The prince of darkness and peace-loving drug abuse has his own health column. Yes. You can find it at Times Online if you dare, in the HEALTH section. Not the entertainment column, or even the offbeat tear-away section, nay! For real, health and fitness. This first column tells tales of Ozzy’s visit to an incredulous American doctor and some nice clipppies about him being a first-class hypochondriac. What a weird world we wiv in.

Ozzy begins with an anecdote about a “once” event of a doctor in the states:

Let me ask you a question, Mr Osbourne,” a doctor in America once said to me, after I’d listed all the heavy-duty substances I’d been abusing since the 1960s.

“All right,” I said. “Go ahead.”

The doctor put down his notebook, loosened his tie a bit, and let out this long, weary sigh.

“Why are you still alive?”

I’ve often wondered the same thing myself.

And lets the world know where his body’s going after his spirit takes the final pull,

By all accounts I’m a medical miracle. When I die, I should donate my body to the Natural History Museum. It’s all very well going on a bender for a couple of days — but mine went on for 40 years. At one point I was knocking back four bottles of cognac a day, blacking out, coming to again, and carrying on.

Continuing on the death list,

Then there are all the other things I’ve managed to not die from during my rock’n’roll career: like being hit by a plane (it crashed into my tour bus when I was fast asleep with Sharon in the back); or the time I got a false-positive HIV test; or the time when they told me I “probably” had Parkinson’s disease (they were wrong — it turned out to be a rare genetic condition, a Parkinsonian-like tremor). I was even committed to a mental asylum for a while. “Do you masturbate, Mr Osbourne?” was the first thing they asked me. “I’m here for my head, not my dick!” I replied.

And then there was the rabies treatment I had to go through after eating a bat — which you might have heard about once or twice. All I want to say is that I thought it was a rubber toy, swear on my 17 dogs’ lives.

Oh, and yeah, I’ve been dead twice: it happened (so I’m told) while I was in a chemically induced coma after I broke my neck in a quad-bike accident in 2003. I’ve got more metal screws in me now than in an Ikea flatpack thanks to the doctors and nurses at the NHS.

And finally tells the tale of getting this gig,

So, as you can imagine, when The Sunday Times Magazine asked me to be its new health-advice columnist — Dr Ozzy, as I’ll be known from now on — I thought they were taking the piss, to be honest with you. But then I thought about it for a while, and it makes perfect sense: I’ve seen literally thousands of doctors over my lifetime, and spent well over £1m on them, to the point where I sometimes think I know more about being a doctor than doctors do.

Read the whole thing at the Times Online. Hopefully this is a multi-column deal, because Ozzy Osbourne isn’t a half bad writer, incase you haven’t noticed, and he certainly has more than one tale to tell, like this final writing on his graveyard scene:

being a hypochondriac, I’ll never tell someone to just stop worrying and/or come back later if their symptoms get worse. In Dr Ozzy’s surgery, everything will get taken seriously. As I’ve always said to my own doctors, “One day you’re gonna be standing at my graveside while the priest is reading the eulogy, and you’re gonna look down and see the inscription on my headstone, and it’ll say, ‘See? I told you I was ill.’”

Find his first column [here] and take a look later for some signs of a permanent one over at the health section of the Times [here].

This post is part of the World Famous Design Junkies under the influence category.