"Not drunk," he said with a slur and a bit of a mumble as he had forgotten to take the cigarette out of his mouth first. Finally remembering to do so, so as to flick some ash away, he gave her a toothy grin as he backed a bit more away. Each step with a bit of a wobble.
"No Irishman of the blood is drunk as long as he can stand up on his blood well own." Which was the truth. Now moving was a different matter altogether. There was no witty remark about being able to walk your sorry ass back to your car after you got so far off your tit you couldn't tell which foot was which anymore, getting them all tangled up so you fell flat on your ass.
No, it was just about standing and standing he could handle just fine. Or so Mad Sweeney thought. "Listen lass. I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got a drink with my name on it somewhere." Which could have been any number of places.