Snoring
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Is a marriage automatically dead if the two parties start using separate bedrooms? I ask because my wife has developed a snore loud enough to wake the mummies in Egypt, and I can’t sleep next to her without large and unwise doses of medication.
Viv, Hull
No, relax, your marriage ain’t over. I know quite a few people with very healthy relationships who sleep in different rooms, ’cos they don’t want to listen to a human chainsaw next to them when they’re trying to get some shut-eye. I mean, if you’re the first one to drop off, it ain’t a problem—and it’s easy to get offended when your other half starts complaining—but for the poor sod who’s still awake, it’s excruciating. Having said all that, you might want to look into some anti-snoring gizmos before taking the separate-bedroom option. If you get on the internet you can find all kinds of things, from mouthpieces to clothes pegs and special pillows. Why not give one of ’em a try?
T.
Transvestism
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
For years I’ve fantasised about what it would be like to be a woman—to the extent where I’ve started to shop for girls’ clothing and wear my wife’s underwear when she’s away on business. How can I explain this to her, or is that a terrible idea?
David, Watford
Okay, so you’ve got two choices, David: pluck up the courage to tell her now, or get caught later. It’s really that simple. As much as you think you can hide this forever, it’s obviously such a big part of who you are, I guarantee that one day you’ll have a couple of drinks, put a frock on, and the missus will come home early and hit the roof. That’s gonna be a much harder conversation than if you bring it up gently at your own pace. And—who knows?—your wife might not even care. I mean, here in Los Angeles, there’s a whole society for cross-dressers. They’re all builders and postmen and delivery boys or whatever. They get dressed up in their fishnets, go out clubbing, come home, then go back to work the next day in their overalls like nothing happened.
Tubs (Hot Ones)
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
My husband has bought a “hot tub” and put it in our back garden, but I refuse to get in it, because I’ve heard horror stories about the water becoming a breeding-ground for germs. He says I’m worrying too much, and spends half of the weekend in there. What’s your opinion?
Betty, Portsmouth
You’re both right. There’s nothing better than being outdoors in a hot tub on a crisp October evening, drinking a nice glass of something cold. At the same time, if you don’t maintain a hot tub properly, it can turn into a swamp, with algae and frogs and fuck-knows-what-else floating around in there. I mean, even though it’s shiny and blue, with pressure jets and mood lighting, a hot tub is still basically just a big boiling cauldron of chemicals. The worst is when you have a party and a bunch of hairy blokes climb in there, all burping and farting and blowing their noses. That grosses me out, that does. Another thing with hot tubs: you’ve gotta watch the heat. I used to get blasted on cocaine, feel my heart begin to pound, then try to calm down by jumping into 900-degree water. One time, I swear my head almost exploded. But if your husband cleans his new toy regularly—tell him to sign up for a weekly maintenance service—there’s no reason not to take a dip. You never know, it might improve your love life.
U.
Urination (Nervous Pisser Syndrome)
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
If I’m standing next to another man at a public urinal, I can’t pee. Even if I’m desperate to go—not a drop. I once queued up for 20 minutes at a rock concert to use the loo, and then had to walk away, because I was wedged between two big blokes. I’ve never known any of my friends to have the same problem. What’s wrong with me?
Terry, Essex
Let me ask you a question, Terry: when this happens, are you absolutely sure you need to pee? I mean, when I need to relieve myself, there ain’t no choice about it. I don’t care if the Coldstream Guards are standing next to me, whatever’s inside is coming out. So my advice is to wait until you’re more desperate to go. Or see a shrink: it might be anxiety.
DR. OZZY’S SURGERY NOTICEBOARD
“Performance” Anxiety
Important news from Ray in Suffolk: “According to a study of public urinal usage in America, ‘flow start’ was delayed by an average of 20 seconds when two blokes were standing right next to each other—as opposed to a solo effort.” So poor old Terry in Essex obviously ain’t suffering alone.
