Страница 13 из 52
1. What crazy beauty secret did Cleopatra use to always look good?
a) Smearing crocodile shit on her face
b) Putting ass’s milk up her ass
c) Ba
2. Which of these unlikely ingredients have been found in baldness cures throughout history?
a) Burnt mice
b) Ground horse teeth
c) “Bear grease” (whatever the fuck that is)
3. If you sit for a long time behind a car window on a su
a) You’ll tan faster than The Situation
b) You won’t turn brown, but you’ll burn like Guy Fawkes on November 5
c) You won’t tan or burn—but people will start mistaking you for Yoda
4. Who spent $24,000 (more or less) on a single haircut in 2009?
a) Tony Blair
b) Michael Jackson
c) The Sultan of Brunei
5. What do the Czechs bathe in before and/or after drinking beer?
a) Beer
b) Horse sweat
c) Sausage fat
Family—The Other F-Word
4
You Love ’Em to Death, but They Drive You Fucking Mental
Last December, my wife had one of her brilliant ideas. “Ozzy,” she said to me one morning. “Let’s go to England, get all the kids together, and have a traditional family Christmas in our family home in the English Countryside. It’ll be lovely. What do you think?”
“Are you sure?” I said. “The kids are grown-up now. Maybe they want to do their own thing.”
“Oh, Ozzy,” she said. “Of course they’ll want to be with their mum and dad. Besides, it’s the house where they all grew up.”
I wasn’t very convinced. “Look, Sharon,” I said. “Are you absolutely sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Of course I do!” she replied.
Needless to say, it was a fucking disaster. Peace on earth? It would have been more peaceful if we’d gone to Tripoli. Could the kids get along with each other for more than five seconds? Not on your life. If it wasn’t one, it was the other. All I could hear were slammed doors, houseplants being thrown across the room, and people screaming at each other. It was so bad at one point, I almost fell off the wagon and had a beer. Finally, on Christmas day, I got up, went downstairs, and said to everyone, “Look: all I want for Christmas is for you to get on, even if you have to fake it—just for ONE fucking day!”
Everyone nodded, hung their heads, and agreed to calm down. It lasted three hours. Then they were back at it again, worse than before. It broke my heart, to be honest with you—and it broke Sharon’s heart, too. I was just so disappointed, y’know? But you can only do so much with your kids, then you’ve just got to let ’em get on with it. The thing is, everyone wants the perfect family—but it doesn’t exist. We all dream of our cozy little domestic get-togethers, where everyone says how much they love each other, everyone remembers the good times, and no-one gets angry or jealous or has any issues. As Dr. Ozzy, I’ve come to realise that all families are made up of human beings, and human beings are by their very nature messy and emotional and full of all kinds of fears and insecurities. If that sounds familiar to you, I recommend you read on, ’cos this chapter takes you through just about every issue you’re ever likely to face with your own flesh and blood, all the way from the womb to the nursing home.
I: BASIC PARENTING
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
My husband and I are trying to have a second baby, and we’d love it to be a girl. Is there anything we can do in the bedroom department to skew the odds in our favour?
I’ve heard lots of whacky theories about “gender swaying” over the years: do it standing on your head for a boy; keep your left sock on for a girl; drink lemon juice for a boy; cranberry juice for a girl… etc., etc. It’s all bollocks if you ask me, and the bottom line is, even if you want a girl and you get a boy, you ain’t go
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
My wife’s pregnant, and every time we leave the house, I get paranoid that her “waters” might break. What does this mean, anyway? Would I have to deliver the baby myself?
From what I understand—which ain’t very much—babies grow inside a little watery sac thing, and when that bursts, the kid’s ready to pop out. That’s what it means when a pregnant woman’s “water breaks.” But there’s no need to get all paranoid about it: even if it happens in public, it doesn’t mean you have to deliver your son with a toilet plunger and wooden spoon, or whatever it is you’re imagining. All you need to do is drive your missus to the nearest hospital, sharpish. In fact, that’s exactly what I had to do when my first daughter, Jessica, was born. The only problem was, I didn’t know how to drive, and I’d been drinking all day. Apart from that, it was easy.
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
My three-year-old son keeps being hit/kicked/bitten by the son of one of my friends. Worse, my friend never does anything about it. What can I do?
Catherine, Washington, UK
As a parent, you’ve just gotta accept that some kids play rougher than others. That’s all very well to say, mind you, until some brat whacks your little pumpkin over the back of the head with a wooden hammer. That happened to one of my own kids at a playground in Staffordshire once, and before I even had time to think, I just turned around and chi
Dear Dr. Ozzy:
Is it true that a cat might try to suffocate a newborn baby? My husband and I have just had our first child, and need to know if we should get rid of our eight-year-old moggy.
I used to worry about the same thing. Basically, cats like sleeping in warm places—which is why they jump into cots—and people say they can smell the milk on a baby’s breath. But you don’t need to frog-march poor old Mr. Moggins outside at dawn and shoot him. Just keep the door to your baby’s room closed (as long as you’ve got a monitor) when the little one’s alseep. Problem solved.
♦ Remember, babies aren’t that much different from rock stars. They go crazy if they don’t get enough to drink. They feel a lot better after they’ve thrown up on your new carpet. And they crap their pants more than once a day. Basically, the same as me during the most of the eighties.
♦ Most strollers nowadays come with a beer holder and an ashtray. In an emergency, they can be also used to carry milk bottles and wet wipes.
♦ Don’t even think about asking your own parents for advice about raising infants. At the age of 62, I’m lucky if I can remember why I just walked into a room, never mind how I changed a fucking nappy in 1972. Mind you, I don’t think I ever did change a nappy, so even if I could somehow go back in time, I still wouldn’t have a clue. Work out it for yourself.