Sharon and Ozzy | Paranoid | 2

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. What are you working on there, Alice? Just kind of planning out the year for the show, just some decisions to be made. I kind of wanted to talk to you about it, see what you thought. I think you can just decide. You've got good judgment.

No, Matt, I don't want to be like the the controlling dictator on the show that just takes over. You know, I want you to be invested. Well, thanks. Okay. Um, so there's some talk about the logo, you know, like everyone loves it, but maybe we've had the red for too long, so

How do you feel? Green or blue? Well there's blue in the Union Jack, isn't there? So m blue makes most sense I think. I think yeah. G green is nice though, isn't it? Now you mention it. Yeah. Let's go with green. Great choice. Okay, green. I notice you've been I guess you'd call it growing your hair out. So

Are we thinking for the next haircut a bit a bit shorter or a bit This doesn't really feel like it should be within the remit of the podcast. That feels personal to me really. Probably shorter then. Probably, yeah, if that's what you say and want. But it's starting to feel quite controlling. And not just that, it's patronising. I feel like you're babysitting me. Whoa, come on now, I think that's a bit much. Can you have my sucky bottle now, please? Of course you can. You've been a good boy.

June 1984, Beverly Hills Hotel, LA. Ozzie sprawls on the velvet couch of his chalet. Curtains drawn against the blazing Californian sun. Lights on, AC blasting. Two lines of medical grade cocaine in front of him. I've never fully understood that expression, because there isn't A scenario where a medical professional would prescribe you cocaine. Isn't there? Yeah, because street grade.

No thanks. Don't waste my time. Even domestic grade. Not really that bother medical grade. That's beyond industry standard. It's kite marked. You'd be an idiot not to do it, it's good for ya. Ozzie has the whole day off and nothing else to do this morning but enjoy this first hit. He lifts his head, stares at the door. His nose twitches. He's not expecting anyone. A chill grips him. It's a raid. He dives forward, scoops up his coat, bolts to his Just a minute!

Clutching his stash to his chest, he dashes to his kitchenette, rips open cupboards, drawers, goes to sling it in the cabinet under the sink, when he remembers. Sniffer dogs. He rushes to the bathroom, lifts the toilet, and peers down into the glistening bowl. but he can't let all this coat go to waste. Ozzie drops to his hands and knees, tips it out into a mound on the floor, presses his nose to the tiles.

The powder tears up his nostrils, a huge cloud hitting the back of his throat. His eyes filled with water, his pulse picking up and up. But he can't stop now. Between snorts he licks his fingers, frantically rubbing more into his gums. His heart is going like a jackhammer in his chest. Huh? I'm coming! He sprints to the door, his face bright red, throbbing. He unfastens the chain, flings it open, and his chest almost bursts open.

When he sees who's standing there. Hello, vegetable. Don Arden, Sharon's father. Seeing the in-laws unexpectedly. Stressful. Seeing the seeing the in-laws unexpectedly when you've absolutely gobbled a mount of cocaine. The best thing to do, surely, is just run to the toilet and puke it. From your nose. But it's gone down into your belly, hasn't it? Surely. Isn't that how bodies work? Or just have some sort of um

What would it be like a rinse, a nasal rinse? A nasal douche. A nasal douche. Ozzie's mind bubbles, anxiety crackling all over his skin. Don Arden does not make social calls. If he pays a visit in person, it's either to rob you or break your legs. Ozzie stands frozen, then tries to speak, but all he can do is gurgle. I heard about what happened with Sharon. Ozzie grips the door frame, the floor giving way beneath him.

