Ozzy has an addictive personality even in the way of ordinary things, like food. He'll go through patches when he will drink only one brand of orange juice, or refuse to eat anything but brown rice or mangoes. This was his escargotperiod, and you'd see him sitting there, in one of the harbor bars, holding these things that looked like eyelash curlers and eating his way through twenty-five snails a day, till every part of him reeked of garlic. Whenever he was back in Antibes, he would spend his entire time at the harbor waiting for the big yachts to come in, because that was where he would get his drugs, from the guys that crewed them. And so then we'd have all these weirdos coming into the house. It was just getting ridiculous, with the drinking and the drug use and the people he was hanging with. It had been over four years since I had stopped drinking, but Ozzy was if anything getting worse. Once he used to be a funny drunk, now he was becoming an angry drunk. And however much I would plead with him--"Please don't do this. Don't drink. Don't you see what you're doing to yourself?"--it had about as much effect as if I was asking him to learn Hindustani.
He was like two completely different people. At night he'd be the Hulk and in the morning he'd be his usual sweet and gentle self. The adorable lovely guy who would coo over his baby girl and bring me a cup of tea in bed. It was on one of these mornings when he was full of remorse for how he had behaved the night before that I extracted two promises from him: one, that we would sell the cottage and move to London, and two, that he would go into rehab the moment our second baby was born. "I refuse to let our children grow up with a father who's a fucking alcoholic and drug addict," I said. Because that was what I now accepted he was.
A month before Kelly was born, I went back to the same apartment in Collingham Gardens where I'd stayed before and began looking for a house. Two weeks later Ozzy arrived for the birth and I took him to see somewhere I'd found in Hampstead. It was Victorian, semidetached with a yard, not enormous but somewhere to put the baby carriage, and I could walk to the Heath, and walk to Golders Hill Park. It needed a lot done to it, but the price was good and it had great potential. I've always had this thing with houses: I go in and I know instantly. A big plus for me was that Colin Newman and his wife, Mette, lived around the corner.
Given all we'd been through, it may seem strange that we had stayed with my father's accountant, but in those days there were very few specialist music accountants around and frankly I was scared to leave. I had lost my family, and I was scared at the idea I might lose Colin and Mette as well. I needed some kind of continuity in my life, and I had known Colin for so long, and Mette had originally worked as his receptionist, so she and I had been friends since before they were even married, and their children were the same age as mine. The idea of having a girlfriend round the corner, somewhere I could wheel the baby carriage and have a chat, was heaven. At the cottage in Eccleshall if you tried to go for a walk, you took your life in your hands. I'd have to practically throw the carriage up onto the bank whenever a car roared by. There was no pavement, no parks, nothing except overgrown footpaths. Remote countryside like that might be great if you're a rambler or even have kids old enough to play by themselves, but not for babies. And in the summer a thatched cottage is like sitting in a fucking beehive.
Kelly was born on October 27, 1984. Ozzy kept his promise about going into rehab and the next day he and Pete flew to Palm Springs, California. Until I began reading about the Betty Ford Center, where people went who were alcoholics and drug addicts, I had never even heard of Alcoholics Anonymous or the twelve-step program, and I had no idea of the philosophy behind it. All I knew was that it helped people to deal with their problem. Ozzy had a problem, so that was where I sent him. And it wasn't just me giving him an ultimatum. In his sober moments he too knew that something had to be done.
April 20, 2005, 6.00 p.m.
In the Bentley, heading back to LA along PCH
On my cell.
"Hi, Tony Macaroni, have you got my husband there?"
"He's in the studio with Mark right now, Sharon."
"What time is his meeting tonight?"
"Six thirty."
"And you're taking him, right?"
"Right."
"Take your time coming back. The florists are delivering at seven, but they may come late and I don't want him to see. They're putting them in the laundry room, so make sure it's shut."
"Will do."
"How is he?"
"He's fine. Jack phoned from Thailand."
My darling Jackie Boy.
Tony Dennis was one of the two little Newcastle boys who followed The Blizzard of Ozz tour. They were at that first show in Glasgow, and at the second show in Newcastle I brought them in for the sound check and got Ozzy to sign their Sabbath albums. They became like our mascots, and they were staying in train stations and bus shelters and telephone booths, and Ozzy said to me, "Look, we can afford twenty pounds a night." And so he said to Tony, "I can't pay you anything, but if you do the bags, I'll pay for you to stay somewhere," so he used to stay in B and Bs. And then when Kelly was born, he began working for Ozzy full-time. His friend joined the merchant marine. Tony is the most honest and reliable and willing person you could hope to meet. In the old days he even did the cooking. I cannot cook. I've told Ozzy, the day he learns to do the plumbing is the day I will learn to cook.
13
Palm Springs
Palm Springs is two and a half hours southeast of Los Angeles. Ozzy was booked for an initial six weeks. Pete stayed long enough to see him settled in, but then Ozzy was on his own. He had no idea what to expect; I'd been the one reading up about it, not him, and I later discovered he thought they were going to teach him how to drink sensibly. He had no idea that there were no half measures, that he would have to give it up completely. Nor did he expect to have to share a bedroom, or help with household chores, but that's what AA is about. It was a great learning curve for Ozzy.
