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

Only if it starts talking to you.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

I’ve become addicted to swearing. It started two years ago, and basically I swear in nearly every sentence now, even in front of my parents at school. I’ve tried to stop but can’t. I think I must have Tourette’s syndrome. What should I do?

Swearwords are weird, aren’t they? I mean, the American word “schmuck”—which pretty much no-one finds offensive—apparently comes from the Yiddish word “shmok,” which is a very rude term for a bloke’s Upstanding Citizen. It’s as bad as calling someone the C-word. Then there’s the English word “bollocks”—which I love— which used to be slang for a Vicar, or so I’ve been told (although in the old days a more common way of spelling it was “Ballocks”). People just decide which words they want to get upset about, basically. So my advice to you, Ben, is to carry on swearing as much as you like: just do it in a foreign language. That way you won’t get into any trouble.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

A few weeks ago, while in a New York hotel room, I accidently stepped on the door stop. The pain was intense. Now, three weeks later, it hurts when I walk. I think I might have broken something in my foot. What’s your expert medical opinion?

There’s an easy to fix to this one, Mark: try playing football. You’ll know if it’s broken after that.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

I have just had a gallbladder operation and, frankly, I feel bloody awful. Given the many medical disasters you’ve recovered from during your lifetime, what are your rehabilitation tips?

Two words: baby steps. You’ve just had someone rip open your stomach with a knife, so you can’t expect to be starring in Riverdance any time soon. Having said that, I wasn’t exactly very patient after I fell off my quad bike and ended up in a coma for eight days. As soon as I woke up, I tried to check myself out. Hospitals aren’t very nice places to be, in my opinion—if only for the fact that there’s fuck all to do in there. But I’ve now learned that you’ve gotta go easy on yourself as much as you can. Trust me: if you’re too impatient, you’re only gonna end slowing down your recovery in the long term.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

Okay, I’m just going to come out and say it: I’m 40 years old, between jobs, and single. How bad is it if I move back in with my parents, who have plenty of room at home? I’m not relishing the thought, but it would save money while I get my life together.

It sounds like you’re trying to live your life by other people’s rules. If you like your parents, and they don’t mind you in their house, then move in. If you were Italian, you wouldn’t even think twice about it—most guys over there live with their mothers until they get hitched, no matter how long it takes. I realise people might not be so cool with that kind of thing in West Yorkshire, but it’s a lot fucking better than being so broke you can’t afford to eat, never mind pay for dates. Just do what you’ve gotta do, man.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

Every time I get on a plane, I convince myself that I’m going to die. It’s reached the point where I’m starting to make excuses at work to avoid travelling overseas. Please help!

Flying can be deadly. For example, I was on a plane once to America and the bloke next to me started to make funny noises while eating his nuts. Next thing I knew, I was sitting next to a corpse. The worst thing was having to press the little buzzer to call for a flight attendant, and then explain why a bloke who’d been alive a few minutes earlier was suddenly face down on his tray table. For a moment, I thought they’d send out Columbo to meet me when I landed at JFK. In the end they put a blanket over him and moved me to a seat in first class with champagne. I only mention this story because I’m told that having someone drop dead next to you is probably more likely than your plane falling out of the sky. In fact, they say you’re more likely to die in a car crash on the way to the airport than you are to die in a plane crash. But not many people lie awake at night, worrying about the drive to Heathrow. Try reminding yourself of that next time you have to fly somewhere. It might calm you down.

Dear Dr. Ozzy,

My friend has a rare phobia: she’s terrified of pigeons. Is there a cure?

I ain’t got a clue, but if your friend lives in Finland, how many pigeons does she come across on a daily basis? I mean, if she lived in the middle of Trafalgar Square, it might be a problem. It’s not like the Finns eat pigeons, either: all they have over there is reindeer burgers, reindeer ice cream, and reindeer stew. Tell her to picture a sparrow and relax.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

I’m terrified of butterflies. Is this is a common phobia? And what should I do now that the summer is approaching, and my room will soon become infested with the horrible things?

I had no idea it was possible to get so upset about butterflies. I mean, what else are you scared of? Rainbows, puppies, and sunny days? Personally, the only creatures I really can’t stand are rats. If I see one, I freak, big time. But what can you do? You can’t walk around all day in HAZMAT suit with a bag over your head on the off-chance you might come across one. Having said that, it’s pretty easy to stay out of the way of rats, but it might be a bit harder with butterflies. If it’s causing you a lot of anxiety, talk to your GP. Maybe he’ll be able to sign you up for some kind of desensitization therapy.

Dear Dear Ozzy:

How can I tell if I’ve got rabies? The reason I ask is because I was bitten by a stray dog while on holiday in Turkey, and now I’m worried it might have given me a terrible disease.

I thought I’d caught rabies after eating that bat in Des Moines, Iowa. The injections they gave me were horrendous: one in each arm, one in each arse cheek, one in each thigh. Then you’ve got to rub the stuff like crazy to make sure it spreads over the muscle. It’s like an oil, very dense—you can feel it trickling around inside you. It’s the safest thing to do, and I’m sure the treatments have improved since 1982, but it ain’t very nice. Personally, I gave up halfway through. I said to Sharon, “If I start barking, we can start up again.”

♦ According to Bernard in London, anyone who gets bitten by a stray animal in a faraway country like Turkey should immediately go and see a doctor—not wait until they start howling at the moon—’cos it could be “a life and death matter.” Even though I didn’t finish my own rabies treatment in 1982 after eating a bat’s head on stage, Bernard says the injections I had in hospital later that night might very well have saved my life.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

I can’t stop taking sleeping pills—this has been going on for about five years now. I’m out of work, and at a loss what to do. Help.

I’m convinced that once you start relying on sleeping pills, it damages your sleeping pattern forever. A lot of sleeping pills are made from benzodiazepine, which is the same family as Valium—very addictive stuff. When I finally got off it after 25 years, it was the worst withdrawal I ever had from anything. The way I stopped was by switching my sleeping medication to an anti-depressant called trazodone, and I recommend that you talk to your doctor over there in Japan about doing something similar. The secret is to go very slowly: there’s no hurry. I also tried using a non-benzodiazepine sleeping pill, Ambien—or zolpidem—but it was the worst. My short-term memory got so bad I didn’t even know what time of day it was (see here). Mind you, I wasn’t just taking the regular dosage. I built up such a tolerance, I was popping the fucking things like M&M’s.