I Am Ozzy (17 page)

The saddest thing is, it wasn't until I became sober that I truly realised how disgusting my behaviour was. But I do now, trust me.

While all that fucked-up stuff was going on, we decided to make another album - this time hauling all our gear and crew to America and booking into Criteria Studios in Miami. The title we'd decided on was
Technical Ecstasy
, although I can't say I was 100 per cent enthusiastic. By now, our albums were getting ridiculously expensive to make. We'd recorded
Black Sabbath
in one day.
Sabotage
took about four thousand years.
Technical Ecstasy
didn't take quite as long, but the cost of doing it in Florida was astronomical.

At the same time as our sales were falling, the record company wasn't as interested as it used to be, we'd just got a million-dollar tax bill from the IRS in America, we couldn't afford to pay our legal bills, and we didn't have a manager. At one point, Bill was the one manning the phones. Worse than all that, though, we'd lost our direction. It wasn't the experimentation with the music. It was more that we didn't seem to know who we were any more. One minute you had an album cover like
Sabbath Bloody Sabbath
, with the bloke being attacked by demons on it, and the next you had two robots having sex while they're going up a fucking escalator, which was the art-work for
Technical Ecstasy

I'm not saying the album was all bad - it wasn't. For example, Bill wrote a song called 'It's Alright', which I loved. He sang it, too. He's got a great voice, Bill, and I was more than happy for him to do the honours. But I'd started to lose interest, and I kept thinking about what it would be like to have a solo career. I'd even had a T-shirt made with 'Blizzard of Ozz' written on the front. Meanwhile, in the studio, Tony was always saying, 'We've gotta sound like Foreigner,' or, 'We've gotta sound like Queen.' But I thought it was strange that the bands that we'd once influenced were now influencing us. Then again, I'd lost the plot with the booze and the drugs, and I was saying a lot of bad things, making trouble, being a dick-head.

In fact, my boozing was so bad during the
Technical Ecstasy
sessions in Florida, I checked myself into a loony bin called St George's when I got back home. It's real name was the Stafford County Asylum, but they changed it to make people feel better about being insane. It was a big old Victorian place. Dark and dingy, like the set of a science-fiction movie. The first thing the doctor said to me when I went in there was, 'Do you masturbate, Mr Osbourne?' I told him, 'I'm in here for my head, not my dick.'

I didn't last long in that place. I'm telling you, the docs in those funny farms are more bonkers than the patients.

Then Thelma bought me some chickens.

She probably thought it would help bring me down to earth. And it did, for about five minutes. But then the novelty wore off - especially when I realised that Thelma expected me to feed the fucking things and clean out their shit. So I started trying to find a reason to get rid of them.

