Then, about six months later, the police called to say that they'd caught this gang, and on one of their computers they'd found a layout of our land. So that seemed like the end of the story.
Two days after the robbery we offered a reward of PS200,000 for information leading to a conviction. And PS200,000 is a shitload of money--nobody offers that much, the police said; they only offer PS10,000 to find a murderer. We were coming up to Christmas, so it was a huge incentive to turn somebody in. But no one even came forward, which just proves, they said, that this was a professional operation. I know now that I'll never get any of it back and the way I'll deal with it--I suppose--is how I deal with everything negative in my life: just close it off. Blank it. Put up a shield. Not there. Gone.
It wasn't insured, because it wasn't in the safe. I will never replace it.
A month or so later, Ozzy and I were guests on The Howard Stern Show in New York, and he went on and on about what were we doing having jewelry worth that much money anyway. And I said to him, as I've said before, that it's nobody's business what I spend my money on. Some people buy property as an investment--they can live in it, enjoy it, but they can also sell it. And that's how I buy jewelry. I love wearing jewelry, but I also buy for investment. I have my houses, I have my jewelry, I have antiques, I have pictures. I don't have a single stock or share. If I can't live in it, wear it, look at it or sit on it, I don't want it.
There are certain rules I stick to when buying jewelry. I never buy secondhand, because with old jewelry there is always a story behind it. Somebody may have died; it may have been stolen and caused heartache. Having lost so much jewelry in my life--sometimes literally lost, or stolen, or my father taking it--I know the heartache it can bring. And even if you buy at a respected auction house, they'll say it's the property of the grand duchess of fucking manure and she left it to her great-niece in her will, but it's all bollocks. I have one necklace that Ozzy bought me from a vintage jewelry shop, which has never been lost and never been stolen. I love it for what it represents, because he went out and he chose it and he bought it, but I never wear it. Because its unknown history makes me too sad.
I have had so much stolen and so much pawned that you would think I would just wash my hands of this shit. But I don't. I never seem to learn. It is pathetic, and I know it. It's my addiction: it started when I was young and it made me feel better about myself. Also it was a status symbol when I had no other. And then, when I was fat, my jewelry was a distraction from my arse.
Then it became the way I could get back at Ozzy for his bad behavior. Because when he hurt me, so I would hurt him. I couldn't get to him in a physical way, so I got to him in a mental way. I used my brain, and because he has always been terrified of being poor, I knew the worst thing I could do was spend his money. I would go into Tiffany's or Van Cleef or wherever and I would spend, and they would simply send the bill to him. I would show him what I had bought, and he would look in horror. The amount I spent would depend on what he had done. There was a sliding scale. Sometimes, if he was drunk, I would lie about how much something cost because I'd be afraid of his reaction. But he'd find out the truth soon enough when the bill arrived. And he would always pay up. Because of guilt. It was like, touche. Him and me.
The first time it happened was before we got married and we were on tour with Motorhead in America, and there was this wretched groupie who was following the tour around. Not content with fucking all of Motorhead, she was now in bed with Ozzy. The door to our room was closed, but I just got another key from reception and found them. I got her by the hair and said, "Fuck off out of here," I swiped Ozzy one, cleaned my teeth, got into bed and went to sleep. Next day I went shopping.
That was the pattern. Something would happen and I would spend. I never bought shit; I always bought good. If he ever dared say anything, I would reply, "Listen. I don't pour it down my throat and piss it out. I don't cancel shows because I'm drunk and lose money that way." No, I'd go out and spend it, and it made him mad, while I got the satisfaction of living with it or wearing it, and Fuck You. And so my collection of jewelry grew.
I didn't only buy jewelry, I also threw it away. When I was pregnant with Aimee, there was a band on at a festival Ozzy was doing, and he wanted them off. It wasn't our show so there was nothing I could do. But he went on and on and on, until I just couldn't take any more. So it was, "Fuck you!"
"No, fuck you!"
"No, fuck you! I don't want to be married to you anyway!" And I pulled off my engagement ring and put it down the toilet. We were in the Beverly Wilshire, and I didn't realize it was one of those suction flushes. I was making a statement. I thought the ring would be sitting there in the bottom when the water had stopped whirling. But no. It was gone.
Before we were married, we were staying near Stafford on a visit to see Ozzy's children and we were just arguing. It was a Sunday.
"That's it," he said, and started walking down the drive. And we had borrowed Colin's BMW, so I got in the car and told Pete to get in the passenger seat.
"What for?"
"I'm going to fucking kill him, that's what for!"
When Ozzy saw the car racing towards him, he started running across the lawn, and I followed him and when we drew parallel I began throwing things at him, because I wanted to hurt him. I threw my shoes, I threw Coke bottles, I wrenched off the rearview mirror, and the car was lurching because I was half driving, half lugging these things out of the window. By this time we were off the hotel grounds, and we got to the church just as the service was emptying out and people were shaking hands with the minister at the door, and Ozzy decided it was safety in numbers, so he tried to mingle in with the crowd. He couldn't fool me: I took the car up on the pavement and the crowd scattered. Hats and handbags in the air. All I could see was Pete's bright red-check jacket as we were doing three-sixties on the village green, and then Pete said, "Fuck this, I'm off," and he opened the door and rolled out.
