Paddy had been drinking at his local Dublin pub all day and most of the night. Mick, the bartender, says "You'll not be drinking any more tonight,Paddy". Paddy replies "OK Mick, I'll be on my way den."
Paddy spins around on his stool and steps off. He falls flat on his face.
"Shoite", he says and pulls himself up by the stool and dusts himself off.
He takes a step towards the door and falls flat on his face. "Shoite, Shoite!" he cries.
He looks to the doorway and says to himself that if he can just get to the door and some fresh air he'll be fine.
He belly crawls to the door and shimmies up to the door frame. He sticks his head outside and takes a deep breath of fresh air, feels much better and takes a step out onto the pavement. He falls flat on his face.
"Bejesus. I'm fockin' focked," says he.
He can see his house just a few doors down, and crawls to the door shimmies up the door frame, opens the door and collapses inside.
He takes a look up the stairs and says "No fockin' way." But he crawls up the stairs to his bedroom door and says "I can make it to the bed."
Again he pulls himself up by the doorframe, takes a step into the room and falls flat on his face. He says "Fock this, I gotta stop drinking," and falls into bed.
The next morning, his wife, Jess, comes into the room carrying a cup of coffee and says, "Get up Paddy.Did you have a bit to drink last night?" Paddy says, "I did, Jess,I did. I was fockin' pissed, and how did you know?"
"Mick the bartender phoned . . . You left your wheelchair at the pub."