A full-body shudder ricochets through Ozzy as Don strides past him into the room. A sly grin spreading over his face, slowly bearing his teeth. I think it's time you and I had a little chat. Hör upp, tax för ett nytt stryktips Krist Mysterium. Vilket lag spelar på Citiground? Och det är en letro tack. Skog i stan. Smart. Nottingham Forest. Rätt hårdig. Ett spel från svenska spel, sport och casino för dig över 18 år. Stödlinjen.se

From Audible Originals, I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. And this is British Scandal. So Alice, what are your thoughts on the Osbornes? Very different thoughts to what I entered this series thinking, actually. I think like a lot of people listening, my main knowledge of the Osbornes comes from the MTV TV show The Osbornes, where they're portrayed as this lovable, cuddly bunch of oddballs, but it doesn't really cover any of the darkness.

of the Black Sabbath years and the early years of Ozzy's solo career, which was A mess, frankly. Yeah, and Ozzie himself is a unique sort of character. What's your take on him? Well, he's undoubtedly incredibly charismatic, incredibly talented, but he's his own worst enemy. You know, he's had A really awful beginning to his life. And you can see that he's such a troubled young man, so vulnerable. And Being an addict doesn't really cover it.

the way that he interacts with drugs and booze, it's shocking at this point in the story that he's even still alive. Yes, he's a chaotic individual who's being egged on to be even more chaotic because that effectively becomes the business model. And into that mix obviously is Sharon. I mean Sharon is not messing. She is a force of nature. She is a woman who has had to grow up really fast. She's sort of been

neglected in the music industry by her father, who's sort of just let her bring herself up. And through having this domineering dad in Don Arden, She's established this behavior, which is some combination of of sort of savior complex and enabler, where when presented with these big personalities, these damaged men. She feels like she has to take care of everything and with Ozzie she really infantilizes him.

And that develops a really deep resentment and upset which results in these explosive interactions. It is a really destructive dynamic. And if you can believe it, this relationship is about to get even more dramatic. This is episode two, Paranoid.

Two years ago. March nineteen eighty two. Burbank, California. He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, bloodshot eyes, and takes a big swig of vodka. He's dressed head to toe in black like always. But today it's for Randy's funeral. He died. Yes, so this is another infamous story in the life of Ozzy Osbourne.

When they were on that tour bus, the reason why the plane hit it was the bus driver had hired a plane and he wanted to just fly low past the tour bus and sort of buzz it to give everyone a fright. He gets Randy in the plane with him, who had a fear of flying, and hits the bus, and they die. My God, that is so tragic and frankly so stupid. Ozzie still can't believe it. They were on stage together last week. He's his poor bear.

Ozzie pulls a small crumpled note from his pocket. A short eulogy he'd intended to read. But he's not sure he can go through it. Sharon slides behind him and puts her arms over his shoulders, squeezes. Come on. Ten minutes later, Ozzie loiters by the hearse. He pulls furtively on a joint, then feels Sharon's elbow in his ribs. One vicar accidentally stoned is enough. Don't make it too. Ozzie drops it, blows away the smoke.

Sharon neatens his lapel. Make Randy proud. Ozzie hoists the coffin onto his shoulder. He feels the eyes of the congregation turn as one to face him as the church doors open. He's inside. He's played stadiums all over the world, performed to millions. Yet 60 people in this church is sparking a full-blown panic attack. At the far end of the aisle, propped up against the altar, he sees a portrait of Randy.

Beautiful, forever young, playing his heart out. It makes Ozzy want to turn, to run, to leave this church, this city. Head home and hide. again. Reaching the front. Turns to hear whispers. Words of gratitude. A mournful nod of respect from Randy's mother. He feels his soul lift. Then he sees pride beaming from every inch of Sharon's beautiful face. For 15 years, rock and roll has been everything. But now he wants more. A home, a family. He sits, takes Sharon's hand.

And looking into her soft quivering eyes, makes himself a vow He's going to take what bits of his broken life remain and build a new one with Sharon Eighteen months later, September 1983, London.

Sharon gazes down lovingly at baby Amy, cradled in her arms, inhaling the warm milky scent as her daughter wriggles herself to sleep. Wrapped in this little nest of bedsheets, the horror and heartache of the last year seems like a lifetime again. Ow! Fuck! Ozzie staggers into the room, placing down a tea tray. Sharon looks at the cremated toast, the murky grey tea. Anyone else serving of this would get it flung back at their head. But from Ozzy, it's adorable.

