Paddy had been drinking at his local pub, all day and most of the night, celebrating St Patrick's Day.
Mick, the landlord, says, "You'll not be drinking anymore tonight, Paddy."
Paddy replies, "OK, Mick, I'll be on my way then."
Paddy spun around and stepped out of his seat.... He falls flat on his face. 'Shoite,' he says and pulls himself up by the nearest barstool and dusts himself off. He takes a step towards the door and falls flat on his face,
'Shoite, .... Shoite !'
He looks to the doorway and thinks to himself that it isn't far to his house, and if he can just get to the door, get some fresh air, and compose himself, then he will be fine. He belly crawls to the door and shimmies up the door frame. He sticks his head outside and takes a deep breath of fresh air. He feels much better and takes a step out onto the pavement and, again, falls flat on his face.
"Bi'Jesus.... I'm fockin' focked, "he says.
He can see his house just a few doors down and crawls to the front door. Paddy hauls himself up the door frame, opens the door, and shimmies inside.. He takes a look up the stairs and says, "No fockin' way."
He crawls up the stairs to his bedroom door and says to himself, "I can make it to the bed." He takes a step into the room and falls flat on his face. He shouts out, "Shoite, Fock it," and falls onto the bed.
The next morning, his wife, Jess, comes into the room carrying a cup of tea and says, "Good morning Paddy, did you have a bit of a drink last night?"
Paddy replies, "I did, I was so fockin' pissed, but how'd you know?"
"Mick phoned . . . you left your wheelchair at the pub, Ye Eejit!"