First off fame. Blimey. Who the hell saw that coming? Certainly not me. I was a working-class lad from Aston with a stutter, a bad attitude, and a wardrobe that screamed second-hand shop after a fire and then i’m famous enough that people actually know who I am even when I’m wearing sunglasses indoors and mumbling.
I became famous for singing about war, the devil, and the end of the world which are all things I knew absolutely bugger all about. I mean, War Pigs? I barely knew who the Prime Minister was, let alone geopolitics. Paranoid? Mate, that song was written in 20 minutes because we needed a B-side and now it’s used in workout playlists and football stadiums. Effin brilliant.
People say I’m the Prince of Darkness. I mean, fair enough if by Prince you mean that bloke who once bit the head off a bat, then yes, I wear the crown. Though I’m pretty sure the actual Prince of Darkness spent less time arguing with his wife about the TV remote.
And don’t get me started on the bat incident. There I was, performing in Des Moines because apparently Iowa is on the global map of rock ‘n’ roll, when some poor idiot in the crowd chucks a bat on stage. Not a baseball bat. A live bat. A furry, squeaky little bloke!
Now, I didn’t know it was a bat. I thought it was a stuffed toy or something so like any reasonable, bat-savvy rock star, I bit its head off.
Cue worldwide headlines. 'OZZY OSBOURNE BITES HEAD OFF BAT'. Suddenly, I wasn’t just the bloke with the squeaky voice and the songs about war pigs, I was Dracula on speed. You can’t make this shite up.
And sure, I got rabies. And yes, I had to have treatments that involved needles the size of cricket bats but hey, a legend was born. All because some tosser in Iowa couldn’t respect the sanctity of live animals.
I didn’t set out to be a legend. I set out to not work in a factory. And boy, did I succeed. I dodged slag heaps by becoming a global icon. Take that, management!
Speaking of Sharon, my rock, my anchor, the woman who saved my life more times than I can count (and probably binned more syringes than a NHS hospital). If she wasn’t around, I’d have been dead by 1982, buried under a pile of empty Jack Daniel’s bottles and unpaid medical bills. Instead, I was still there, annoying the kids, forgetting the lyrics to my own songs, and somehow still selling out arenas.
I sold millions of records. I won Grammys. I had a reality TV show where people actually watched me pick out garden gnomes and yell at the dog but here’s the funny thing about life, no matter how many times you scream IRON MAN into a mic, eventually, the universe taps you on the shoulder and says, Alright, Oz, time to simmer down.
Weirdly I didn’t go out in a blaze of rock ‘n’ roll glory. No overdose. No explosion on stage. No tragic fall from a helicopter, I died because my heart just stopped but honestly? I’ll take it. After all the drugs, the drama, the arrests (shoutout to the Alamo), the time I got banned from six U.S. states just for existing and I go out doing how any sensible 76 year-old man should do, peacefully at home, surrounded by family.
So what’s the takeaway from my legendary, bat-biting, compost-splattered life?
Life’s short. Probably shorter if you’re me. But it’s also hilarious. Don’t take it too seriously. Bite the bat if you have to. Sing off-key. Wear the weird trousers but most importantly marry the woman who shouts at you the most because chances are, she’ll keep you alive.
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