She picks up the post, flicks through a stack of cards from friends and well-wishers, when her fingers fall upon something that snags her breath. Ozzy's plane ticket. He's leaving on a world tour in a few days, and she organized it. Right. Come on. Costume fitting. Ozzie slumps onto the bed. Aww, can we not put this off here? Or fucking five.

Sharon would give anything to keep Ozzie at home, but as his manager, she knows he has to get back out there. They have a baby to support now, and Ozzie is still her only client. She peels him up off the duvet, through to their walk-in wardrobe. Of evil can evil Aussie Huffs. Looks like cheeseburger else. Sharon holds out another, a white leather cap. with a huge feathered collar. He huffs again. Ugh what if I get bat blood on he? Do they have washing machines in arenas?

This is just begging for an aerial detergent campaign, isn't it? It's very Daz doorstep challenge. What would it be in a light enough for the Prince of Darkness? Oh for goodness sake We are wasted. If any multinationals out there want to use us to write your ad campaigns, we have very flexible morals. Never put leather in a washing machine. Don't bite any more fucking animals either. She watches him slump into an armchair.

Why don't you come with me? Sharon spins round in astonishment. Ossie! You've got a two-week old. She's tiny! She'll fit in the fucking hand luggage! I'm not bursting my fucking fanny stitches trying to keep you in line on the road. Absolutely not. She takes your breath away. She really does. Ozzie slumps down further. Sharon watches him, heart pinched. She knows he depends on her for everything. But fourteen months of near constant touring, with a newborn.

This is insanity, even by our standards. Why? You were on the road as a kid. It was your family fucking business. Sharon pauses. Picturing herself and Amy. The costumes, the chaos. Then feels a crackle of excitement as she thinks. It might even be fun. Yeah. But the Osbornes are hitting the road.

Six months later, the Four Seasons, Florida. Ozzie pinches a dirty nappy at arm's length as he marches through the hotel corridor, headed for the dumpsters outside. He has no idea what Sharon's been feeding the the baby, but the nappies have been nuclear. Striding out along the hotel pool, he flinches as he hears his name. Hey Oz! Gonna give us some of that good shit? Ozzie spins, sees Tommy Lee and Mickey, sunbathing, surrounded by women, drinking beer.

So these are the support act for Ozzy Osborne, well known as Motley Crew, Tommy Lee and Nikki Six. And Tommy Lee went on to become Pamela Anderson's husband for a brief period of time. And also, of course, her co star in the infamous sex tape that I don't think anyone here has seen. Um but we've heard about it. Ozzie looks down at the fetid nappy, then at the thick rail of cocaine on their drinks cooler. and seethes with jealousy. Wanna bump?

Ozzie gazes longingly at it. A quick line would really take the edge off. But he promised Sharon he'd stay clean. Sorry, lads. Tommy waggles a straw. Come on, we signed up to talk with Ozzy Osborne, not Danny fucking Arsman. Now that is a mad tour pairing. Like having slipknot supporting Louis Capaldi. No, no. Ozzie's jaw clenches as the women start laughing too. He's not gonna let a bunch of fluffy haired Yanks trash talk him.

He grabs the straw, drops to his hands and knees, then places his nose at the end of a sticky discarded lolly stick by Nikki's feet. Half a dozen ants fly up his nostril, tickling the backs of his eyes. Holy shit, dude! Ozzie shakes his head, then grins. Get me something to wash it down with then. A dozen beers and half a bottle of JD later, Ozzie's in full flow, chatting to a young bikini-clad fan. When he sees the faces of Tommy and Nikki cloud over. He feels his t-shirt being yanked.

I see you found the fucking trash! Sharon rips the bottle from his hand and drags him back to their room. Fuck Sharon, you're not my fucking mum. No, I'm your fucking wife, who you left alone to get fucked up with some floozy. Ozzie feels his blood boil. It's fucking hard work what I do. Oh sorry. Not like raising a fucking baby. Fucking madness bringing a fucking baby on tour. I wouldn't. I really wouldn't. Ozzie this was all your idea. You said bring the baby on tour. You snorted the ant.