V.
Vaginas (Fishy)
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
I’ve been told that the best way to prevent unpleasant odour in your private areas is to avoid using soap, only water. This sounds a bit counterintuitive to me. Could it be true?
Tyler (no address given)
It would help to know if you were a guy or a girl. Assuming you own a pair of testicles, whoever gave you this advice obviously wasn’t planning on sitting next to you in a hot car any time soon. In general, avoiding soap is never gonna prevent unpleasant odours. The only thing it’s gonna prevent is you making any friends—unless you’re using a power hose (which I obviously don’t recommend). If you’re a member of the more complicated sex, on the other hand, my wife tells me that you do actually need to be very careful when it comes to soap and your sensitive areas, especially if you like lathering yourself up with the heavily scented grandma-type stuff. Bear in mind, though: the Prince of Darkness ain’t exactly a world-authority on female anatomy. If you’re really concerned about it, get yourself an appointment with a gynaecologist.
Vertigo
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
I suffer from vertigo. What can I do to cure it?
Nilay, Istanbul, Turkey
I thought I had vertigo for 40 years. I went to the doctor and he said, “Mr. Osbourne, the problem—as far as I can tell—is that you’re drunk. Very drunk.” So my prescription for you is to go to bed for 24 hours, drink nothing—apart from water—then get up and walk around in circles for a bit. If you’re still feeling dizzy, you might have a problem.
W.
Wax (Big Lumps Of)
Dear Dr. Ozzy,
I used a cotton wool bud to clean out my ears the other day and dislodged some wax—now I’m half-deaf. Is there an easy way to get rid of the wax without going to the doctor’s?
Lucy, Carlisle
Short answer: no. Don’t mess with your ears, man. Go to a real doctor. I remember getting a smack around the head once from Sharon, and her hand clipped the wrong spot and burst my eardrum. I had to get a plug in my ear for ages while it healed. It was like walking around with a cardboard box on my head. Sharon felt terrible. Not as bad as I felt, though. So don’t mess around with your ears: they’re too important, and too easy to break.
Weird S***
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
If I open my mouth in a certain way, I can fire saliva like it’s a water pistol. What should I do?
Christopher, Bristol
Try not opening your mouth. That should fix it.
X.
X-Rays (Dangers Of)
Dear Dr. Ozzy,
Thanks to airport scanners, the new 3-D imaging equipment in my dentist’s office, and cosmic radiation from long-haul flights, I’m worried that I’m turning into a one-man Chernobyl. Should I try to cut down on all this radiation exposure?
Brad, Somerset
You’re talking to someone who’s been flying on a weekly basis since the late 1960s. I probably give off more cosmic radiation than Halley’s fucking Comet—and that’s before adding in all the airport scans I’ve had, or the thousands of visits to my dentist. Having said that, by far the longest exposure I ever had to an X-ray was for the cover of one my albums, Down to Earth. The bloke in charge of the artwork had to shout directions to me through a four-foot brick wall, ’cos he was so scared of getting cancer. At that point in my life, though, getting zapped with death-rays was probably the safest thing I’d done all year. These days, radiation is just
a fact of life, so there’s no point in letting it drive you nuts. I mean, yeah, it’s a pain in the arse going through airport security, but your chances of getting sick have gotta be close to zero. And what’s the alternative? Getting blasted out of the sky at 37,000 feet? I’ll take the X-ray, thanks.
Y.
Yawning (Side-Effects)
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Whenever I yawn, my eyes water—to the point where it looks like I’m about to cry. How can I stop this?
Lex, Surrey
Easy: stop doing things that make you yawn. Have you tried skydiving?
Z.
Zoning Out (Driving)
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
When driving long distances, what’s the best way to stay awake at the wheel? I’ve tried keeping the window open, but I still find my eyes glassing over and having to take a break.