For the first two weeks he was allowed no contact with the outside world whatsoever. After that he could phone once a day, a five-minute call from the center's pay phone. But I can remember so clearly the first time we spoke. The first few weeks of a baby's life are so intense, and there's so much you want to say and so much you want to hear, it was just like an explosion. We had never been apart so long since I took over Ozzy's day-to-day management in 1980, and even in the early stages of the pregnancies, when I couldn't travel, we were always talking to each other on the phone. Every day, no matter where he was, we would talk, and we still do today. So for me the overriding question was When can I come? In a month, he said. And realistically I wouldn't have been able to go any sooner anyway. I would never take a baby younger than six weeks on a plane.
I made arrangements to travel as soon as I felt Kelly was up to it. She was having trouble feeding and it turned out she had some kind of allergic response to breast milk and had developed a fine talent for projectile vomiting. My plan was to take a rental for six months. The Hampstead house would take time to get ready and meanwhile we needed somewhere for the band to rehearse, and I knew Palm Springs and liked it, very artsy, full of painters and sculptors, and in 1984 it was still a small community. I'd been there several times with girlfriends on weekend retreats and I had always had a great time, and while England settled in for winter, we'd be enjoying the dry heat of the desert, which I love.
The first thing we did was to book ourselves into a hotel: me, thirteen-month-old Aimee, newborn Kelly, a nanny and Tony.
We arrived a week before Ozzy was allowed to see anybody, and then came a call from the facility. They needed me to come in for a preliminary talk with Ozzy and his counselor.
I can't remember now what I had expected from our first encounter after six weeks apart, but I was feeling very emotional, tired from having the baby, the travel, the jet lag and not sleeping properly, but I knew that I would have to try not to let Ozzy down. But when we gave each other a hug, he felt strangely distant and I felt my heart speed up, though I didn't know why
. I can't remember now if he even spoke to me, which was strange, because we'd spoken every day for the last month without any problem. And then the counselor began. She was sitting behind a desk, and Ozzy was sitting to one side, facing her as well, with his head bowed.
"Mrs. Osbourne," she said. "Your husband has some issues with you."
What?
"Your husband wants to know where his money is."
His money? What is this?
"Your husband believes that you and his accountant are taking his money and it is this that has led to his drinking and drug abuse."
I stared at her, unable to speak. As I listened, my heart racing with what was now anger, she told me that Ozzy's situation would be greatly improved if we considered a separation followed by a divorce.
Just in case I had misunderstood what she had said, I repeated the allegations--not to Ozzy; he wouldn't look at me--to her.
"If I get it right, what you are saying is that my husband's drinking and drug problems are because of me, that the reason he hits me is because I am stealing his money. And that although he's just left one wife with two children, you're now suggesting he leaves another wife with two children. Is that it? Well, let me explain something to you. We basically live from month to month because he lost everything in the divorce and we're starting again. And as for his money, how can I be taking his money when I don't even have a bank account?" Because of my past, I had had a prenuptial contract drawn up, because I was terrified my father's debts would come back to haunt me. In America, once you're married, your husband's debts are your debts, and your debts are his debts, and there was no way I was going to have Ozzy working his arse off to pay my father's fucking debts. If anyone wanted to sue me, they could go ahead. There was nothing to get. I didn't have a bank account. I didn't earn money. You can't take blood from a stone.
Ozzy didn't say a word. He just sat there. And I was just, What is this? Even though I knew nothing about therapy I knew this couldn't be right. I mean, the guy's a fucking alcoholic, you cow. Of course, it's not his fault. Alcoholics always put the blame elsewhere; they are the ultimate victims.
It was hate at first sight. I figured she wanted to fuck my husband. Although I knew little about the psychology of the addict in those days, I knew from personal experience that they all lied. Yet here she was accepting his version of events like he was a fucking altar boy. Ozzy has always been terrified of being ripped off, and being poor, so these could have been valid areas for discussion. But accusing me? At a first meeting?
I said I would provide her with details, and left. I dropped off the envelope the next day, including the phone number and name of the fucking bank manager. "And would you please tell your patient," I wrote, "that this is where his money is, and that this is the bank manager's number and he can phone him up any- time to check. Or perhaps he would like you to deal with it, as it seems clear to me that you two have a connection." Basically Go fuck yourself, you cow. I never spoke to her again.
A week later it was family group week, which I had to attend and which is all part of the process. When you arrive for treatment, each person is put into a group of between five and ten people. This is called your home group. You work with the same counselor, you have your therapy sessions together. It's the group that you hang with. You hear about their problems, and they hear about yours. So the family group is made up of the loved ones of the other people in Ozzy's home group. They could be husbands and wives, children or, for young people, parents, so for Ozzy's home group of six, we were twelve.
For the first week you just listen to everybody's story, then do group therapy.
