polarity’s flipping! Gravity is coming home!”

There was a sudden, jarring pop.

And Ballykillduff plummeted.

Cows dropped from barn rafters. People tumbled from roof gardens. The floating pub chairs smashed into the real floor with the sound of very surprised carpentry. The confessional booth pancaked onto the vestry (no injuries, though Father Rafferty did briefly become a modern art installation).

The villagers scrambled, tripped, collided, groaned—and then began to laugh.

Real, belly-shaking, gravity-respecting laughter.

The Aftermath

That evening, with their feet once again firmly planted on the familiar muck of County Ireland, Ballykillduff gathered for a community supper.

No one knew what to cook (everything was still in the wrong place), so they settled for stew, sandwiches, and whatever had survived the ceiling weeks. It was the best feast they’d ever had.

Even Rosie the cow was in fine spirits, though slightly concussed and with a newfound desire to sit in trees.

Speeches were made.

Father Rafferty led a prayer of thanks (while cautiously side-eyeing the sky).

Maura McGettigan proposed a toast to “Seamus the Sky Idiot, our unlikely saviour.”

The Department of Anomalous Affairs packed up their glowing orb, muttered something about a “pending case of reverse time in Killarney,” and vanished into the fog.

And Seamus? He stood near the potato sack that broke his fall, raising a mug of lukewarm tea.

“To gravity,” he said, “and to staying bloody put.”

The crowd roared.

Epilogue: A Slight Residual Problem

Of course, nothing in Ballykillduff ever returns completely to normal.

To this day, certain things refuse to obey the new gravity settings.

• Postcards hover slightly before dropping.
• Rosie the cow still levitates for thirty seconds every Tuesday.
• Snap the terrier occasionally drifts two feet off the ground when excited.
• And every now and then, a rasher of bacon floats mysteriously toward the kitchen light.

But for the most part, Ballykillduff remains—more or less—on the ground.

Just don’t ask Seamus to make breakfast.

Ever again.

Part Four: The Ballykillduff Bounce-Back

The Post-Gravity Hangover

You’d think once the laws of nature reasserted themselves, things would calm down.

Not in Ballykillduff.

No sooner had the villagers stopped floating than they started spinning.

Mentally, that is.

“My kitchen clock now runs backwards,” declared Mrs. O’Leary. “I think time is still broken.”

“My goldfish has vertigo,” said Micko Doyle. “Keeps swimming sideways.”

“I caught my own reflection trying to wink before I did,” muttered Father Rafferty, before downing a small brandy and making the sign of the cross.

It was as if the village had been gently tilted, shaken, then put back slightly off-centre. People now walked with a faint swagger, as though gravity might vanish again if they weren’t careful.

The town hall received twenty-seven official complaints, ranging from “bread won’t toast right” to “ghost cow appeared in shed wall.”

Dr. Brannigan, however, remained optimistic. “Residual anomalies are completely normal after an inversion. The important thing is we survived, mostly intact, minus some ceiling plaster and one mildly traumatised terrier.”

Snap growled at his own tail and floated half an inch every time he barked.

Conspiracy & Cows: The Ballykillduff Truthers

Of course, it wasn’t long before the theories started.

Flyers appeared overnight. Crudely photocopied sheets with headlines like:

“GRAVITYGATE: WHO PULLED THE SKY STRINGS?”

“COWS DON’T FLOAT – THEY FLY: THE BOVINE COVER-UP”

“WAS THE MOON INVOLVED? YES.”

The Ballykillduff Truthers, led by Ned Finnegan (who’d once claimed a loaf of Brennan’s had spoken to him in a dream), began weekly meetings in the scout hall. Attendees wore tinfoil hats and carried magnetometers (repurposed sandwich toasters with wires attached).

“The Gravistabiliser?” Ned scoffed at the next town meeting. “More like a government distraction device! That orb didn’t fix gravity—it replaced it! We’re all walking on fake gravity now!”

When asked how he knew, Ned replied: “Because every time I sneeze, my socks fall down.”