I said don't bring the baby on tour and I haven't snorted any ants. The math don't lie. He reaches for the door handle, sick of this, when something explodes next to his ear. Bourbon sprays his face. He looks in shock, then fury, at a dent in the wall inches from his head. Glass shards from adjacent. A D bottle dripping down. He twists around. Rage bubbles up inside him, then erupts as he charges forward, dives through the air, tackling Sharon onto the bed.

See no Amy's cries cut through his temper, snap him back to his senses. Staring into Sharon's petrified face, he's immediately racked with remorse. Totters onto his feet, the room sway. He wipes a shaking hand across his mouth. He still has over a hundred shows ahead of him. This old thing i it was a mistake. He can either be a rock star or a father. But he can't be both at the same time.

One week later, Beverly Hills Hotel, LA. A Rolls-Royce glides into the forecourt. Don Arden kills the engine. Pats down what's left of his hair in the rear view, then hops out, tossing his keys to the valet. He glances up at the giant billboard. Ozzy's big grinning face everywhere. But word has reached him that not all is well in the Osborne household. There's rumors Sharon left the tour, flew back to England. And for Don, whenever there's chaos in the Osborne household, there's opportunity.

He bangs at Ozzie's door. Pressing his ear to it, he hears footsteps scurrying. Just a minute. Don grinds his teeth. He hates being made to wait. Eventually the door cracks open, revealing Ozzie, wired, bug-eyed, gaumless. Exactly the drug addle disaster Don remembers from Black Sabbath's prime. Hello, vegetable. I think it's time you and I had a little chat. He pushes past him into the room. I hear you're having some difficulties with my Little girl. Anything you want to tell me?

He fixes Ozzie with a cold stare, as he buzzes about anxiously. It was a squabble, that's all. Things got a bit out of hand, but that's just what we're like. Don grins. So the rumours are true. Just as he hoped. You want to be careful, Oz. Sharon's not someone to push around. Yeah, no, I mean she can be a bit nuts, but who am I to fucking judge? No, you're nuts. She knows exactly what she's doing. Don't grin widens, as Ozzie's head tilts, confused.

He isn't here to check in on the state of his daughter's marriage. He couldn't care less about that. He's here for himself. Yes, that's very apparent, Don. What's interesting here about the dynamic where Don kind of feeds off the chaos and the tumult between Sharon and Ozzy Is that there's a very similar pattern happening in a way where Sharon feeds off Ozzy's chaos. They kind of all need him.

To not be on the straight and narrow because that's what creates the content and the attention and the the shows and the controversy. That is the product. Don back to the wrong horse siding with Black Sabbath. Their last two albums have been disasters. Their tour has drawn crickets. They're done. And they're dragging down his company.

Right, so Black Sabbath's still going, managed by Don, but actually they're nothing without Ozzy, because he's the one with all the talent and the one that people are really interested in. And then Ozzy going solo, still generating attention, still generating interest. Don has come to get even. Come on, Oz. You must have noticed. Using violence to get her way. Sex.

Anything she can. It makes him sick that his daughter has somehow turned this gibbering coke casualty into the hottest ticket in town. Don can't stand it. There's nothing she won't do for a fucking day. Don doesn't care what he has to say to make it happen. You're off your fucking onion There isn't a single client of mine she hasn't screwed. There's a word for that, and it ain't manage. Don straightens his jacket. You ever get out from under her five? You know where to find me.

Stomping back to his car, Don grinds his teeth. Ozzie's such a blockhead, it's impossible to tell if anything he said to He needs this man back under his control. He can't leave it to chance. He's a goddamn goalmine right now. And he definitely can't rely on Ozzy to make a rational decision. So Don is going to take a different. He's going to double down on his plan. And if he has to ruin Sharon to get what he wants, So be it.

Two years later, Buckinghamshire, England. Sharon leans against a stud wall, frowning at the bathroom blueprint. Now that the builders have positioned the bathtub, the whole layout looks wrong. And she wants this house to be perfect for when Oz gets back.

Life has been so much easier since she stopped touring with him. Even if it has meant she's barely seen Ozzy this past year. But two toddlers and another on the way has made the choice for her. Her time is much better spent tending to their home life. She goes to the door, expecting the plumber. Instead, she stops dead. Dad, what are you doing here? Don Arden smirked.

