Ozzy Osbourne - Trust Me, I’m Dr. Ozzy

As long as I didn’t end up with a hand like a snail’s arse for the rest of the day, then yes. (Maybe the antiseptic stuff could be a spirit, so it evaporates?)

♦ Judging by the number of e-mails I keep getting about germ-covered door handles, I obviously ain’t the only one who has a serious bee up my arse on this issue. James in Aberdeen says the solution is “mind-numbingly obvious: automatic doors. They should be law.” (I 1,000 per cent agree). Meanwhile, Mike in Glasgow says doors aren’t even necessary: “You just need an L-shaped entrance, so passing perverts can’t peek.” Pete in Merseyside has more practical advice—“Always use your pinkie to open lav doors: you’re unlikely to ever put your smallest finger in your mouth.” (Unless your name happens to be Dr. Evil, Pete). Alternatively, Marion from Aberystwyth says the trick is to “grab a few sheets of toilet roll to protect your hands when opening the door, then dispose of them when you’re done.” She also suggests: “Disposable gloves should be provided in vending machines as you enter the bathroom.” Special thanks go to Gill in Cornwall, who did a Miss Marple and counted every single bloke who entered and exited the public bog at Cartgate picnic area in Somerset, England, over the course of the weekend, then e-mailed me the results (it was a long e-mail). “Judging by the length of time they took inside, none of them washed and dried their hands—because using the apparatus to do that takes about five minutes!” she concluded. This is the reason why people like me, who actually use the sink, get so pissed off: what’s the point of washing and drying if you’ve then got to touch something that’s got the germs of a thousand dicks on it ? Finally, John from Bristol got in touch to argue (as I’ve also done) that building regulations need to be re-written, making it law that public toilet doors are hung the other way around. That way, our feet can do all the dirty work. David Cameron, are you listening…

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

What do you make of this craze for using hand-sanitizers obsessively throughout the day? I mention it because I had to shake someone’s hand at the beginning of a business meeting recently and they hadn’t got rid of all the lotion, so I was left with a sticky palm. I found the whole thing quite offensive, to be honest with you.

Funnily enough, a similar thing happened to me the other day with Joan Collins in the lift of my apartment building in Los Angeles. I went to shake her hand, and she said, “Oh no, Ozzy, I can’t get sick.” Mind you, I can understand the worry: I’m a singer, so if I get a cold on the road, shows can get cancelled and livelihoods are at stake. That’s why I use cleanser myself every so often when I’m doing promo. Having said that, I’ve never given anyone a slimer, and if anyone gave one to me, they wouldn’t forget about it in a hurry. I mean, how did you even know it was lotion on the guy’s hand? For all you know he might have just knocked one out under his desk. Personally, I would have said to him, “What’s the f***’s this ?”—then wiped it off on his tie.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

When I clear my throat, is it ever okay to spit? I hate swallowing, even though I know it’s harmless.

Depends. If you’re a professional footballer, it would be rude not to. If on the other hand you’re in the middle of a business lunch, and everyone’s drinking tea and eating little finger sandwiches, then no, it ain’t a very good idea to start coughing up a massive Gilbert.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

My husband wants to buy a holiday home in a “gated community” on a golf course, but I’m afraid of being killed by a stray ball. He says I’m being paranoid. Am I?

You ain’t being paranoid. When I lived in Palm Springs, Gerald Ford used to hit someone with a golf ball just about every other week. He might have hit me for all I know: I was drinking so much, I wouldn’t have noticed anything smaller than a flying sledgehammer. It became a standing joke after a while: you weren’t a real local until you had a signed letter from the President, apologising for the shiner on your forehead. Not that golf balls are harmless, mind you: they’re as hard as rocks and travel at over 100mph—so yeah, they can kill you if you’re unlucky. But you have to be very unlucky.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

For over a year I’ve been literally tearing out my hair. It started at a time when I was under immense stress, but I haven’t stopped. I’m aware that it can be described as a mental condition—“trichotillomania”—but I think of it more as an addiction. As someone who’s defeated his own vices, your wisdom would be greatly appreciated.

No-one’s ever fucking happy, are they? Half the time I’m answering questions from blokes who’d swap their right arm for a few more follicles, and then here you are, ripping them all out of your own free will. Seriously, though, you should really talk to someone about this—a shrink or at the very least your GP—asap. I mean, yeah, you can call it a habit, or an addiction, or whatever, but the bottom line is that you’re harming yourself, and that’s heavy duty. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if the rug-tugging was a symptom of some other issues you’ve got going on, and if you get some treatment now, you’ll probably save yourself a lot of trouble and heartache later on. One thing to maybe ask your doc about is a course of “habit reversal training.” From what I understand, it doesn’t involve any actual medication, but it can be very effective.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

Your column has inspired me to go through my old Black Sabbath collection, but now I have severe bruising on my forehead and an intense ringing in my ears. What’s wrong with me?

It’s called being a headbanger, Simon. When people first started doing it in the early 1970s, working class guys like me had never had a way of expressing themselves before, and they got carried away. One guy headbanged all night at a Motörhead concert with his head literally inside a speaker cabinet—it give him a fatal brain hemorrhage. The thing to realise is that headbanging is just like another exercise: the first time you do it, you’re really sore the next day. You’ve just got to start slowly and keep it up, gradually working yer way up to match fitness. So next time, before putting your Black Sabbath records on, try doing 20 headbangs every morning for a few weeks in advance.

That should help.

Dear Dr. Ozzy,

I’m 19 years old and have rheumatoid arthritis and ankylosing spondylitis (the same back disease that Mick Mars from Mötley Crüe has). I love headbanging, but can barely move when the adrenaline wears off. Any tips for muscle pain relief?

I really hate to say this, but why don’t you hold back on the headbanging for a bit? I mean, I know Mick, and I know how painful that condition can be. You’ve got to accommodate what your body can do. People can enjoy music in all kinds of different ways. What amazes me is that I often get deaf people coming to my gigs: they can’t hear the lyrics, but they can get into the rhythm. So my advice to you is to keep going to the shows, but get into the vibe in a way that doesn’t involve the mosh pit. It ain’t worth the agony, man, and I certainly wouldn’t recommend popping any heavy-duty pain pills—unless your doctor says you should—as they can be horrendously addictive.