We made it up, as we always did, but that night Ozzy couldn't sleep for thinking about the last things I'd thrown at him, because they were all I'd had left: seventeen gold bangles. So he walked back to the church and started desperately looking for these fucking bracelets in a yew hedge in the dark. He found about half of them.
The main sadness for me in the theft from Welders is that they stole the pieces I had planned to pass on to my daughters. When Ozzy and I renewed our vows I had two wedding bands made, one for Kelly and one for Aimee when I die, and now I don't have those heirlooms to pass on, or the Swimming Pool sapphire and the 10-carat diamond ring, which were specifically a nest egg for my girls. And if I'd caught the bastard and I'd had a gun, I'd have shot him, because I will fight and fight for what is mine and never shed a tear. I hope he gets leprosy and his dick and his nose fall off.
April 21, 2005, 7:30 p.m.
Doheny Road: in my bath
Everything is ready for this evening. The tables outside are ready to be set, but I asked David to do nothing until Ozzy had gone into his meeting, and then he could get going on the barbecue. Ozzy is safely in his meeting, and the door is closed. And all the regular guys are there, all people in the industry, trying to help each other, one day at a time. For the first time today I can just close my eyes and dream.
After the MTV Awards in Australia we flew north to Queensland, to the Whitsunday Islands on the Great Barrier Reef. And for two days running we chartered a boat and headed off, away from people asking for pictures and autographs, to a beach with sand of pure white silica that crunched under your feet like new-fallen snow. And Jack went boulder climbing, and Kelly and Ozzy went snorkeling, and I lazed and read and swam in the blue, blue waters off Whitehaven beach. On the third day, instead of a motorboat, we got the guy to take us out in an old sailing boat to watch the sunset. It was a beautiful old boat, all brass and ropes, and once out of the little harbor, he stopped the engine and we all helped pull on these ropes to unfurl the sails. And so we sailed. Nobody talking very much, the only
sound being the slap of the wooden boat against the water. There was nothing out there. Not another boat, not a house, nothing except the sea and the sky and other islands green with tropical forest. And as the sun slipped down behind the horizon, the sky turned to fire. And it was so beautiful. The darkening shapes of the islands, the silence. For those ninety or so minutes we were on that boat, I didn't have a care in the world. Jack was at the wheel, and he looked so happy, Ozzy was sitting next to me, and I looked out and saw Kelly, her face glowing in the sun, and I knew that Aimee was safe with her friends in Sydney. I've been to beautiful places before, but I have never felt serenity like that in my entire life.
Epilogue
April 21, 2005, 11:00 p.m.
Doheny Road, my bedroom
Today, April 21, 2005, my husband has been sober for one entire year, the longest since we first met thirty-five years ago. Since even longer, in fact. Ozzy had his first drink at eleven, and because he was insecure and lacking in self-esteem it was his support system, and anything like that gets worse and worse. For years he didn't want to change; he thought nothing was wrong. That was just the way life was. Ozzy came from a background where you left school, you got a job, got married, went to the pub, beat up the wife, had sex, and then the week began again. And it's been a tortuous ride for him, dealing with his demons. But every day it gets easier, though there are still times when he needs to be held, needs to be told it's worth hanging on for. And all I can do is be there for him when these black times come, which are not easy, not for him or for me.
The bed is covered with rose petals, velvety red curls, scattered across the white linen cover, which he must have done while I was taking a bath before the party. And now I'm finishing packing for Thailand, because we're leaving tomorrow morning, going first to New York where Kelly is performing. I won't stay up here long because Ozzy's downstairs talking to Aimee and her boyfriend. They're flying out early tomorrow and if I don't go down soon I will miss them. I didn't think Aimee would come, but she did. She's still weak, but her doctors say it will just take time. And Kelly sent her daddy the most beautiful letter in the world that made us both cry, about how proud she is of him for having made it through one whole year. And Jackie Boy phoned from Thailand, not too busy getting ready for the fight to forget what a big day it is for Ozzy. We're both so proud of our son. He's got himself straightened out and he's such a joy to have around. He is my rock, and I miss him so much.
It's quiet outside now. The clattering and murmur of the party voices have gone, just the sweet smell of jasmine floats in from the balcony through the open windows. It has been a perfect day, from the moment Ozzy woke me with a kiss and a rose he'd taken from the 365 that were waiting for him down in the hall.
Then, coming back from seeing my father, I spotted Simon Cowell of all people, gave him a toot, pulled up and we both got out of our very English cars, my Bentley, his Rolls-Royce. It was so strange--we'd last seen each other in an airless, smelly studio in Wembley in not-so-happy circumstances, and here we were standing in the middle of a road heavy with the scent of jasmine being all "Darling, how lovely." And I told Simon how the contract for the second series had arrived only this morning.
"Terrific," he said, looking genuinely pleased. "So, see you in May!" Only in Hollywood.
