Sharon and Ozzy | Blizzard of Oz | 1

A note before we start, this episode contains a pretty upsetting depiction of domestic violence. If you or someone you know is experiencing harm in a relationship or needs support, we've put links to free support services in the episode description. September the third, nineteen eighty-nine, Amersham. Ozzie Osborne wakes with a pounding head. Sunlight burning through his scrunched up eyelids. He reaches out an arm for his wife, but his body jolts in shock when it hits a brick wall instead.

Sharon He forces his eyes open. He scrambles up from the concrete floor. The smell makes him think he must have passed out in a public toilet. But then he clocks the bars over the windows, and his stomach lurches. Ozzie scrambles to his feet. Hello. His voice echoes around the tiled walls. His pulse begins to quicken. Hello? Is anybody there?

He hears a chair scrape back, footsteps along the hallway. Then a tall, stone-faced police officer appears at his cell door. Ozzie feels the look hit him like a boot. The officer grabs his arm and drags him out. Don't play damn son. You weren't net pissed. Ozzy's guts churn. Uh what do you mean? Wha w what the fuck have I done? The guard yanks his arm down sharply. His shoulder explodes with pain. What's your fucking mouth? Ozzie's head swims.

As he tries to recall what he did last night. But all he can picture is a bright red room glowing like hell. The officer shoves Ozzie into the booking room. Perhaps we'll get more sense out of you this morning. Ozzie shuts his eyes, tries again to picture last night, focuses hard on the red room, and he's overcome with a strange vivid sensation. Of wanting to headbutt a dragon. That's not a phrase that means something else, is it?

The officer drops him onto a metal seat. The clatter breaks his concentration. Ozzie feels something in his pocket. He pulls it out. A receipt for his local Chinese restaurant, The Dynasty. His daughter's sixth birthday party. That's where he was last night. Will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on? The officer picks up a file, studies it, then looks straight at Ozzie, like he's trying to see his soul. Ozzie's heart kicks hard against his ribs. Well fucking raid it already!

Slowly the officer's eyes returned to the file. John Michael Osborne, you are hereby charged with the attempted murder of your wife. Sharon Osborne.

From Audible Originals, I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. And this is British Scandal, the show where we bring you the murkiest stories that ever happened on these odd little aisles. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money, some are about sex.

They're all about power. But when we look at scandals a bit closer, they turn out to be stranger, wilder, just plain weirder than we remember. So we're journeying back to ask, who's to blame for what happened? And when the dust settled, Did anything really change? So Alice, this is a musical scandal and we've done a lot of those over the years. We really have. Rolling Stones, Sex Pistols, Oasis. All of them absolute carnage. Exactly. And on the surface This story follows a familiar arc.

It's a working class kid who becomes a global megastar, loses it, gets it back, loses it again. Drink, drugs, redemption, rinse and repeat. Oh, it's basically like a rock and roll comfort blanket at this point, so cozy. It is, but what makes this story different and what makes it far more volatile is where the power sits. We are done with brothers. We're done with bands. We're done with people that can't be in the same room. This is something else.

It's a marriage. I have for you Ozzie and Sharon. Oh a couple, a very different dynamic, but I imagine similar language to Oasis. Yes, maybe worse. Definitely maybe worse. The story of Ozzie and Sharon is one of the most extraordinary, combative, and codependent power couples in music history. This is going to be unhended.

It is, because on one side you have Ozzie, a man addicted to self destruction. Back in the day there was no one more shocking, more outrageous, or more unpredictable. And on the other, you have Sharon, intelligent, ambitious, and determined to turn Ozzie into an empire.

And depending on who you ask, she's either the reason he survived or the reason that everything exploded. Exactly. Alice, I'm handing you a triple A backstage pass to a marriage fueled by genius, madness, and mayhem. But before we start I should prepare you. Later in the episode we wander into some slightly gross rock star behaviour. Um how do I describe this? Biting the head off living things territory.

Is that a metaphor or No, it's literal. Cool. Uh so listeners, maybe don't snack during this bit and if you're very squeamish, sorry, this one might not be for you. This is episode one, Blizzard of Oz. 11 years earlier, December 1978, Birmingham, Alabama.

Ozzie Osborne storms off stage, fury coursing through him. In 10 years fronting Black Sabbath, that might be the worst gig he's ever had. What's your third favourite Black Sabbath song? Thank you. The Devil's Highway? Devil's Highway are the devil's highway. The damn highway, it's built by the devil! The service station doesn't have a Leon. It's not good as Norton Keynes.