Afternoon, Shah. It's been years since she's seen her father. They've barely spoken since she went solo. He didn't even send a card when his grandkids were born. You're not going to invite your old man in? Sharon blinks. She takes in his gold rings, his rounded shoulders. He's older, a little hunched. But he still has the same thuggish frame. And the same thuggish mentality.

I hope you don't mind me saying this. You've got a very thuggish frame. Well I mean that as a compliment, I think. Are you talking to me now? Yeah. You got real yob shoulders. Don rocks on his heels. She sees him take in the grand Georgian exterior. Looks like you ain't hurting for cash these days, Shah. Sharon's brow furrows. Get to the point. What do you want? I'm here to collect my commission from my former client, the one you poached. Sharon feels the hairs on her arms stiffen.

I didn't poach him, you ditched him. Either way, it's still in violation of the non-compete agreement you signed. Sharon doesn't remember signing an NCA, but her dad shoved thousands of documents at her while she was working for him. You're fucking insane! She moves back into the hallway to slam the door, but Dom's hand blocks it. A hundred grand. Consider that a fucking down payment. He is a wrong.

Sharon's eyes widen. Are you fucking shaking me down? Unless you'd rather do this the hard way. A shudder rattles through her. Her father's entire career is built around shakedowns like this. Mammy, who is it? She spins, takes in Amy in the doorway. Her mind races. She tries to weigh her options. She does have cash upstairs. An emergency fund. She glares at her father. Wait here.

Sharon shuts the door and scurries upstairs, tiptoes lightly past the nursery, past her napping babies, slips silently into her room. From the back of her closet, she pulls a handbag, peers inside, her heart in her throat as she counts. Back at the door, she thumps the bag hard into her dad's chest. He looks inside. I said a hundred. I'm giving you fifty and letting you keep your cock and balls. He grins. Thanks, doll. I'll be back for the rest. He strides away. Sharon collapses.

A cold, sickly feeling sweeping over her. She's let her father do the one thing she vowed she'd never let him do again dominate her. She might have bought some time, but she knows her dad won't stop. So she needs to make a plan to protect her family. and destroy anyone who tries to take her for a fool again.

November 1988, New York. Ozzie slumps in his limo, hiding his face from the crowd. Throws another Xanax down his throat. Central Park blurs past the window as he picks up the car phone, punches in Sharon's number for the fifth time, slams the leather seat as he gets her answer machine again. He's barely seen Sharon these last six months. She's busy signing new clients. All she does is work, and he really needs her right now.

Religious wingnuts are claiming heavy metal is corrupting America's children. Someone's made a death threat against. He drains his whiskey as the radio crackles. Concerned listeners claim the music contains hidden satanic messages. Shut that fucking thing up. Ozzie's even had to employ Extra security. He just wishes he had them here. Ozzie can't stay sat any longer. He barrels out of the car and sprints to the hotel reception.

Ten minutes later, safe in his suite, Ozzie lies back on his bed, pours a drink, pops another pill. He turns on the telly to distract himself. It comes as parent-led pressure groups move to ban heavy metal records, claiming they glamorize occult practices. I mean is this a case of all publicity is good publicity?

Sort of. But it ended up in Congress and became a huge battle about freedom of speech and artistic license and it wasn't just Ozzy Osborne, people like Frank Zappa, even John Denver got involved in this and made the case that Freedom of expression was effectively enshrined in the First Amendment.

and that they shouldn't be censored. The upshot of all this was that this is where those little warnings you sometimes get on albums, parental advisory, explicit lyrics come from. This was the resolution to it, in a way, the solution. And what they ensured as well was that was a voluntary system rather than government mandate.

This feels like such a modern debate because it's the idea that it's the parents' responsibility to control or limit what their children are consuming. Obviously now the conversation is about online content rather than just music. Ozzie grimaces as his album covers flash on screen. Him kneeling in a dark room, gripping a raised crucifix, draped in a scarlet cape. Him as a werewolf posing on a log, howling. He grabs his bedside phone. but again fails to get through to Sharon.

