Paddy  had been drinking at his local Dublin pub all day and most of the
night celebrating St Patrick's Day. 
 
 Mick, the bartender says,  'You'll not be drinking anymore tonight
Paddy.'   Paddy replies, 'OK Mick, I'll be on my way  then.' 
 
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!' 
He looks to the doorway and thinks 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 sidewalk and 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 door,
hauls himself up the door frame,  opens the door and shimmies 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.' 
He takes a step into the room and falls flat on  his face. He says 'Fock
it' and falls into  bed. 
 
The next  morning, his wife, Jess, comes into the room carrying a cup of 
black tea and says, 'Get up Paddy. Did you have a bit to drink  last night?'.
 
Paddy  says, 'I did Jess. I was fockin' pissed. But how'd you know?'
 
 
 
   'Mick phoned.  You  left your wheelchair at the pub