Black Sabbath invented heavy metal. Their shows used to start riots, but now they're sets of 10-minute jazz solos. Pop ballads the drummer sing. It's humiliating. Ozzie stares daggers at his guitarist, Tony Iomi. Fucking hell, mate, it's like listening to someone tune up for two hours. We gotta fix our sit, it's gotta be tonight. He knows if they don't get some fire back, this tour is gonna be their last. Oz man, I got a message for ya.

Ozzie snatches up the piece of paper, sees the support acts logo on top, and feels his blood boil as he reads the two-word message. It's war. Ozzie's already sickened that this younger support act is being hailed as the future of rock and roll. Now he's being openly challenged by them.

I don't really understand why this is bothering him so much. I mean he is the headliner, he is the top dog. Ozzy is feeling threatened because a scene that he would have felt that he started is just starting to change a bit.

and Van Halen are a point of divergence. They're still in that metal world, but that West Coast of America version of it, that is more spandex based, long blond permed hair, that slightly different sound, he will have felt like this movement that he basically invented It's starting to move away from him and here's a new version that's gonna usurp him.

Kicking open Van Halen's dressing room door, Ozzy elbows his way through a bustling crowd of roadies and groupies, draws up behind their frontman, David Lee Roth, and shoves. What the fuck is your problem? David turns slowly, narrows his eyes. Problem. Ozzie feels his fists bore. You want a fucking war with me? David smirks. Hell yeah, dude. A cocaine war? Ozzie spins round again. Suddenly aware of the strange young faces.

David lifts a small mirrored tray. Two lines neatly racked out. First to hit the floor pays the other's barbill. All tore. Ozzie stares at David. Black Sabbath might have lost their edge, but in this department, Ozzie Osborne still reigns supreme. Ozzie's nostrils are like Usain Bolt's legs. Well we are a very congested pair often, so with the amount of phexaphenidine we snort, there's no room for any good games.

Yeah, the um the antihistamines would block the coke receptors anyway. That's what we do at our um British Scandal Christmas party isn't. We have an antihistamine more. Yeah, one's the luratidin, one's the citrusine, one's the fexaphenidin, one's one's the middle one? Anyway, one's a placebo, spin it round. And then we leave it an hour and then bring in a load of cats and um within five minutes we have a winner. In one swoop, Aussie hoovers up his line. He sucks up David's line on his way back.

He lifts his head. Silence. Nice little warm-up there. David's eyes light up like fireworks. Oh, it is on. An hour later, the party in full swing, Ozzie sits back and smiles. This is what it's all about. Loud music, hot chicks, good drugs. Van Halen have it right. Sabbath's dressing room these days has all the fun of a hospice. He goes back in for another line when a hand squeezes his shoulder. He turns to see his bandmate, Tony. His heart sinks.

Right, Oz, that's the gear loaded. Let's move. Ozzie shrugs Tony's hand off, embarrassed. Like his dad has come to pick him up. You're all right, Tone. I'll stick on here. Behind him, David mutters under his breath. Christ, it's only midnight, man. I haven't even lit the fuse yet. Ozzie sees Tony stiffen. Ah come on Oz, it's a long drive tonight. The lads want to sleep. Ozzie launches out of his seat, bringing his nose up close to Tony's. Ozzie snarls. Well fucking go on then.

For a moment it's just the two of them. They formed Black Sabbath to escape the dead-end drudgery of their Birmingham suburb. Music was their ticket out of the joyless grind. Ten years on though, that's exactly what Black Sabbath has become. A grind. And the grind is getting worse and worse. Well Ozzy's had enough. He's sick of his bandmates and he's sick of his band.

He'll catch them up in Cincinnati. Tonight he's hanging out with Van Halen. And he's gonna show them and the world he's still the most metal frontman around.

Three nights later, Nashville, Tennessee. 26-year-old Sharon Arden. tears through the cold backstage corridors, whizzing past cages, boilers, lighting ribs, trying to outrun the venue manager. And also taking notes for her next makeover. He's gunning for her, and Sharon knows why. It's ten P. Black Sabbath were due on stage 40 minutes ago, and Aussie is nowhere to be found. Technically, this isn't her lookout. She isn't even the band's manager, her dad is. The infamously fearsome Don Arden.

The music business's answer to Al Capone. But he's not here, so as the next best thing, it's her neck on the line. She barrels into Van Hamen's dressing room, straight into her bouncer. Whoa there, little lady. Groupies wait outside. Get fucked, shrimp dick. I'm paying your wages. David, where the fuck is Ozzie? Dude. That guy's a fucking animal! Sharon smacks his shoulder. Where the fuck is he? Dude Fuck! Last time I saw him it was 5 a.m.

