T'is St Patrick's day in fair Dublin. Liam O'Connor, for lack of anything constructive to do, decides to spend the day - like the 20-odd past ones - at his local pub. Drinking throughout the afternoon and until well past midnight, the bartender eagerly rings his old mariner's bell and calls the last round.
Disgruntled, Liam orders another drink and decides to head home. Upon trying to get up however, he finds himself at an impass with the amount of alcohol ingested during the day and, rather than finding his feet, he finds the floorboards - non-acrobatically. Unfazed, he grunts, shrugs off the pain and starts crawling towards the door.
Once outside, Liam opts for sitting outside, and catching a noseful of fresh air to clear his head. A short while passes before he tries to get up and stand, but still cannot manage to stand up straight, crashing back to the ground. At this stage, he really doesn't give a dime anymore and simply starts crawling to his house, two blocks away.
Wary of waking the old lady, however, he gives his head another hour of fresh air before trying one last time to get up just outside his front door. Crashing back to the floor once more, he shrugs again and reaches up, unlocks the door, crawls inside and up the stairs. Moderately surprised at his capacity of making it into the bedroom without waking the missus, he soon falls asleep.
The next morning, he wakes up to find his wife by his bedside, towering over him with an unambiguous glare in her eyes, flushed cheeks and slight tremble to her posture - obviously enraged.
"YE 'AVE BEEN DRINKING AGAIN, YE GOOD-FOR-NAUGHT GOAT!" she roars just as soon as Liam finds his bearings.
"I, uh, no, just a...." he trails of, realizing the futility of denial. "How'd ye know?"
"The pub just called - you forgot your wheelchair again!"