Ozzy Osbourne - I Am Ozzy

Then I blurted everything out to Sharon. You can imagine how that went down. Think of that 100-megaton bomb the Russians once set off in the Arctic.

That was Sharon when I told her that I had to get an HIV test ’cos I’d bonked some dodgy chick from a hotel bar. Angry doesn’t even begin to describe it. It was such a bad scene, I began to think that being dead might actually be better than being alive for another bollocking.

Anyway, I got the test. And then a week later, I went with Sharon to get the results.

I’ll never forget the doctor walking into that little room, sitting down, getting out his file, and going, ‘Well, Mr Osbourne, the good news is that you don’t have herpes, the clap or syphilis.’

The second he said that, I knew something was up.

‘What’s the bad news?’ I asked him.

‘Well, I’m afraid there’s no easy way to tell you this,’ he said, as my whole body went numb with fear. ‘But you’re HIV positive.’

I literally fell to my knees, put my hands over my head, and screamed, ‘WHAT THE FUCK

DO YOU MEAN I’M HIV POSITIVE? THAT’S A FUCKING DEATH SENTENCE, YOU ARSEHOLE!’

You’ve got to remember, in those days HIV wasn’t treatable like it is now. If you got HIV, it meant you’d get AIDS—and then you’d die. The End. And if I was HIV positive, then it probably meant that Sharon was HIV positive, too. Which meant I’d killed the mother of my kids.

I couldn’t even look at Sharon, I felt so fucking terrible. She must have hated me at that moment. But she didn’t say anything. I suppose the shock of it must have been as bad for her as it was for me.

Then the phone on the doctor’s desk rang. I was still on my knees and screaming at this point, but I soon shut up when I realised it was the lab, calling about my results. I listened as the doctor ummed and ahhed for a while. Then he put down the receiver and went, ‘Actually, Mr Osbourne, let me clarify: your test was borderline, not positive. That means we need to run it again. Sorry for the confusion.’

Confusion? If I hadn’t been such a mess, I would have got up and chinned the bastard.

But I was in no state for anything.

‘How long will that take?’ I croaked, trying not to throw up.

‘Another week.’

‘I won’t last a week,’ I said. ‘Seriously, doc, I’ll have topped myself by then. Is there any way of getting it faster?’

‘It’ll be expensive.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘OK then. I’ll get it for you overnight. In the meantime, Mrs Osbourne, I suggest you get a test, too.’

Sharon nodded, her face white.

The next day we went back for my results. I’d been a fucking wreck all night, but Sharon wasn’t exactly in the mood to give me any sympathy. The only thing she was in the mood for was divorce. I honestly thought my marriage was over.

‘So, Mr Osbourne,’ began the doc. ‘We ran another test on you, and I’m delighted to say that you don’t seem to have HIV—although we should do the test one more time, to be sure.’

I put my head in my hands, released all the air from my lungs, and thanked God like I’d never thanked Him before. Meanwhile, I heard Sharon let out a sob of relief and blow her nose.

‘The confusion seems to have arisen from the state of your immune system,’ the doc went on. ‘Basically, Mr Osbourne, your immune system currently isn’t functioning. At all. At first, the lab couldn’t understand it. So they did some more blood-work, and then they came across some—well, er, some lifestyle factors that probably explain the anomaly.’

‘Lifestyle factors?’

‘Your blood contains near-fatal quantities of alcohol and cocaine, Mr Osbourne, not to mention a number of other controlled substances. The lab’s never seen anything like it.’

‘So I really don’t have HIV?’

‘No. But your body thinks it does.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’

‘Mr Osbourne, you might not be HIV positive, but your life is still in grave danger if you don’t take it easier.’

I nodded, but by then I wasn’t even listening. I was too busy planning the drink I needed to celebrate. Mind you, I did change my lifestyle in one way—I never cheated on Sharon again.

With the AIDS crisis over, I flew back to England to prepare for the next tour. I’d only been back a week or two when I got a frantic call from Sharon, who was still in California.

‘Ozzy, get on the next plane out here.’

She sounded terrible.

‘What? Why?’ I said.

‘Just go to the airport, buy a ticket, then call the Beverly Hills Hotel and let me know which flight you’re on.’

‘Is everything OK?’

‘No. One more thing, Ozzy.’

‘Yeah?’

‘DO. NOT. GET. DRUNK.’

Click.

Fifteen hours later, I was walking through immigration at LAX when about ten thousand flashbulbs went off. I thought there must have been a royal visit going on or something. Then a reporter shoved a TV camera in my face and said, ‘What do you think, Ozzy?’

‘Oh, er, well, the chicken was a bit soggy,’ I said. ‘But other than that, it was a pretty decent flight.’

‘I mean about the kid. The dead kid. Any comment?’

‘What?’

‘The suicide. Your thoughts?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talki—’

Before I could say any more, about ten security guards pushed the cameraman out of the way and formed a circle around me. Then they escorted me outside and bundled me into a black limo.

Waiting on the back seat was Howard Weitzman, my lawyer.

‘The kid’s name is—or rather was—John McCollum,’ he explained, handing me a copy of the Los Angeles Times. ‘Nineteen years old. Big fans of yours. According to his parents, he was drinking and listening to Speak of the Devil when he shot himself with his father’s .22. He was still wearing headphones when they found him. And they’re blaming it all on you.’

‘Me?’

‘The father says his son was just doing what the lyrics of “Suicide Solution” told him to do.’

‘But Speak of the Devil is a live album of Black Sabbath songs. “Suicide Solution” isn’t even on there.’

‘Right.’

‘And has he actually read the lyrics?’

‘Look, you and I both know the song’s about the perils of too much liquor, but he doesn’t see it that way.’

‘He thinks I want my fans to kill themselves? How the fuck does he think I plan to sell any more records?’

‘That’s not all, Ozzy. They’re saying that your songs have subliminal messages embedded in them, instructing the young and impressionable to “get a gun”, “end it now”, “shoot-shoot-shoot”, that kind of thing. It’s all in the lawsuit. I’ll have a copy sent over to your hotel.’

‘How much are they suing me for?’

‘Everything. Plus damages.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Unfortunately not. We’re on our way to a press conference right now. Let me do the talking.’

The press conference was at a tennis club. I was jet-lagged, pissed (I couldn’t help myself) and in shock. It got even worse when I was led on to this little podium to face the cameras. I was used to being interviewed by music magazines or whatever, but not by this hardcore national media gang. It was like being back in the classroom with Mr Jones. The reporters were throwing questions at me so hard and so fast, I almost wanted to duck for cover.

One guy said, ‘Listen, Mr Osbourne, isn’t it true that you sing on one of your songs,

“Paranoid”, “I tell you to end your life”?’

I had to take a moment to run through Geezer’s lyrics in my head. Then I said to him, ‘No, I sing “ enjoy life”.’

But the other reporters were already shouting their follow-up questions, so no one could hear.