Shootin' tequila in the hotel bar You're not helping David, my love. Yeah, cover for him, mate. I d think he had an early one last night, Sharon. Sharon swallows a scream. The hotel has no record of Ozzie checking in, nor do the local hospitals or police precincts. Sharon's chest begins to tighten. Ozzie's always been a liability, but he's never gone missing before. She jumps as the venue manager bursts through the door. Right, I'm pulling the plug.

Sharon clasps her hands together. No, wait. She turns pleadingly to David. David, will you go on for Ozzie? David blinked. Take Oz's place? Me? No fucking way, dude. Oh what the fuck now? Her assistant hovers in the doorway. Sorry, Sharon. It's your dad. He just called from LAX. He's getting on the next flight. Sharon squeezes her eyes shut, her skull aching with pressure. Her dad is the last thing she needs. But there's nothing she can do now. It's too late. She has to cancel the show.

Six hours later, Sharon finishes up filing the missing persons report. The lobby is swarming with journalists. Head low, she slinks past them, heads for the lift. But a figure catches her eye. Lank hair.

Hunched shoulders, dressed in black, looking like a pissed wizard. Uh Sharon, where's my fucking luggage? An unexpected wave of relief crashes over her. She was convinced he'd been killed or kidnapped. She thought she'd never see him in one piece ever again. Where the fuck have you been? I'm with Sharon, where the fuck has he been? So after three days of consecutive cocaine wars with Van Halen.

We can only assume there was some sort of ceasefire in the end. He passes out in the wrong hotel room, has his old door key, so the maid lets him in. She's like turning down the room. He'd slept through the entire show, in fact he'd slept for nearly twenty four hours. So no one knew where the hell he was. That is a hell of an app. Sharon lunges at him when a voice booms out behind her. There you are, you fucking brain dead deformity! Do you have any idea the fucking carnage you've caused?

Sharon freezes at the sound of her father. Locks eyes with Aussie. Cancelling a gig Christ alive, Sharon. Now every fucking promoter between her and Timbuktu is trying to pull out. The tour's in fucking freefall. Sharon's throat clenches. Her father is blazing his way towards her. But Dada, I You're fucking fire.

Wow, firing your own daughter Yeah, and he's not just a tough dad, he was known as the English godfather, and that wasn't just some cozy nickname. He had alleged links to the mafia, regularly used threats of violence. Apparently involved in kidnapping and all sorts of things, and reportedly once dangled the manager of the Bee Gees out of a four story window for trying to poach one of his ex.

What you might say if we were being generous is he's a man of passion. He manages with passion. He fathers with passion. Yeah, I mean it's nothing compared to what my agent does. Sharon stares at him stunned. then feels a bolt of lightning crack inside her. Hey! You don't get to do this. She steps towards her dad. I've been through the fucking rigger tonight, trying to save your fucking arse. Don waves a hand, turns away. Sharon feels her arm fire forward. She slaps the back of his bold head.

The lobby falls silent. Don turned slowly around, smoldering. Sharon glances at Ozzy. A look of dumb confusion plastered across his face. She is done. Thank you all! She's leaving and she will never let her father boss her around ever again.

Two months later, Staffordshire, England. Ozzie takes another deep drag of his joint. Then we'll be able to do it. and sits on the edge of his bathtub, trying to shut out the voices in his head. He's been struggling with his old demons since getting booted out of Black Sabbath.

Demons is putting it lightly. I think it's fair to say. Ozzy had had a traumatic life as a young man. He grew up in poverty. He stole to survive. He was sexually abused by older boys and attempted suicide earlier in his life. So Ozzie's brain has been a battlefield. A constant churn of thoughts, memories, regrets. He might have hated Sabbath's latest set list, but he never expected to be fired. He hadn't realised just how much being in the band had kept him grounded.

But with nothing else to occupy his mind, he's in free form. Music wasn't just his job. It was his entire life. Now that it's gone, he has no income, no savings, a million-pound tax bill due. A mortgage on this massive country house that the Dole definitely won't cover, and the voices won't shut up about it. John, get down here we have company His jaw clenches. His wife, Thelma. Pulling his dressing gown closed, he trudges downstairs. A stranger stands in his living room. Black with a white.

Mr. Osborne. I hope I didn't wake you. Awake? He's probably not slept for seven days. Ossie blinks. His voice cuts off as he spots crumbs on the vicar's plate. Yeah. Thelma rolls her eyes. Excuse me, Reverend. That's my fucking space cake. There's half a ton of fucking Afghan ash in the carrot cake. He watches the blood drain from Thelma's face. You spiked the vicar!

