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

Dear Dr. Ozzy,

I work at a bank and my boss urinates with the door open. It makes me very uncomfortable. What can I do?

Anonymous

To be fair to your boss, when men get the call of nature, it’s a very powerful urge. Our brains aren’t set up to think about all the other stuff involved, like doors, seat lids… or if the wall we’re about to use is part of an important historic monument like the Alamo (I had no idea). Personally, I’m impressed the guy’s even making it to the bathroom. If I was stuck in a bank all day, I’d get so fucking bored, I’d be pissing out of the window, trying to hit people standing at the cash machine outside. So I really think you should give the guy a break. Better yet, next time he empties his bladder in full view of his staff, get your colleagues to give him a round of applause and a score out of ten.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

My best friend is being bullied, and he’s now very depressed—he hasn’t been at school for the past two weeks. I wish I could help, but we’re in different grades (if don’t see the bullying taking place, I can’t tell a teacher). What should I do?

Tell his parents. You must tell his parents. Bullying is a terrible thing, and has fucked up a lot of people’s lives. It’s all very well to say people should just put up with it—or that it makes you stronger—if it ain’t your head being flushed down the toilet on a daily basis. My bet is that if you tell this kid’s folks, they’ll be round the school in no time to sort it out. Do it now before it goes too far and something tragic happens, or you’ll never forgive yourself.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

My friends tell me I’m incredibly tight-fisted. Personally, I don’t think this is fair: I just like to keep track of my spending and try to avoid throwing my heard-earned cash away. Should I listen to them? Should these people even really be my friends?

There’s a world of difference between “careful” and “tight as a duck’s arse.” I remember when I used to own a wine bar and restaurant—“Osbourne’s” in Newport, Shropshire—there was a bloke who was so cheap, he’d come in and count his fucking peas. Literally. He’d tap me on the shoulder and go, “How come I got seven peas and my wife got twelve?” Then there’s the kind of tightwad who claims to be on a diet when it comes to ordering food, but then scavenges from everyone else’s plates. The “See Food” diet, as I always call it. But anyway, back to your question: the fact is, if your friends are saying they’re offended by your behaviour, chances are you’re tighter than Elvis Presley’s spandex. So it can’t hurt to dig deep for a while, just to prove ’em wrong.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

Help! I just sent a long and emotional e-mail about how much I hate my job to my best friend in Sweden, only I accidentally (don’t ask how) copied my boss. What should I do?

Start looking for a new job.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

I know you’re supposed to make eye contact when talking to new people, but how far do you take it—the occasional glance (if so, how many seconds?) or a continuous full-lock?

It ain’t a full-lock and it ain’t a glance—it’s something in-between. But it’s very important to get it right, ’cos it’s not comfortable being around people who can’t look you in the eye when they’re having a conversation. They seem dodgy. Whatever you do, though, don’t stare— if your eyes are bugging out like you’re some kind of nutter, that ain’t cool. To me, it’s all about giving off a warm vibe; making others feel at ease. Maybe if you stop counting how many seconds there are between every blink, it’ll come naturally.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

My colleague (the next cubicle over) has terrible body odour. How can I break the news to him gently—or is there a way of dealing with the smell without having to confront him?

Fuck I take a shower ever day, so it pisses me off when other people don’t give their friends and colleagues the same courtesy. Unfortunately, though, there’s no painless answer to your problem. You could move cubicles, I suppose. Or put an anonymous gift of deodorant on his desk. But the best solution is to confront him—in a nice way. Say, “Next time you’re in the bath, why don’t you try turning on the taps?”

Dear Dr. Ozzy,

Excuse my French, but my boss is an arsehole. His idea of management is to boast about every pathetic little thing he does while belittling everyone else’s achievements. How can I get him to change his ways?

Why not get together with your colleagues who feel the same way and have an intervention? Or, if it’s a bigger company, complain to human resources (or whatever they call it). Failing that, leave. That’s what I used to do when I hated a job. Either that, or I behaved so badly—like stealing cows’ eyeballs from the slaughterhouse where I worked and putting them in girls’ drinks at the pub across the road—they kicked me out. Jobs are harder to find these days, of course, so that might not be a good idea. Unfortunately, that also makes idiots like your boss think they’re God.

Try not to give him the pleasure.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

A friend of mine visited my house the other day when I was recovering from a case of winter sniffles. When he came down with his own cold a few days after, he sent me an angry e-mail telling me that I should have warned him I had germs. Is this fair?

No. How does this guy know where he got the cold from, anyway? And even if you did give it to him, what’s everyone supposed to do, walk around in germ-sealed plastic bags wearing face masks and rubber gloves all the time? Give me a break.

Dear Ozzy:

I play football after work with my colleagues, and last week my boss broke my ankle with a dirty tackle. I’m furious with him, and want revenge—but I don’t want to get fired. Any ideas?

Two words, Guglielmo: shit happens. If you’re gonna kick a ball around, you’ve got to accept that some people’s personalities change beyond recognition when scoring goals is involved. I learned that lesson years ago, when I played on my local pub team every Sunday morning. Well, I say “played,” but it was really just an excuse to air my brain out after the night before. I soon realised that the blokes who were perfectly normal and friendly while having a few beers turned into wild fucking animals on the field. I mean, they just forgot who they were, to the point where they lost all self-respect… then five minutes later they were back down the pub, as nice as you like again. So you should forget about revenge, ’cos you can’t live your life trying get back at people for things you should have seen coming in the first place. Stop playing if it really bothers you. Otherwise get back on the field and try to run a bit faster next time.

Dear Dr. Ozzy:

My neighbour plays his Elton John record collection at full-blast every Sunday morning—the one day of the week when I get to sleep in. No offense to Sir Elton (I know he’s a friend of yours) but what can I do to banish “Rocket Man” from my life for good?

Ask him nicely to turn it down, and if that doesn’t work, buy some earplugs—unless you want to start a feud. Also, let’s face it: the situation could be worse. He could be playing Justin Bieber.

♦ He makes himself Employee of the Month. Every month.

♦ He docks your salary for the day you take off to go to your mum’s funeral.