'Trust Me, I'm Dr. Ozzy': Book Excerpt & Interview

JOHN MICHAEL OSBOURNE (a.k.a. Ozzy Osbourne)


From the chapter "Have a F**cking Egg: The Truth About Diet & Exercise":

Dear Dr. Ozzy:
I know you work out a lot and have changed your lifestyle dramatically, but is it more difficult to maintain your exercise schedule and health regimen when you are touring? What do you recommend for people like me who pretty much live on the road?
John, Santa Barbara, California

To be honest with you, I don't need to go to the gym when I'm on the road: during a two-hour show, I'll burn about 2,000 calories and use muscles I don't even know I have until the next day, when I feel like I've been thrown off the Empire State Building. But here's the advice I'd give to anyone who works away from home in a sedentary job: go for a walk. It's one of the best forms of exercise there is, and it costs nothing. The only reason I don't go for walks myself is because my arse has got a mind of its own, and if I'm out of range of a toilet, I freak out. That shouldn't stop anybody else, though.

From the chapter "Pruning: Cleanliness Is Next to Ozzyness":
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
I'm desparate to get some tattoos, but I'm broke, and my parents won't help me out, because they don't approve. Can I do them myself with a needle and some ink, like you did?
Jason, Cardiff

Yes, you can do it yourself, but I strongly advice you not to, 'cos all kinds of things can go wrong if you start stabbing yerself with a rusty fork. Either that, or you need to become a qualified tattoo artist. Personally, I learned while I was doing time for burglary in Winson Green Prison, Birmingham: anything to make the day go by quicker. I remember one of the guys drawing a picture of The Saint on my arm with a ballpoint pen -- I'd been a fan of the show since it started in 1962 -- then he used a sewing pin he'd nicked form the workroom and some melted grate polish (the stuff they used to clean fireplaces with) to poke in a tattoo over the top. After that, I was hooked. I once spent a whole afternoon in Sutton Park, a posh part of town, spelling out "O-Z-Z-Y" across my knuckles. Then I put a smiley face on each of my knees to cheer myself up when I was sitting on the bog in the morning. My old man wasn't very fucking impressed, mind you. He took one look at me, shook his head, and went, "Son, you're an idiot."

From the chapter "Family -- The Other F-Word":

Dear Dr. Ozzy:
None of my siblings get along, but they all insist on getting together every year at Christmas. I'm already dreading it -- but staying away isn't an option, unless I want war with my mother. Any tips on getting through the day?
Mike, Cornwall

If you think your family is bad company at Christmas, you should have been at the Osbournes' during my drinking days. It wasn't exactly merry, put it that way: by the end of the day, I'd be half-naked, cover in cranberry sauce, and throwing bricks at people. Then there was the year I bought two 28-gallon barrels of beer -- bitter and mild -- and set them up in my home studio. I got through both of 'em in less than a week. In fact, it got to the point where I was getting up in the night to use the toilet, and having a quick pint on my way back to bed. My ex-wife would find me the next morning, passed out in the slops. To answer your question, though: if I were you, I'd use the two rules of family gatherings-arrive early, and leave early. I understand you've got to show your face, but there's nothing to stop you keeping the torture to a minimum.

From the chapter "Friends & Arseholes":

Dear Dr. Ozzy:
I recently took in a lodger, who said he was only going to be staying only a fortnight-but he's still here, six months later. Worse than that: he coughs all the time. It's driving me crazy. What can I do to get rid of him, or the cough, or both? Thank you.
Maddy, Cambridge

I've never had an annoying lodger, but I did once have a next-door neighbour who played tennis at midnight. It doesn't sound like much, but believe me, you don't want to hear thwock, thwack, thwock when you're trying to get some shut-eye. It was like living on centre court at Wimbledon. In the end, I set up my billion-watt PA system in the garden, and the second I heard him starting to play, I blasted some thrash metal in his direction. That soon put a stop to it. The same thing would solve your lodger problem, I reckon. After a few sessions of "The Best of Goatwhore" -- highly recommended, by the way -- he'll be begging to leave. And it'll drown out his coughing in the meantime.

From the chapter "The Jelly Between Your Ears":

Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Can you finally explain why is it so bloody hard for men to cry?
Abigail, Wexham

It's not that it's hard, it's just that we don't particularly enjoy it. I mean, yeah, every now and again-like once a decade-a good cry clears the air. But it ain't something your average bloke wants to do on a regular basis, 'cos it's exhausting. Women, on the other hand, can't seem to get enough of it. For example: my wife insists on going to see these awful films-"slurpies," I call 'em-where you spend the whole time feeling like your gran's just died. I can still remember the last one I was dragged to: The Notebook. By the time the credits rolled, I was just about having a nervous breakdown-then I thought to myself, "Why am I sitting here, in darkened room, feeling all unnecessarily choked up?" When I looked over at Sharon, she was even more puffy-faced and snotty than I was. Then she goes, "Oooh, wasn't that brilliant, Ozzy?" At moments like that, I think that men and women might as well be from different universes.