Ozzie's eyebrows shoot up. Me? I didn't fucking do anything. No, you didn't. Because you never do. You're always stoned out of your mind. Ozzie shuffles awkwardly as Thelma paces the floor. You stay here and stay out of trouble. Just feed the chickens. Ozzie snarls. Those bastard chickens. Every day Thelmer is on his case. No sympathy, no sweetness, just nagging. Feeling his last nerve snap, Ozzie storms to the back door, slips on his wellies, and grabs his shotgun.

Come on, Chuk Chucks Uh Dinner time. Marching out into the cold grey afternoon, he feeds a couple of cartridges into the gum. To scare them, right? He's just gonna scare them into going into the feeding bit, right? Yes, the meat that you eat that you get from the supermarket, all those animals are humanely scared to death. He puts the gun to his shoulder, aims at the coop. Then fires. All he can hear is squawking, flapping, and bursts of feathers as Aussie fires again.

Okay, this is mad. Uh in a way, isn't this more ethical than people like me who just get the chicken breasts in a vacuum-packed thing from Lidl? The chickens are hard for him to hit now they're running about, so Wazie changes tack. He wanders to his shed, grabs a small canister of lawnmower fuel. Oh my god, okay no no no. No. And returns. He douses the coop, sparks his lighter, and holds it to their bedding. It goes up like a tinder ball.

Basking in the warm glow of the flames, he finally finds some clarity. He's not cut out for the country life. Knee deep in chickens, taking tea with a gun. He's the Prince of Bloody Darkness. He should be making music, singing, in the beating heart of the heavy metal business. And in that moment, he knows exactly what he needs to do to get.

Please continue to hold. One month later, March 1989, Sunset Strip, Los Angeles. Sharon taps her fingers on her kitchen counter and squeezes her phone so tight her knuckles ache. If she has to endure another minute of this ear-shredding hold music, she's going to murder somebody. Hello, Sharon Sharon bolts upright. Yes It's a no, I'm afraid. But he wishes you all the best Sharon grits her teeth.

Okay, thanks for nothing, you shit munching twat Sharon mashes the phone up and down in its cradle, then shoves the whole thing clattering off the counter. She spent the entire day calling potential clients. 20 rejections in one day. And she knows exactly why. This has daddy's fingerprints all over it. Her father's had her blacklisted. Trying to teach her the lesson that without him, she's nothing in this business. Yeah. There's only one thing for it. Even though she can barely afford it, she's

Doesn't sound like it should be that expensive to cheese. No, it doesn't really. How expensive can cheesecake be? You could just get a slice, Sharon. You don't have to have the whole thing. There's only one thing for it, a steak bake. Walking along sunset, a dark figure stumbles out of the liquor store, cutting straight across her path. Watch out! The insult dies on her lips, and her eyes widen. Sharon Fucking Eldoll, how are ya? She blinks, stunned by what she's seeing.

Ozzie looks awful. Sallow skin, unwashed hair. A burgeoning new beer belly straining his t-shirt. She'd heard Ozzie had taken his firing badly, but not like this. He looks like death warmed up. Everything okay? She gorps at him, unsure what to say. Ozzy is half the reason she's in this mess. This hapless idiot lays waste to the only career she's ever known. But she can't deny she's happy to see him. Friends have been hard to come by these last few months. She smiles.

Ozzie, what are you doing right now? Half an hour later, she and Ozzie are catching up over cheesecake and coffee. She laughs as he fills her in about the chickens and the vicar. I thought I'd killed him! Oh God, so this is the space carrot cake. So he really did have a big slice then? Yeah, Ozzy didn't see him for two weeks and thought he'd killed him.

Turns out the vicar didn't put two and two together and instead thought he had a flu. He'd been hallucinating for three days, thought he caught a bug, um but was so ill he missed church. You would be like that does sound like something that's going round. He even explains what's happened to him that night in Nashville. And to her amazement, Sharon still finds herself laughing. I didn't fuck up your life completely, did I?

Sharon looks down at her fork. Yeah, you did. But I'll survive. Oh fuck. I'm sorry.