Raj, Birmingham
I knew some roadies in the 1970s who could drive from Land’s End to John O’Groats and back ten times thanks to the rocket powder they were putting up their noses on a daily basis. But the truth is, driving when you’re high is as stupid as driving when you’re exhausted. Either way, you could end up killing yourself—or worse, someone else. If you want to cover a lot of miles without stopping, get a co-driver. Or better yet, take the train.
Dr. Ozzy’s Trivia Quiz: Doctor! Doctor!
Find the answers—and tote up your score— here
1. Which drug was the Harold “Dr. Death” Shipman addicted to?
a) Pethidine (known as Demerol in the U.S.)
b) Codeine
c) Vicodin (hydrocodone/paracetamol)
2. A woman in England recently sued her doctor for giving her what?
a) Two “leg-buckling” orgasms within 90 seconds of each other
b) Oral herpes
c) A slap in the face to wake her up
3. A dentist in North Carolina, USA, was accused of using a syringe to inject this into his patients’ mouths:
a) LSD
b) His own semen
c) A home-made numbing gel made from dog’s liver
4. To advertise a new technique he’d invented, a British GP performed what surgery on himself?
a) Tendon repair
b) Kneecap replacement
c) Vasectomy
5. A survey of GPs in America found that 73 per cent of them had…
a) Been turned on by a patient
b) Made sure that a rude patient spent longer in the waiting room
c) Done things to patients that weren’t necessary, just to look better in court if they were sued
Genetics Explained… Sort Of
7
Before Reading, Apply Ice-Pack to Brain
When I got a call one morning from an editor at The Sunday Times in London telling me that some scientists wanted to “sequence my genome,” I didn’t know what to say. Not ’cos I was surprised—nothing could surprise me any more when it comes to the crazy shit that happens in my life—I just didn’t understand what the fuck he was talking about. The only “genome” I’d ever heard of was the kind you find down the bottom of the garden with a white beard and a pointy red hat.
“You what?” I said. “A gnome?”
“No, a gee-nome,” laughed the guy on the phone. “Basically all your genes and the bits in between, mapped out on a computer. The company that arranges it—and hires the scientists to analyse the results—is called Knome, Inc. It was founded by a top Harvard professor.”
To be honest with you, I didn’t like the sound of it. I’m a rock star, not Brain of Britain. And even if they did the test, how would I know what it said? The only Gene I know anything about is the one in Kiss. Still, it’s not every day someone wants to unravel your DNA—so I asked if anyone else had done the same thing. “Only about 200 people, because the technology is so expensive,” said the editor (my assistant Tony was taking notes). “The first human genome they ever sequenced was in 1990, but they didn’t get the final results until more than a decade later in 2003. It cost $3 billion.”
“Well that rules it out then,” I said. “I ain’t got $3 billion.”
“Prices have come down,” he replied. “Besides, in your case, Knome say they can raise the cash from other people. They’ll provide you with your entire genome on a USB drive the size of a Zippo lighter. Then they’ll go through the results with you in person, line by line.”
I still didn’t get it. Why spend the money on me when they could do someone like Stephen Hawking? “Look,” said the editor, “you’ve said it yourself: you’re a medical miracle. You went on a drink and drugs bender for 40 years. You broke your neck on a quad bike. You died twice in a chemically induced coma. You walked away from your tour bus without a scratch after it was hit by a plane. Your immune system was so compromised by your lifestyle, you got a positive HIV test for 24 hours, until they proved it was wrong. And yet here you are, alive and well and living in Buckinghamshire.”
“So the test can really tell me why I’m still here?” I asked.
“It won’t tell you everything—scientists still have a lot more work to do before they understand how genes work. But it might help make sense of a lot of things. It will also be able to tell if anything in your genes is linked to, say, Alzheimer’s disease. But you’re in your sixties, so anything really scary in your DNA would have probably killed you a long time ago, along with that line of ants you once snorted with Mötley Crüe.”
“What if they find a kind of new gene? Will I get a disease named after me?”