For Ozzy's surprise party, everything worked out great. If he realized what was going on, he didn't say so, though it's hard to imagine how he could have missed it, but when he's writing he's blind and deaf to everything else, so perhaps it just washed over him.
He has asked me to announce that this year will be his final Ozzfest. If anybody should make that announcement it has to be him, not me. But, oh God, I hope he doesn't change his mind. At first, after his accident, he said he wanted to stop touring altogether, but performing is the only drug Ozzy has left now, and for someone who has low self-worth, it has to make you feel better to see that sea of faces out there, loving you. He thinks he would like to get out of the business altogether and raise Pomeranians. But much as he loves his little Poms, would it really be enough? I've waited for this moment for a long time now. Ozzy has spent his entire adult life touring, and for our entire marriage both of us have worked constantly. I just think it's time for us now.
I look at people like the Rolling Stones, and they're going out again this summer and I think, how can you go up onstage and shake your arse in tight trousers when you're sixty-plus, thinking you're sexy? It's the same as Ozzy going up onstage and trying to be scary. He can't go up there and act scary anymore, because he's not; Ozzy is the least scary person in the world. It's not giving up; it's that there are times when it's right to move on.
Ozzy has such a fertile mind, and the songs that he and Mark are coming up with for Rasputin are just brilliant. He has already made the progression to TV that no other rock star has done, and now he will do it in the musical theater. Not like the Rod Stewart story or the Abba show or the Queen show, when it's just their music that's being recycled into a stage production. He is creating something entirely new, a rock musical, and he'll be accepted on a different level. But I also know that he's scared.
People don't see it, but Ozzy is so vulnerable. He has never valued himself, and it would make me sad to see how he would always be so nice to the young artists but would never approach his peers; he never thought he was worthy enough. He is constantly needy, and the last few years haven't made it any easier. All his life he'd been the main attraction, then suddenly his children were in the limelight, I was in the limelight, and he has found it very difficult, as anybody would.
His entire career people have shat on him. Not the fans, never the fans--they have always been amazingly loyal. But the business side of the industry. There are only a handful of people left today I have any time for. As for the rest, it would honestly not faze me if I never saw them again. I've paid my dues and now I tell it like it is. Nothing about it excites me: I've heard it, seen it, done it, before you were born. And as far as these guys are concerned, I'm not worth a wank. I don't play golf. I don't go watch the Lakers throw a ball up in the air and then go out and have a beer and a fucking lap dance. I don't kiss arse. Because that's the industry. I will not kiss anyone's arse.
The last hour before the party was strange. Dave was cooking for the five thousand and the garden was filling with Ozzy's surprise guests come to celebrate, but Ozzy was still in his meeting. By the time he'd finished, everyone was there, from his doctors, to people connected with AA, and other friends from Hollywood's sober community who have to stay anonymous. Jude Alcala was there, lanky as ever, and even dear old Pete Mertons with his wife and brand-new baby looking good enough to eat, the most lovely little girl with big blue eyes.
There was a time when I desperately wanted more children. Ozzy still asks me every few days to have another one. We still could, but I don't want to take a child out and be told, "Your grandchild is gorgeous!" I'm too selfish at this time of my life and I couldn't take the heartache of being a parent again. Because it is the hardest thing in the world. When these little people arrive, with all that joy and excitement, you have no idea that along with the joy will come heartache.
The sun goes down quickly in California. The temperature might feel like an English summer's evening but it's not like that, and by eight the light had gone from the sky and faces were lit by the firelight and candles, and I wandered around the tables. Then David brought out the cake, somebody got up and started singing "Happy Birthday," the candles were blown out and it was truly like Ozzy's birthday. The end of the first year of his new sober life.
My husband is still frightened. He still goes to his meetings every day, and gets nervous if he can't get to one. But he is a different person. For so long he thought that he couldn't write, saying things like, "I've never done this straight, I need booze, I need this, I need that." But now I say, "Just shut up. That's a crock of shit." He doesn't need it. And he's beginning to know it himself. Recently we did The Tonight Show with Jay Leno an
d I hardly said a word. I purposely held back because he was coming out with all this great stuff and it was totally genius, one-liner after one-liner, and it was like Jay Leno was his straight man. And afterwards everyone was coming up to me and saying, "Oh my God, Ozzy's amazing, whatever happened to Ozzy!" What's happened to Ozzy is that he's sober. There are no more chemicals to stand in the way of his extraordinary imagination, his humor, his everything.
I know it's hard for people to understand how, after all I have gone through with my husband, I am still here. I am here because I love him, and, apart from my children--who he gave me--Ozzy is the only person in my entire life who has ever loved me. Fat, thin, crazy, horrible, it doesn't matter. His love is unconditional. And when he doesn't have his demons on his shoulder, he is the sweetest, funniest, loveliest, most caring man in the world, and Ozzy's demons are getting weaker and weaker. He has matured so much and grown so much over the past year, and he's bettered his life. Now it's my turn to work to change my behavior. For the last twenty-something years I have made all the decisions in our life together. I was holding his hand; now it's time for him to hold mine.
Sharon Osbourne Extreme: My Autobiography Page 34