She looks back up, takes in his dank hair, his hollow cheeks. She hadn't considered that there was someone in this industry with worse prospects than her. But there is. He sat in front of her. Christos, drink some water. You look like a wax figure that's been left in the sand. He's a nightmare. an impossible Coke Addle drunk. But as he looks up at her with his puppy dog eyes and big grin, she's reminded that Ozzie Osborne is rock royalty,

And she might be the only person who can handle it. So even though every professional instinct in her body is screaming at her not to, she finds herself leaning forward. I have an idea. Because Sharon's decided she is going to take him on, clean him up, and make Ozzy Osborne a megastar. September nineteen seventy-nine. Mars Studios Ozzie sits at the sound desk, sketching a logo in his notepad. The words Blizzard of Oz in spiky capitals.

When under the table, you feel Sharon kick his Could you maybe A tiniest bit of injury. Ozzie looks up. They're auditioning musicians for a new band today. But he's struggling to muster any enthusiasm. His old band, they were mates from back home in their Birmingham suburb. They might have driven him mad, but they shared a bond. That's what gave them their fire. Sabbath without that spark, it's just crap karaoke. Why did you even fucking come if you aren't going to bother listening?

Could you maybe show the tiniest bit of interest? I don't know what I'm fucking listening for. I've just seen what I'm told. Sharon grabs his hand. Bullshit. You have good instincts, Ozzie. Listen to them. She squeezes his fingers, and Ozzie feels the kind of rush that usually costs him a hundred dollars a gram. Anyway, that guy played like he had Wanker's cramp, so you didn't miss much. I really miss the phrase wanker's cramp. You just don't hear it enough.

Ozzie cackles. Sharon gets him. Thelma always rolled her eyes at his potty mouth. Sharon's one of the guys, except nicer to look at. Alright, gimme five, I need a leak. Ossie is readjusting his flights as he makes his way back to the rehearsal. drifting down the corridor that stops him dead in his tracks. It's the most incredible riff he's ever heard in his life. And it sounds like God Himself is playing it.

He sprints back to the room to find a blonde kid barely twenty, stood in front of Sharon, shredding his heart out. It's heavy like Sabbath, but it bounces all over the place like Beethoven or something. Aussie stands. Right. Aussie, this is Randy. Hey, man. Randy Rhodes. Randy looks pretty much. Oh I was just warming up. Uh I can play some Sabbath licks if you want. God no, keep playing that thing. Randy shrugs, picks back up. As Randy plays, Ozzie shuts his door.

He can hear something over the top of it, a melody in his head. Not an old Sabbath one, something new, something Looking up, he sees Sharon's smile beaming back at him. He'd assumed Blizzard of Oz would consist of But now he can see that. Different taking shape in his mind's eye. Blizzard of Oz isn't a band, it's an album, a solo album, an outpouring of everything he has felt this past year. And Randy Rhodes is going to help.

September 1980, Norbrek Castle Hotel, Blackpool. Sharon rolls up onto her tiptoes, her 5'2 frame stretching for all its work, scanning the crowd. And her heart sings. Tonight was supposed to be a showcase for Ozzy's new band, but she can't see a single industry contact she's invited. She refuses to let it dampen her mood. She's poured everything into this, and the 200 punters who are here are responding well to the new material.

Hoped along by Ozzie, who's throwing himself around this hotel ballroom like it's Wembley Arena. All right, this is our last one and it's called Crazy Train All Aboard. I would not be boarding a train that Ozzie Osborne was driving. We're afraid to announce that the Crazy Train has been cancelled and a Crazy Train bus replacement service is now in operation. Imagine the announcements on the Crazy Train. The three S's see it, say it, snort it.

Sharon can hardly believe Ozzie's the same man she saw a year ago. She's got him a new haircut, some highlights, decked him out in a crisp new black catsuit that clings to his slimmer physique. Diamante studs. Bright white tassels lining the arms. He looks like a proper modern metal star. She's fizzing inside with pride and can't wait for him to get off stage to tell him.

After the show, she rushes backstage. But half a dozen groupies have snuck into the wings, waving pens and pulling down their tops. She watches as Ozzie chats and laughs. Struggling to sign his name across their jiggling boobs. It's an occupational hazard. Not every part of your job can be being on stage and you know, performing to a crowd. Sometimes you gotta do the admin of that work, which is Sharon pushes through the gaggle of girls to congratulate him.

She throws her arms around him in celebration. We fucking did it, Cher. Come on, let's get fucking loaded. To her surprise, Ozzie grabs her hand and leads her to his dressing room. You really should be out there with your girls. Instead, Ozzie hands her an overflowing glass. I'm busting for a piss and I can't unzip this fucking thing. He turns, bends over, and backs up into her. Lol Isn't this like how gorillas flirt? Like a panda. Sharon brushes her hair to one side, tugs at his zip.