'Thelma,' I said to her, one morning, after I'd finally had enough. 'Where did you get those chickens from? They're broken.'
'What do you mean, they're
broken
?'
'They're not laying any eggs.'
'Well, it would help if you fed them, John. Besides, they're probably stressed out, poor things.'
'Why d'you say that?'
'Come on, John. You put up a sign beside their coop that says, "Oflag 14". I know they can't read, but still.'
'It's just a
joke
.'
'Firing warning shots over their heads every morning probably isn't helping much, either.'
'Everyone needs a bit of encouragement.'
'You're scaring the living daylights out of them. You'll give one of them a heart attack if you keep it up.'
Here's hoping
, I thought.
As the weeks and months went by, I kept forgetting to feed the chickens, and they kept forgetting to lay any eggs. All I would hear from Thelma was: 'John, feed the chickens.' Or: 'John, remember to feed the chickens.' Or: 'John, did you feed the chickens?'
It was driving me fucking nuts.
I was trying to have a break - making
Technical Ecstasy
had been knackering, mainly thanks to all the boozing involved - but I couldn't get any peace. If it wasn't Thelma, it was the lawyers. If it wasn't the lawyers, it was the accountants. If it wasn't the accountants, it was the record company. And if it wasn't the record company, it was Tony or Bill or Geezer, worrying about the 'new direction' or complaining about our tax bills.
The only way I could handle it was to get loaded all the time.
Then one day I finally lost it.
I'd been up all night - a lock-in at the Hand & Cleaver, followed by more boozing at home, then a few toots of coke, then some dope, then some more coke, then a blackout around breakfast time to refresh myself, then some coke to wake me up again. By then it was time for lunch. So I had a bottle of cough syrup, three glasses of wine, some more coke, a joint, half a packet of cigarettes and a Scotch egg. But no matter how much I put away, I couldn't get rid of this horrendous restless feeling. I'd often get that feeling after coming home from America: I'd find myself standing in the kitchen for hours, just opening and closing the fridge door; or sitting in the living room in front of the telly, flipping from one channel to the next, never watching anything.
But this time, something was different.
I was going
insane
There was nothing else for it: I was gonna have to go back down the Hand & Cleaver and sort myself out.
I was just about to leave the house when I heard Thelma coming down the stairs. She walked into the kitchen and said, 'I'm going to my mum's to get the kids.' I watched as she picked up a pile of
Good Housekeeping
magazines from the table and started putting them in her bag. Then she stopped and turned to look at me standing there beside the fridge in my underpants and my dressing-gown, fag in mouth, giving my balls a good old scratch.
'Did you feed the chickens?' she said.
'I told you, they're broken.'
'Just feed them, John, for God's sake. Or, y'know what? Let them die - I don't care any more.'
'I'm going down the pub.'
'Wearing the terrycloth bathrobe you got for Christmas?'
'Yeah.'
'Classy, John. Very classy.'
'Have you seen my slippers?'
'Try the dog bed. I'll be back at eight.'
Next thing I knew I was staggering out of the house in a pair of welly-boots - I couldn't find my slippers - heading in the direction of the pub. As I walked I kept trying to tighten the cord around my dressing-gown. I didn't want to be flashing a loose bollock at any passing farmers; especially not the bearded cross-dressing loony from down the road.
When I got to the gate at the bottom of the driveway I suddenly had a change of heart. 'You know what?' I said to myself. 'I'm going to feed those chickens. Fuck it. If it keeps her happy, I'll do it.' So I turned around and started wobbling back in the direction of the house. But I was thirsty now, so I went over to where the Range Rover was parked, pulled open the door, and reached into the glove box for my emergency bottle of Scotch.
Swig.
Ahhh
. That's better! Burp.
On I went into the garden... But then I had another change of heart. Fuck the chickens! I thought. Not one of those little fuckers has ever laid any eggs for me! Fuck them! Fuck them all!
Swig.
Ahhh
. Burp. I lit another fag.
Then I remembered that I still hadn't finished the fag that was already in my mouth, so I flicked it into Thelma's vegetable patch. I changed direction again, this time heading towards the shed.
I threw open the door and stood there, looking up at my Benelli semi-automatic on the gun rack. I picked it up, opened the chamber to see if it was loaded - it was - then I set about stuffing the pockets of my dressing-gown full of cartridges. Next I reached up to the top shelf for the jerry can of petrol that the gardener kept there for my lawnmower - the one I used to ride to the pub every so often for a laugh (Patrick Meehan's office had got it for me, even though I'd asked them for a combine harvester).
So, with the jerry can in one hand, the shotgun in the other, and the Scotch under my arm - still puffing away on my fag - I lurched into the garden and towards the chicken coop. The sun was setting now, and the sky had gone all red and orange. In my head, the only thing I could hear was Thelma saying, 'John, feed the chickens. John, have you fed the chickens?'
Then our accountant going, 'Lads, this is serious. This is a
million-dollar
tax bill from the IRS.'
And Geezer saying, 'We're calling the album
Technical Ecstasy
. We need a new direction. We can't do that black magic shit for ever.'
It wouldn't stop.
Over and over.
'John, feed the chickens.'
'Lads, this is serious.'
'We're calling the album
Technical Ecstasy
.'
'John, did you feed the chickens?'
'A
million-dollar
tax bill.'
'John, feed the chickens!'
'We need a new direction.'
'This is serious.'
'We can't do that black magic shit for ever.'
AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!
When I reached the coop I put down the jerry can and the gun, knelt down by the 'Oflag 14' sign and took a look inside. The chickens clucked and nodded their little beaks.
'Anyone laid any eggs?' I asked - like I didn't already know the answer to that fucking question. 'Didn't think so,' I said, standing up. 'Too bad.'
Then I picked up the gun.
Safety off.
Aim.
Cluck-cluck.
Bang-bang!
Aim.
Squawk!
Bang-bang!
Aim.
Squaaawwwwwwwwwkkkkkkkkkk!!!!!
BANG!
The sound of the gun was fucking deafening, and it echoed across the fields for what seemed like miles in all directions. And with every shot there was a white flash that lit up the coop and the garden around it, followed by a strong whiff of gun-powder. I was feeling much better now.
Much, much better.
Swig.
Ahhh
. Burp.
The chickens - the ones who hadn't already gone off to meet their maker - were going nuts.
I waited a moment for the smoke to clear.
Aim.
Cluck-cluck.
Bang-bang!
Aim.
Squawk!
Bang-bang!
Aim.
Squaaawwwwwwwwwkkkkkkkkkk!!!!!
BANG!
By the time I was done there was blood and feathers and bits of beak all over the fucking place. It looked as though someone had thrown a bucket of chicken guts at me and then emptied a pillow over my head. My dressing-gown was ruined. But I felt fucking fabulous - like someone had just lifted a three-ton anvil off my back. I put down the shotgun, picked up the jerry can, and started emptying it over what was left of the chickens. I lit up another fag, took a long drag, stood well back, then flicked it into the coop.
Whoooooooooossssshhhhh!
Flames everywhere.
Then I took the leftover cartridges out of my pocket and started throwing them into the fire.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang-bang-bang!
'Heh-heh-heh,' I went.
Then something moved behind me.
I almost fell over the gun and shot myself in the nuts with fright. I turned around to see a chicken legging it away from me. That little fucker! I heard myself letting out this weird, psycho noise - 'Eeeeaaaargggghhhh!' - then, without even thinking, I set off after it. I didn't know what the fuck was wrong with me, or why I was doing what I was doing. All I knew was that I was possessed with this insane, uncontrollable rage at all chickenkind.
Kill the chicken! Kill the chicken! Kill the chicken!
But let me tell you something: it's not fucking easy, catching a chicken, especially when it's getting dark and you haven't slept for twenty-four hours and you're fucked up on a shitload of booze and coke and you're wearing a dressing-gown and welly-boots.
So I clomped back over to the shed, found a sword, and came out with it raised above my head, Samurai-style. 'Die, you chicken bastard, die!' I shouted, as the chicken made a last-ditch run for the fence at the end of the garden, its little beak nodding so fast it looked like its head could fly off at any second. I'd almost caught up with it when the front door of my neighbour's house burst open. Then this little old lady - Mrs Armstrong, I think her name was - came running out with a garden hoe in her hands. She was used to all kinds of crazy shit going on at Bulrush Cottage, but this time, I don't even think she could believe it. With the coop burning and the rounds from my gun exploding every few minutes, it was like a scene from an old World War Two movie.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang-bang-bang!
At first I didn't even notice her. I was too busy chasing the chicken, which ended up bolting under the fence and legging it up Mrs Armstrong's driveway, out of her gate, and down Butt Lane in the direction of the pub. Then I looked up and our eyes met. I must have been quite a sight, standing there in my dressing gown with a crazed look on my face, splattered with blood, and holding up a sword, my garden on fire behind me.
'Ah, good evening, Mr Osbourne,' she said. 'I see you're back from America.'
There was a long silence. More cartridges exploded behind me. I didn't know what to say, so I just nodded.
'
Unwinding
, are we?' she asked.