The Department of Anomalous Affairs, predictably, denied all allegations.

“We don’t replace gravity,” Gráinne said flatly during a televised interview. “We merely… borrow it and occasionally lend it back.”

They then vanished in the middle of the broadcast, leaving only a smoking clipboard and a faint whiff of custard.

The Ballykillduff Anti-Gravity Festival

Sensing an opportunity where others saw disaster, the Ballykillduff Business and Tourism Committee (all three members: Maura McGettigan, Breda Mulrooney, and Rosie the Cow, unofficial mascot) launched a bold initiative.

“Come See the Place Where Gravity Took a Holiday!”
“Upside-Down Ballykillduff – We’re Over the Moon!”
“BOUNCE BACK TO LIFE IN BALLYKILLDUFF!”

And thus, the Ballykillduff Anti-Gravity Festival was born.

Stalls were set up selling helium balloons, novelty ankle weights, and postcards that hovered briefly before sinking. Children’s face painting featured astronauts, orbiting rashers, and floating cows.

Seamus was asked to give a public talk titled “What It’s Like Inside the Orb.” His presentation included:

• A sock puppet reenactment of his experience.

• A slideshow of blurry images of the talking goat.

• A short Q&A which consisted entirely of him being asked if his tea floats now.

The pub was rebranded as McGettigan’s Celestial Lounge, with a ceiling bar for “nostalgic effect.” Guinness was served in wide-brimmed bowls to prevent unexpected ascents.

Skywalkers and Floating Fiascos

Tourism surged. Busloads of curious visitors came to walk the “Ceiling Trail,” a painted path on the underside of barn rafters. Local guide Eamon offered Gravity Recovery Walks, where participants carried kettlebells while reciting limericks.

Schoolchildren began science projects with titles like “Why Don’t We Float Now?” and “Should We Try Again?”

And someone—not naming names (Seamus)—accidentally triggered a small partial re-reversal one Saturday morning while trying to tune his telly with a fork.

For about 12 minutes, every biscuit tin in Ballykillduff levitated, hovered in place, then clattered dramatically to the ground. Tea sales quadrupled that afternoon.

After that, Seamus was banned from using anything more technologically advanced than a butter knife.

Breda’s Museum of Things That Went Up

Not to be outdone by her husband’s new folk-hero status, Breda launched her own side hustle: the Ballykillduff Museum of Things That Floated (open Tuesdays and alternate Thursdays, entry: one sandwich or praise).

Among its exhibits:

• The infamous frying pan that launched the first floating sausage.

• A battered pew from the airborne church confessional.

• A glove belonging to Boyle from the Department of Anomalous Affairs, which vibrated occasionally and smelled faintly of cardamom.

• And, of course, Rosie the Cow (stuffed, but not literally—just always full of opinions).

The museum also featured a button labeled “DO NOT PRESS (unless you have excellent balance).” Naturally, it had been pressed 37 times. And counting.

Annual Gravity Check-In

One year later, the village gathered once again beneath the church tower, the site of the great reversal, for the First Annual Ballykillduff Gravity Check-In.

Dr. Brannigan (now sporting a cape made from discarded hazard tape) announced solemnly, “Gravity remains present, accounted for, and moderately grumpy.”

Father Rafferty blessed the ground.

Snap the terrier barked, lifted two inches, then thudded back down.

And Seamus—hero of the sky, survivor of sausages—read a poem he’d written for the occasion, entitled:

“Ode to the Ceiling: I Knew You Briefly, But You Were Sticky.”

And So…

Life, as it always does in Ballykillduff, found a new normal.

One slightly tilted toward the surreal.

You can still visit today. You might spot a cow looking wistfully at the roof. Or an old man testing spoons to see if they hover. Or a glowing orb in the back of the church vestry, humming to itself like it’s dreaming of a second round.

But mostly, it’s quiet now.

Rooted.

Grounded.

With only the occasional sausage floating upward to remind you:

This is Ballykillduff. Anything is possible.

Even the impossible.