What do you reckon? I'll give Rod Stewart a fucking run for his money in this, eh? He starts to wiggle his bum. She laughs, pushing him away. I'll see. Come on. She feels his hands clasp her waist, swaying her. You're paying for the dry cleaning if you've Her pulse spikes as he pulls her hips into his. Oh shit. He must have already drunk half a bottle. Yeah. Well stop looking so fucking sexy then. Despite herself, a giddy shiver shoots through her as they slam together.

She looks up in surprise, takes in his large eyes, his insatiable grin, Christ doz, I'm your bloody man. Not your fucking backstage strike. She can't believe it. What is she doing? She has worked so hard to prove herself in this industry. She can't really be about to flush that all away over a silly case of funny flutters, can she?

Oh my god. Fanny flutters. Is that a British scandal first? Have you ever said Fanny Flutters? I've never said it on the podcast. Sorry, this is a case of my lingo bleeding into the show. I get them at Christmas, I get them when England win. Her reputation might never recover if word gets out she slept with her client. This is insanity. Unless, of course. No one ever finds me.

Six months later, Beverly Hills, LA Sharon gently opens her eyes to the warm glow flooding the bedroom. Ozzie's arm is heavy across her chest. She turns to find him awake, staring peacefully at her. She smiles. Any fear their personal relationship might ruin their professional one has evaporated. The last six months with Ozzie have been blissful. Placing her hand on his face, she moves in for a kiss.

Good morning, rock star. Ozzie slides his hands down her back. How does a fucking rock star more like? Who's fucking interrupting at this hour? Sharon jerks upright. She can't believe she almost forgot. She bounces out of bed, grabbing her gown. Get dressed, Ozzie! We've got to go! An hour later, the two of them are sat in the back of a limo, a small birdcage wedged between them. Sharon detailing her big plan. So I tell them you're putting all the Black Sabbath bullshit behind you?

Then you slip the stud from your pocket and release it into the air. Ozzy frowns at the cake. What the fuck for? To demonstrate you're all about peace and harmony now, you fucking dolt. It's a dove. You're the boss of the So it's very much adopting the twelve days of Christmas approach to gift giving and conflict. You know, French hens solve a lot of problems. You got your geese, you got your partridges. If in doubt Chuk a dove in there.

Yeah. I think we should use birds as as apology gifts. So that I'm very sorry that I offended your mother. Here's a Robin Redbreast. That's lovely. Um I think you think I'm being hostile. I'm not, and I and I don't like that you felt that way. Blue tits. He leans in to kiss her. Sharon places her palm firmly on his chest. Not here!

Today is CBS Records' annual sales conference, and all the industry big hitters are here. Buzz has been building about Aussie with every show he plays, so she's looking to turn this momentum into a record deal. She clambers out of the car, makes her way to reception. Yeah, of course. Line starts over there.

Sharon freezes. The cue to get in is enormous. But she's getting this deal. So she gets into line and sends Ozzy off to mingle. Forty minutes later, the queue hasn't moved, and she's beginning to get annoyed. She marches back to reception. Excuse me, I made an appointment She's cut off by an ear-piercing scream. Sharon twists around to see the cue is dispersed.

People backed up against the walls, and in the centre Ozzie blood and feathers all over his chin and a headless dove in his The screams multiply. ...as he spits out the head onto the coffee table. It's easy to think of this in a sort of cartoony way, but that is just so viscerally.

Horrible and disgusting. Do you know what? This is why mums love Westlife. Because yes, they are tedious and boring and they basically just do cover versions, but they're nice boys. They don't bite the heads off doves. Sharon's mouth drops open as two security guards drag Ozzy backwards My name is Ozzy Osbourne. Blizzard of Oz. The new album. Coming soon.

Sharon charges out after him. What the fuck was that? Ow! I thought you wanted to get attention! Not like that! Fuck, Ozzy! I need these people to take us seriously! But Sharon suddenly stops talking. She's looking at what's happening behind Ozzy. Journalists and photographers have poured out of the conference, pressed up against the building's window, watching Ossie pluck a final feather from his mouth. I've got a toothpick. I got I've got dove feathers between my molars.

That is the problem when you eat them raw. British Scandal's advice on dove eating? Pluck em and cook'em. You pluck em, we cook em. Oh no, it would be the other way round, wouldn't it, if you were selling them? We pluck'em, you cook'em. That's better, yeah. Levine Family Farms. Why am I getting raped into this?'Cause better. Ford Family Farms. Ooh. Sharon sees two record execs peering out of the window.

