Saint Patrick's Day

[Deeping]

Michael had been celebrating St Patrick's Day at his local Dublin pub, for the whole day and most of the night, and had had a good few pints and one or two generous chasers. Donal, the barman says, 'you’ll not be drinking any more tonight, Michael – get off to your home'.

Michael replies, 'OK Donal, I'll be on me way then', spins around on his stool, steps off and falls flat on his face on the floor. 'Feckit' he says and pulls himself up by the stool leg, and dusts himself off. He takes a step towards the door and falls flat on his face again, 'feckit, feckit!'

He looks towards 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 on to the pavement and falls flat on his face. 'Feckit, you’re an arse, Micheal,' he says to himself.

He can see his house just a few doors down, and crawls down the pavement to the door, hauls himself up the door frame, opens the door and slumps inside. He takes a long look up the stairs and says, 'Ach, you’re having a laugh man’, but crawls up the stairs to his bedroom door and says, 'now if I can just make it to the bed', takes a step into the room and falls flat on his face. 'Feckit,’ he says, and crawl into bed.

The next morning, his wife, Deidre, comes into the room carrying a cup of coffee and says, 'Time to get up Michael, darling. Did you have a little bit to drink last night?'

Michael says, 'That I did, Deidre. I was well on me way to becoming drunk. But how did you know?'

'Donal phoned….you left your wheelchair at the pub.'

[anonstarter]