Ozzy Osbourne - I Am Ozzy

Anyway, the break-in happened just before dawn on Monday, November 22, 2004. I woke up busting for a piss, and luckily I wasn’t loaded on anything more than the usual pills, so I wasn’t staggering around, falling into things. I just got out of bed, stark bollock naked, and walked into the bathroom, which leads through to this little vanity area. I switched on the lights and lifted up the toilet seat, and as I did so, I glanced towards Sharon’s dressing table.

There he was: a bloke about my height, dressed head-to-toe in black, a ski mask over his face, crouched down, but with nowhere to hide.

It’s hard to describe the kind of fright you get when something like that happens. But then the urgency of the situation takes over. As soon as he knew that I’d seen him, the bloke legged it to the window and tried to climb out. For some reason—God knows why, given how much of a chickenshit I am—I ran after him and got him in a headlock before he could get his whole body through the gap. So there he is, this cat burglar, on his back with his eyes twinkling up at me, and I’ve got my arm around his throat. Suddenly I’m thinking: Right, what now?

We seemed to be there for ages, neither of us saying anything, while I decided what to do.

If I pull him back inside, I thought, he might have a crow-bar, or a gun. I also thought he might have had a friend outside, waiting to help out in an emergency. And I wasn’t exactly up for a fight at four o’clock in the morning. I didn’t have my Rambo attire on, put it that way. So then I thought, Why don’t I just kill the bastard? I mean, he was in my house, and I hadn’t invited him. But did I really want to live with the fact that I’d taken someone’s life, when I knew I could have let him go?

In the end, I just threw the fucker out of the window, which was on the second floor. I could hear him crash through the branches of a tree on his way down. Then I watched him hobbling across the field, yelping with every step. With any luck, he broke something.

He got away with two million quid’s worth of jewellery, and the cops never caught him. The stuff was insured, but you never get back the full value with those things. I suppose I should have shouted for Sharon to press the alarm button, but I didn’t think. And she didn’t know anything about it until it was all over.

But it’s only stuff, isn’t it? And it could have been a lot worse. He could have beaten me over the head with a baseball bat while I was asleep. He could have raped Sharon. I mean, you hear people down the pub saying, ‘Oh, I’d fucking love that to happen to me, I’d show the bastard,’ but believe me, when you’re taken by surprise like that, it’s a lot different.

I’ve bought a few guns since then, mind you, so if there’s ever another bloke, he won’t have it so easy. Then again, I don’t know if I’d have the nerve to shoot someone. And you’ve gotta be fucking careful with guns. It’s like my father always said to me, if you ever pull a weapon on somebody—no matter what it is—you’ve got to be fully prepared to use it, because if you’re not, the other guy will see the doubt in your eyes, and he’ll take it off you and use it on you instead. Then you’re really in trouble.

The day after the burglary, the press went crazy, as they always do with stories about me.

‘NAKED OZZY’S RAGE AS HE FIGHTS JEWELLERY ROBBER AT HIS HOME’ said the Sun’s headline. Then some of the other papers sent reporters to Aston to write about how I’d robbed Sarah Clarke’s clothes shop, and how it was ironic that I was now complaining about being a victim of burglary. I thought that was a bit of a stretch, to be honest with you. I was just a stupid kid when I broke into Sarah Clarke’s; I was hardly the fucking night stalker. And I learned my lesson.

In 1965, the clothes I nicked were worth about twenty-five quid, and I thought that was all the money in the world. I never would have believed that forty years later I’d have two million pounds’ worth of stuff for someone to pinch—and enough left over to not really notice when it was gone. It’s ridiculous, really. My life should never have happened the way that it did. But, believe me, I’m grateful. Not a day goes by without me thinking about where I came from, and where I ended up, and how no one in their right fucking mind would have put a bet on it turning out that way.

The Boy Prince of Darkness.

With Mum and Dad. They put up with a lot.

My dad promised me long trousers for my sister Jean’s wedding. I got these fucking things instead.

Blame this on Jim Simpson. It was his idea to hold the ‘Big Fear Follies’—naked.

© Neil Preston/Corbis

Bill Ward, Geezer Butler, Tony Iommi and me, at Long Beach Arena. Dunno why we look so miserable—we were all as high as kites.

No, I’m not in the pub. I’m in the kitchen of ‘Atrocity Cottage’, which I’d made to look like a pub. That’s my oldest daughter, Jessica.

With Jess again and my son Louis.

© WireImage

Me, the lads from Black Sabbath and, err… a rubber chicken. In London. Wearing new clothes ’cos we’d just got a record deal.

© Michael Putland/Retna

Fresh faced. And pissed, probably.

Peace…

On stage with Tony.

…and love, man.

© Michael Putland/Retna UK

The lads from Aston made good. This was our ten-year anniversary. Unusually, we decided to get completely shitfaced for the occasion. Within a few months I’d be fired.

© Richard E. Aaron/Redferns/Getty Images

Going solo. This was the Diary of a Madman tour line-up. From left to right: Rudy Sarzo, Randy Rhoads, me and Tommy Aldridge.

Randy Rhoads and Rachel Youngblood, posing next to the tour bus in America. God bless them both.

© Chris Talter/WireImage

On stage with Randy. This is how I remember him best.

© Jon Sievert/Getty Images

The greatest guitarist of his generation—and a man before his time.

Getting hitched in Maui, 1982. There were seven bottles of Hennessy in that cake—later, I passed out in the hotel corridor. Good job the marriage was already consummated.

© Preston/Retna UK

Fangs for the memories!

I was on so many drugs in 1983, I was on another planet. That must be why Aimee is wearing a space suit.

© David McGough/Time & Life Pictures/Getty Images

With my beautiful girls.

© London Features International

Harley Street has some great dentists.

© London Features International

A bad hair day—again. Promo shot for Bark at the Moon.

© Tony Mottram

Hitching a ride with Kelly.

With Sally, my pet donkey. She used to live with us at Outlands Cottage and watch the telly with me.

With Kelly and Aimee.

Before…

© Lynn Goldsmith/Corbis

…After

© London Features International

Getting a load off my mind.

I’d shaved my hair off to get out of doing the gig. Sharon sent me out anyway.

© Ron Galella/WireImage

After a grade-one bollocking from the missus.

© Rex Features

A postcard from Memphis.

Another quiet night in with Mötley Crüe.

On the QE2, bored out of my fucking mind. Sharon was pregnant with Jack so we couldn’t fly.

© Ann Clifford/Time & Life Pictures/Getty Image

Back together for Live Aid in 1985—Bill, me, Geezer and Tony.

© David McGough/Time & Life Pictures/Getty Images

On stage at Live Aid with Tony.

© David McGough/Time & Life Pictures/Getty Images

I still had a drinking problem. I couldn’t find my mouth.

© Terry Smith/Time & Life Pictures/Getty Images

A rare picture of the full Osbourne clan.

This time, it was just a joke.

Me and Jack. At that age, his favourite thing to do was sit on my shoulders during encores.