A large crowd already formed around Ozzie. Ozzie! Did you know it was real? Ozzie carefully dabs his mouth. Replies. Oh yeah. Tasted like tomato sauce. The crowd erupts. Sharon lets out a little laugh. She's been so focused on making her own mark that she's overlooked Ozzie's greatest asset, his madness. So from now on, she is going to encourage and Capitalize on Aussie's antics and create the maddest, baddest, most outrageous tour the world has ever seen.

January 1982. Des Moines, Iowa. Randy Rhodes slips behind the stack of martial amps, takes a sip of water, spots Ozzie's half-finished bottle of Jack Daniels. He hates alcohol. He's seen firsthand the destruction it can cause. But he loves Aussie. Loves making music with him. He just wishes he didn't have to be such a goddamn maniac all the time. Ever since the Dove incident,

The crowds have been pelting them with all sorts. Dead birds, lizards, rodents. One guy even brought a severed cow's head. Randy keeps telling himself, that working with Aussie is his fast track to fame. But it's starting to feel like the hardest road possible. And it's especially hard, since Sharon devised a gauntlet of death-defying stage stunts so Ozzy can capitalise on his latest notoriety. He steps back out into the heat of the crowd.

And forces himself to lock in the opening notes of Crazy Train. As a giant mechanical arm swings past his face, Ozzy clinging to it, missing Randy's head by inches. Fucking hell, uh! This is the part of the show Randy hates the most. It's his most technically demanding solo of the entire set. And he has to play it while Ozzie, grinning like a man possessed, yanks a lever that fires 50 pounds of raw meat and animal entrails into the air, spraying the crowd with a tidal wave of flying gore.

And Randy doesn't like that, okay. I think he needs to ask himself some questions about why. Randy thinks he might be sick. He tries to focus on his solo until he feels something hit the side of his guitar. He looks up in shock. A red smudge on his star-shaped 1974 Gibson Les Paul. He turns as a piece of offle comes flying out of the darkness and hits him in the forehead. Then another and another. Jesus Christ, Oz, watch out!

Ossie jumps back as he dismounts the mechanical arm, and an object thuds at his feet. What the fuck was that? Randy squints at it. Oh god, it's a fucking rat. Ozzie bends down, picks it up. Randy rushes over to knock it out of his hands, but as he does, he spies a devilsome grin spread across Ozzie's face as two leathery wings unfurl. Everything seems to move in slow motion as Randy watches Ozzy lift the bat.

High up into the spotlight. Ozzie, no! Put it down The audience cheers are definite, as Ozzie brings it down close to his mouth. Ozzy não. Opens one. Then. Randy's stomach heaves as he sees blood spill from the corner of Ozzy's mouth. His eyes frozen in shock as the bat's twitching body falls to the ground. Oh my holy soul. Sweet baby Jesus. Is how

COVID starts. What the hell are you doing? Randy throws his guitar down on the stage as commotion breaks out off stage. Tetra and medics rush past, screaming at him to spit it out. They bundle Ozzie into the wings. What the fuck, man? Ozzie starts laughing. It felt so fucking rubbery. I thought it was a dog toy. Rundy stares at him, at Sharon striding in behind him. It's rock and roll, Randy. Something inside him snaps.

You fucking knock this shit off or I swear The drinking and drugs he could endure. But all this, with the blood and the guts and the bat biting, it's sick. They're as bad as each other. And Randy wants no part in it. So either Ozzy and Sharon clean up his act right now or he's walking. And this band is finished.

February nineteen eighty-two, San Antonio, Texas. Ozzie slumps in the back of the police car, head pressed against the window, glances over the officer's shoulder at the clock on the dashboard. Twenty minutes until he's due on stage. Ozzie turns to Sharon. Do you reckon we'll make it? Sharon snaps round from her window and snarls I'll see.

One more word, and I will punch your teeth so far down your throat, you'll be eating with your arsehole. He's tried apologizing to her to everyone. But it really was an honest mistake. He'd been drunk, he'd needed a wee, he'd found a quiet little spot in which to relieve himself. How was he supposed to know it was a war memorial?

There are often clues. Yeah, exactly. The big engraved words Glory is dead, nineteen thirty nine to nineteen forty five. But that could mean anything. The car pulls up behind the venue. Ozzy is whisked through corridors to his dressing room for a quick change. Randy springs up off the sofa. You fucking pissed on the Alamo? Oh don't you fucking start. I've had enough of it from her already.

We got a crowd full of fucking Texans out there, and they hear some limey British bastard just got busted, pissing all over their war dad. Ozzie feels his nostrils flare. Well someone changed this fucking baby's napper. He feels a thwack on his back. Don't talk to him like that, you stupid asshole! Ozzie spins round at her. Stop fucking itin' me, Sharon! Ozzie's patience.