Instead, Don's voice echoes in his head. Right. There isn't a single client of mine she hasn't screwed, one way or the other. He's increasingly struggling to control these voices. There's a word for that, and it ain't manager. He's resorted to the one coping mechanism he can rely on. He fumbles in his pocket, pulls out a vial of coke, takes a bump. And hears Don's voice again. But not in his head this time. From the TV.

It's absolute nonsense. Mr. Osborne may occasionally behave like a lunatic vampire, but he's a showman, not a Satanist. Ozzie blinks, convinced he's hallucinating. But he isn't. Don is on camera, defending him. His skull starts to throb. It should be Sharon on screen. What's he paying her for if not this? He picks up the phone again. His fingers hover over the buttons. But then he punches in a different set of digits. Hello? Hello There's silence on the line. until he hears it connect.

Hello Vegetable, what can I do you for?

June 1989, Tower Theatre, Philadelphia. Sharon's Mercedes pulls up outside the arena. Her eyes follow the snaked cue of 20,000 raucous fans, all bristling to get inside. The muffled sounds of the pre-show playlist pulsing through the air. Sharon's been so busy getting her management company up on its feet, she's barely seen Ozzie. She knows he's been struggling with this absurd campaign against his music, so she's finally managed to join him on tour. She's missed him.

And she knows he's been missing home too. She's also brought a surprise along with her. She smiles as she takes in her three children, excitedly squeezed in beside her, faces painted with gothic makeup. Your dad's gonna go mad for this. She plucks Amy, Kelly and Jack out of the car, hustling them backstage. Huddled at his dressing room door, she smooths down their little tasseled Aussie outfits, counts them down from three, then pushes the door open. Daddy!

She watches the kids race towards Ozzie. Slow, then stop completely as he turns. A dark, drunken mood hovering over him. Sharon! What the fuck is this? Sharon bundles the kids back into her arms. A nice fucking surprise, you prick! He swings round, sending pill and booze bottles clattering. Not them, them!

He flings a square file at her chest. She looks down at it, then feels her stomach plummet. Kids, go and find Nanny. In her hands is a lawsuit filed against her and Ozzie for breach of the child. of contract by her father for ten million dollars, Dat rat fucking bastard What have you fucking done? Sharon blocks his path. Me? I'm the one who's been Oh shit of your

Fucking plate. Expanding the fucking business. You knew about this. Her fists clench. He's been trying to blackmail us. He's fucking insane. So I took the executive decision to pay him a retainer to A fucking kickbags to your old man. Well I'm slugging my guts out on the road. Slugging in guts out on the road. I'm slugging my guts out and I'm also propelling them at my fans. He paces in a tight circle.

I did it to try and stop this exact fucking thing happening. He said you were always on the fucking make. Ozzie storms towards the door. You've been talking to my dad and I should have fucking listened. She spins round, watching him leave, frozen to the spot. Of course he's been working Oussie as well. And from the way Ozzy's talking, he's cutting through too.

She can't have her father prize Ozzie away from her. Because it won't just be her star client she loses if that happens. It's her entire marriage. Ozzie has been left alone and unguarded on tour for too long. But that's about to change. She has to protect what's hers.

Two months later, dynasty Chinese restaurant, Little Chalfont, England. Ozzy staggers out of the toilet. Swaying like a ship in a storm. He slams into the walls as he makes his way back to the restaurant table. This is supposed to be a party. But he hasn't been having much fun. All he wants is a little buzz. He needs something to escape the long shadow of Don's$10 million lawsuit. Sharon has done her best to kill his vibe all day. He thought being sent out on tour was bad.

Being summoned back home is a nightmare. It's like living with his ex-wife Thelma all over again. But worse. Because Sharon hits him. So they're trapped in this toxic cycle then? Yes, they were both violent and they've both been open about it. Um Sharon would throw tables, lamps, telephones at him. She even smashed a bowl of porridge over his head. So the violence was real and it was severe.