I wasn't the only one going out of my mind with the stress of the band imploding.
I remember one time, Geezer phoned me up and said, 'Look, Ozzy, I'm sick of touring just to pay the
lawyers. Before we go on the road again, I wanna know what we're gonna get.'
And I said to him, 'Y'know what, Geezer, you're right. Let's call a meeting.'
So we had a meeting, and I was the first one to speak up.
'Look, lads,' I said, 'I think it's crazy that we're doing gigs to pay the lawyers. What d'you think,
Geezer?'
Geezer just shrugged and said, 'Dunno.'
That was it.

I'd had enough. There didn't seem to be any point any more. None of us was getting on. We were spending more time in meetings with lawyers than we were writing songs; we were all exhausted from touring the world pretty much non-stop for six years; and we were out of our minds on booze and drugs. The final straw was a meeting with Colin Newman, our accountant, where he told us that if we didn't settle our tax bills soon, we'd be going to prison. In those days, the tax rate for people like us was something like 80 per cent in the UK and 70 per cent in America, so you can imagine the amount of dough we owed. And after the taxes, we still had our expenses to pay. We were broke, basically. Wiped out. Geezer might not have had the bollocks to say anything in front of the others, but he was right: there was no point in being in a rock 'n' roll band just to worry about money and writs all the time.