With Sharon's physical outbursts, has run out. He launches up from his seat, sending the contents of his dressing table flying. He lunges at Sharon, pulls his fist back, but finds himself grabbed and yanked back down by Randy. Whoa, enough! Ozzie crashes back into the chair. Behind him in the mirror, he sees Randy shaking his head pityingly.

Seriously, man, you're gonna fucking die if you keep on like this. And I'm telling you now, I don't want to be around to see it. Ozzie watches him leave, then follows him to the door, screaming after him. Good! Fuck off then! Good fucking riddance! He skulks past Sharon, sits back down at his mirror. I should have left you to fucking rot in Oh, you can fuck off and all! Sharon stands, snaps her headrand, and storms out without a second glance. Ozzie glowers darkly in the mirror.

It's his name on the posters, his name in the papers. Ozzie Osborne is who all these people have come to see. This is his show, his tour, and he doesn't need anyone holding him back.

Noon the following day, Leesburg, Florida. Ozzie shuts his eyes, snuggles back into Sharon, and sighs. The tour bus has pulled up in a lay-by, and Ozzy's been trying to sleep for the last four hours. But he has daggers at the back of his eyeballs, and worst of all, regret sloshing around his system. He knows Randy only ever wanted to make music, and Ozzy's got him wrapped up in all this chaos, making his life hell. Ozzie wouldn't be here without him.

He was too harsh. He'll apologize, put things right. He just needs five minutes more, Kip. He reaches his arm across Sharon when he's suddenly ripped back upright by a deafening bang. The entire tour bus tips onto two wheels. Which two? Oh yeah, is it like a wheelie or is it Dukes of Hazard? Then slams back down again. He blinks, disoriented. What the fuck was that? From the belly of the boss.

He can hear the whirrings of commotion. The rest of his band scurrying around. Footsteps frantically running up and down the aisle. Bangs and crashes, voices raised. I told you, no solids. It's a chemical. Ozzie thumps on the side of his bunk. Stop fucking about, you pricks. We're trying to sleep in here. He goes to put his duvet over his head, when his privacy curtain is torn back. Ozzie looks up to find himself staring into the deathly pale face of his drummer. You need to get off the bus.

Now! Ozzie looks over to Sharon, sees alarm in her face. Then he smells it. Smoke. And an acrid smell of fuel. A primal fear grips him. He grabs his pants, grabs Sharon, and in a hazy hung over Hung over panic, barrels down the gangway, heading for the exit. For a man who has quite a high threshold for adrenaline, you know, he's often got entrails being thrown at him, if he's panicking, then that would send a shiver down your spine.

Panicking but also first grabbing his pants. Yeah, well good. There is a sense of decorum that I really didn't think that he would have. Even the Prince of Darkness realises he's got a cover up. Outside, Ozzie's eyes reel at what he sees. A hundred yards away, a small passenger plane has crashed into the side of a nearby building. Oh my god. Wreckage is strewn all around. Twisted metal. Brick, burning wood, thick black smoke curling up into the sky.

Uh fucking hell, what do we do? The wing of the plane caught the bus. He takes in the dented back end, smoke rising from its engine, and then sprints towards it, tripping over his feet in his haste. Randy! Ozzie dives back on board. Randy, get off the bus! Get off the fucking bus! Tears his way down the aisle, ripping back the bunk curtains as he goes. Where's Randy? Randy! kicks in the toilet door to find the cubicle empty. Uh where the fuck are ya?

At the front of the bus, his drummer clambers on. Ozz, stop, come back. Ozzie starts ripping up cushions and luggage, tossing them everywhere. Where the fuck is he? Ozzie man, stop! Ozzie stops. and stares into the shining, quivering eyes of his drummer. He's not on the bus. He was on that plane.

From Audible Originals and Samistat Audio, this is the first episode in our series, Show. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases we can't know exactly what was said, but all of our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read I Am Ozzie by Ozzie Osborne. Extreme by Sharon Osborne, Black Sabbath, Symptom of the Universe by Mick Wall, and Off the Rails by Rudy Sarzo.

British Scandal is hosted by me, Matt Ford. And me, Alice Levine. Written by Chris Lockery. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor was James Maniac. Sound design by Dan King. Our engineer was Jai Williams. For Samizdat, Our producer is Chica Ayers. Our assistant producer is Louise Mason. Our senior producers are Executive producers for Wondery are Theodora Leludis, Estelle Dor.