Yeah, I think a lot of people will have this fuzzy, eccentric image of a dysfunctional family in their heads when they think of the Osborne's. But this is extreme. He's had to resort to sleeping pills and a handful of Vicodin he found in his back pocket. Stepping back into the dining room, something sharp jabs his left arm, causing him to drop his pill. Ozzie turns.

sees the hard-pointed ear of a carved mahogany dragon prodding him. This bastard dragon. It's been giving him the evil eye all night. Aussie squares up to it. Wants some, do ya? He throws his arms wide, flares his nostrils. The dragon doesn't flinch. Yeah didn't think so, scaly fucking prick. He turns back round and discovers he's surrounded by ninjas dressed as waiters. He strikes a kung fu pose, lets out a high-pitched battle cry. The arrogance of men.

That Ozzy Osbourne thinks that he can take on potentially a full team of ninjas. You wouldn't want to do it on a full Chinese meal either. If you've just had some duck pancake. Probably the right amount of nutrition for a a about of this scale. But if you've had charamine, chicken rolls, egg fried rice. If you've got a watery belly from sort of dumpling soup, it you'd just be sloshing around, won't you?

Just as he's about to unleash a spinning roundhouse kick, he feels arms wrap around his waist, dragging him away. It's your infant daughter's fucking birthday party! Kick in, drifting in and out as Sharon berates him, again and again. She shoves him in the car. He rests his hot head against the cool car window and shuts his eyes.

When he opens them next, he finds he's being lobbed into their bedroom. Don't come out until you're ready to apologise. Ozzie glowers. Prisoner in his own house. But Ozzie isn't done. He staggers through to the bathroom, grabs a bottle of mouthwash, chugs it dry. He lets the minty fire burn inside him. He grabs for the mirrored medicine cabinet, goes to open it, but stops as he catches something strange in his reflection. His mouth. It's moving.

But he's not the one moving it. Well it finally fucking happened. Ozzie jumps back, squints, then leans closer. Treat you like a dancing bear for years. Now she's actually fucking caged you. He touches his lip. But can't feel a thing. He fucking warned ya. And you didn't fucking listen. Ozzie turns his head away, but the voice continues. You knew there was money missing, and you fucking let it go. She spent all her time chasing other clients.

You rolled over like a fucking puppet. He stops tensing. The voice has a point. There's still a way out of this, you know. Ozzie looks back up at his reflection, wills it for the answer. It's very simple. Sharon has to go.

Ten minutes later, Amy's bedroom, the Osborne's home, Buckinghamshire. Sharon kisses her daughter's forehead, brushes the hair from her damp cheeks, the sobbing finally subsiding as she drifts off to sleep. Sharon feels her anger return. She thought she had cleared the house of Booze, his drug. But he could hardly walk tonight. He must have secret stashes everywhere. She storms downstairs and starts tearing the living room apart.

Behind the black velvet cushions of his armchair, she finds a bottle of brandy. She flings his leather-bound black magic books from the bookshelves, little baggies of Coke slipping from their pages. Stuffed in the mouth of the skull on the mantelpiece, a block of hash. In the kitchen, she finds gin, whiskey, rum, all tucked into empty cereal boxes. Four bottles of vodka in the oven, stacked on their side, cracking them open.

Pouring them down the sink, she begins to wonder how she let things get this bad. If she was a good little housewife who dusted or used her oven, she'd never have missed all this. I don't like to victim blame Matt, but it does feel that way. Yes, it's her fault that he hid Vodka in the oven. He was actually trying to encourage her to be better.

By hiding stuff I can tell this is easy for you, yep, go on. So that she would find them and that would mend their relationship. He he was doing this out of love. You got there. Draining the last bottle, she turns and leaps in fright to see Ozzie looming silently in the doorway. Fucking hell! She clutches her chest. Come to stop me throwing out all of your precious booze

Ozzie doesn't move. Or are you here to apologize? Sharon narrows her eyes. He looks wrong. His face is pale, lifeless. Hair stuck to his damp forehead. Ozzie? Nothing. She peers closer. He looks zombified. Uh slowly he lifts his head, speaks in a clear, calm voice. We've been having a talk and we've decided. You've gotta go. His tone turns her spine to ice. We? Who the fuck is we? He takes a step towards her, straight and sharp as a dart. We're sorry, but we've decided.