“Possibly.”
That was enough for me. “Okay then,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
A few weeks later, a medic came to my house in Chalfont St. Peter to take my blood. I was having a day off from my world tour at the time—and to be honest with you, I was so knackered, I began to wonder what the fuck I was doing. I mean, it’s not a great feeling, being a human petri-dish. Then again, I was curious. Given the swimming pools of booze I’ve guzzled over the years—not to mention all the cocaine, morphine, sleeping pills, cough syrup, LSD, Rohypnol… you name it—there’s really no plausible medical reason why I should still be alive. Maybe my DNA could say why.
As soon as the guy in the white coat was done taking his sample, he put the test tube in an envelope and told me he was going to send it off to a lab in New Jersey. “First they’ll extract the DNA, then they’ll process it at a place called Cofactor Genomics in St. Louis, Missouri,” he said (again, Tony was scribbling away, ’cos I knew I’d never remember any of this later).
“At Cofactor,” the medic went on, “they use a machine that costs almost half a million quid to read your DNA and ‘sequence’ your genes, then they’ll download the whole thing onto a hard drive and post it back to Knome. After that, researchers will go through it all with a fine-tooth comb, to see what your genes have to say about you. Start to finish, the whole thing should take about 13 weeks. Not bad, when the first one took 13 years.”
“Next year it’ll probably take 13 fucking minutes,” I said. The guy just smiled nervously. Then he cleared off. The next day I went back to my tour and put it all out of my mind.
It was three months later when I finally got a call saying they were gonna send over another bloke—Dr. Nathan—to deliver my results. Sharon couldn’t be with me for the presentation, ’cos of some badly timed meetings in Los Angeles, so she called him up beforehand to make sure he wasn’t going to tell me that my head might explode in 2013, or some other horrendous news. Strangely enough, though, I wasn’t nervous. Probably ’cos I wasn’t expecting to understand a word of what the guy had to say.
I’ve since learned that Dr. Nathan—who looks way too young to have so many letters after his name—is an expert in “primate DNA.” And I have to say, I felt pretty primitive when I was listening to him: it was like he’d swallowed Google for breakfast, then had a couple of encyclopaedias for lunch. The first thing he did was give me a silver box with Latin written on the lid (“It means ‘Know Th
yself,’ ” he told me, “it’s from the Temple of Apollo”). When I opened it up, there was one of those little USB drive things inside. The doc took it out, popped it into his laptop, and the screen filled up with about ten billion numbers and letters… line after line after line after line of ’em. It would have taken me ten years to read one page. “Well, there it is,” said Dr. Nathan, proudly. “Your genome.”
“Okay,” I said. “But what the fuck does it mean?”
“Well, it shows you pretty much all of the 20,000 to 25,000 genes in your body,” he explained. “Better than that, it tells you what order they’re put together, then it cross-checks that with other people’s genomes. Now, most people’s genomes are very similar, because we’re all from the same species, right? But there are all kinds of tiny differences that let you see what kind of traits you have, or what diseases you might get.”
The craziest thing Dr. Nathan told me is that we all have the Huntington’s gene—it’s if you’re missing any genes that you’re in big trouble—but only people with certain types will ever come down with the disease. Another thing that blew me away is how much they already know about the genes involved in things like Huntington’s: they know so much, in fact, even if you don’t have the disease, your DNA can tell you straight up whether or not you’re likely to pass it on to your kids. That’s pretty heavy-duty stuff, and I can see why a lot of people might not want to know. Personally, I’m not that bothered. I’ve already had all my kids, so it’s too late to worry now. And even if my DNA told me that I was a goner, I could still get run over by a truck tomorrow—or poisoned by a radioactive duck turd—long before whatever it was they found in my genome had a chance to kill me. And we all have to die of something. At least if you know what’s coming, you might get a chance to put it off for a while.
Trust Me, I'm Dr Ozzy Page 12