But I very nearly didn't even last out the first day. I got so upset, I couldn't take it, and after only a couple of hours I left and began to run across the lawns to find my car, and then a woman saw me and came running after me. She didn't know who I was, and I didn't know who she was, although later I found out that she was Mrs. Firestone, of the Firestone tire company, who had put a lot of money into the project. But to me she was just a lovely, very elegant lady. She sat me down on the grass, and said, "I know it's hard, but stay. Don't go. Come back with me, and stay." And she was so kind and understanding, and so very different from the counselor bitch from hell who, until now, was the only person I had had any contact with. In the end they decided that I had so many issues that I'd bottled, I needed to stay for two weeks of family therapy.
And as the days went by, however painful it was, there was also relief. Because I had never spoken about Ozzy's problems to anybody before. And just as he got close to his group, so you get close to the other families. And it was so enlightening. Until then I knew nothing, I had no idea even that alcoholism was a disease, and I learned so much about it and about the effect it has on the family. Because it's not just one person: the whole family gets sick.
And I'd sit there and listen to stories of kids who were affected, and it was enough to break your heart. Meanwhile Ozzy was having a blast and he made some very good friends in there, one of whom, a woman, is still a good friend of ours. For Ozzy it was like summer camp, and his body was coping fine. And it was good for him. Within a few weeks he'd stopped playing the victim, and there was no more of this I-have-a-very-evil-wife-who's-sucking-me-dry-and-because-I've-just-lost-everything-with-my-other-wife-I'm-frightened-to-leave-this
one-because-then-I'll-be-left-with-nothing sob story.
The day he finished, there was a leaving ceremony, when people got up and talked about what they thought of each other: members of the home group, counselors, etc. And when it came to Ozzy's turn, it was all about how wonderful he was, how well he'd done, how committed he was to the program. Because Ozzy is a people-pleaser. That's the Ozzy they wanted to see, so that's the Ozzy he gave them. Only one counselor didn't buy it.
"You're young, you're good-looking, you're talented and you're wealthy," he said. "And you will be back here within a year."
He was an optimist. Ozzy didn't last two hours.
"Let's go and have lunch," he said as we left. We went to a cafe, with nice food and a nice ambiance, and the first thing he did was order a beer. And then he ordered another one, and then he ordered another one.
"So you're drinking," I said.
"Yes."
"Knock yourself out." And I sat there and thought, he's just put himself through hell and back and now he's throwing it away. I'd had it all planned out, how he now had this little community of friends who were all so supportive of each other, and there were the AA meetings held twice a day in the facility. I had wanted Ozzy to have his support group so he could continue with his sobriety while he wrote and rehearsed, because I'd already brought in his band. We had commitments.
Over the next six months, to some degree he tried, because once you're educated to your problem you never drink in the same way again. From now on there's guilt added to the mix.
In January we had a huge show to do in Rio. Rock in Rio it was called, and Queen and Rod Stewart were appearing; one huge artist after another. And it was a big payday for us, so, as much as I was scared that Ozzy wasn't ready in terms of his sobriety, there was nothing I could do. As there was no way I could take the children with us, and there was no way Ozzy could have coped without me--Tony had just joined us and he was still very young, just twenty-one--I brought in another girl I knew from when I lived in Los Angeles to help the nanny, so at least I knew my babies were safe.
Anyway, all the artists are on this one Varig Airlines plane, chartered by the promoter to take the LA-based performers to Rio. And soon after takeoff the beverage cart comes around and so my husband begins to drink. And he continues to drink until he rolls off his seat into the aisle. By now they're serving dinner and the cart can't move because Ozzy is taking up the aisle. So I try to shift him. Then somebody else tries to help. But he won't budge. So I pick up a fork--this was in the days when you were still allowed metal forks on planes--and I lift up my hand and then bring it down hard, stabbing him in the arm with this
fork. He got up then. He fucking jumped up then.
I was humiliated. Humiliated for him and humiliated for me. Was he really that drunk that he couldn't move? Although I will never know for sure, there's a bit of me thinks that half of it was acting, because he just loved the attention. I mean, if he really had been out for the count on the floor, then a fork in the arm would have made no difference. But when I stabbed him he was up. And I was just so fucking humiliated. All the other bands were laughing: Oh, here he goes. It's just Ozzy.
I would say to him, "Don't you have any pride? Where is your pride? You wanna get stoned? Do it in the privacy of your own room. Be a closet drinker." But no, he always made such a spectacle of himself. If there was a plant in a restaurant, Ozzy would fall into it and end up wrestling with a fucking palm tree. He liked playing the clown because it was a role he had been working at since he was at school when, because he was dyslexic, being the class clown was the way he survived.
But, of course, when we got to Rio, Ozzy delivered. It was a great show and he had great reviews. Great everything. Because he was brilliant, as he always is.
The six months in Palm Springs was basically a total waste of time--I had learned more than Ozzy. The twelve-step program, the backbone of AA philosophy, is above all about accepting you have a problem, and accepting that you are making other people's lives a misery. It's about honesty and commitment. Take step four: "Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of yourself." At that time, I felt Ozzy wasn't in a place in his life to do that. He would stay clean for two weeks, and then that would be it, until he behaved so badly he'd be plunged into remorse and the cycle would begin again.
Sharon Osbourne Extreme: My Autobiography Page 20