Sharon steps backward, bumps into a chair. Knock it off, Ozzy. This isn't funny. Dread creeps up her spine as he presses forward. You've gotta go. Ozzie! Stop your scaring me! She hits against something solid, looks down and back to see the kitchen counter, turns back. And his hands were around her neck, squeezing.

She screams, but it's pinched off in her throat, only a tiny gasp escaping. She grabs his wrists, tries to wrench them apart, but it's like he's possessed. She swings her hand full force at his head. He doesn't flinch. Panic rises as she feels his thumbs pushing harder, blood swelling in her head. Her hands scrabble around the counter for some sort of weapon. Her fingers brush a spatula, an ashtray, a bread knife.

But Ozzy swings her round, clattering into the kitchen table. Jesus Christ, this is horrible. Her vision starts to darken, pulsing purple. She sweeps her arms around the table, searching for something she can fight back with. And then she feels it. Small, light, plastic. A panic button. Her eyelids growing heavy, she slips her thumb onto the little red button, musters all her strength to squeeze, and slips into black.

Twelve hours later, the hallway. Sharon stands in front of a plain white wall, freezing. Her throat raw and ragged, her eyes vibrating with fatigue. All she wants is for this nightmare to be over, to be left alone for one minute. But the police need to document her bruising. The photographer gestures at her. Can you lift your arms for me? Sharon does as instructed, her joints grinding in agony. She winces in pain as the camera flashes.

The longest night of her life stretches on. Looking up at the hall clock, she can't believe it isn't even midday yet. God knows how she found the strength to serve the kids their breakfast this morning. How she held back the tears long enough to put them in the car, pack them off to school with a smile, as if nothing had happened.

She can't believe they slept peacefully in their beds as their father tried to kill her. As alarms blared, sirens wailed, police kicked indoors, dragged Ozzie away, hollering in cuffs. The photographer lowers her camera. My colleague just has a few final things to discuss with you, about the charges.

Sharon sighs as her assistant hands her a top and a mug of tea. How are you holding up, Sharon? She stares at the swirling milk. I just keep seeing his eyes. It was like a shatter had come down. No spark of him left. Just a zombie. Mrs. Osborne, a police officer steps in. We recommend you speak with a lawyer as soon as you can. They'll advise you on the next steps.

She clutches her mug. I just want my babies to be safe. The officer nods. Well, we can see to that. Her assistant enters, phone in hand. Sharon looks to her, loitering in the doorway. What is it? She looked sheepish. It's your dad. He was at the courthouse this morning, offering to help Ozzie. The air rushes out of Sharon's lungs. What's left of her world crashing down around her? He wants to meet. She baws her fists. Tell him to fuck off. As far as I'm concerned, I no longer have a dad.

Her assistant twitches nervously. Every muscle in Sharon's body tightens at the sound of his name. A cold sweat. The idea of seeing that demon again, it chills her to the marrow. She tried. Against every single one of her better judgments, she tried with Aussie. But there's nothing left to save. She's had enough. Of his drinking, his drugs, his foul temper, his violence. No, she doesn't want to see Aussie. Not now, not ever again.

From Audible Originals and Samistat Audio, this is the first episode in our series. Sharon and Ozzy. 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 Osby. Stream 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 Mannier. Sound design by Dan King. Our engineer was Jai Williams. For Samizdat, our producer is Chica Ayers. Our assistant producer is Louise Mason. Executive producers for Wonder are Theodora Leludis, Estelle Doyle.

Amazon presenterar Oskars lägg dig. Oskar har inte skottat på över tre år. Om man kan välja mellan trapporna och rulltrappan så tar han hsen. Hans ben får inga svåra uppdrag nu för tid. Men sen hoppade Oscar på Amazon och köp en skivstång, fem kilinpulver och en rejäl massagepistol. Nu kan Oscar mossa med loner med sina lår och anskar full med supertajta bixor. Bra jobbat, Oscar! Få lägg det att hända hoppa på armason.se