Yes, he was the self-proclaimed prince of darkness, and yes, he was called the Sultan of Satan by the tabloid press, but Ozzy Osbourne was anything but. He may have bitten the head off a live bat (he naturally thought it was made of rubber), and yes he once admitted snorting a line of ants in a drunken contest with the lead singer of Mötley Crüe, and yes he once had sex with a groupie in his hotel room while his wife Sharon was lying asleep next to him, but Ozzy was also the funniest man in the room, a man who, if he hadn’t been obsessed with being the biggest heavy metal star in the world (in a genre that his band Black Sabbath practically invented), would have made a pretty good stand stand-up comedian.
Anyone who has watched the reality TV show The Osbournes, which ran on MTV for three years from 2002 will attest to that. And if you missed it, check it out on YouTube immediately. I guarantee you’ll be watching it all day.
I worked with Ozzy a lot over the years, during my days editing GQ, producing the Men Of The Year Awards, and co-hosting Fashion Rocks with Prince Charles and Prince Albert of Monaco at the Grimaldi Palace in 2005. This was an event in aid of the Prince’s Trust, and featured such acts as Bon Jovi, Mariah Carey, Bryan Ferry, Blondie, Ray Davies and Earth, Wind and Fire as well as attracting the likes of Tommy Hilfiger, Giorgio Armani, Donatella Versace, David Bowie and of course Ozzy himself.
There were some extraordinary people in Monaco for Fashion Rocks, including Isabella Blow, the muse of hat designer Philip Treacy, the great benefactor of Alexander McQueen, and the woman who discovered the models Sophie Dahl and Stella Tennant. As she walked into the Grimaldi Palace, she was wearing what could only be described as a Brobdingnagian fascinator that looked as though it had been fashioned by H. R. Giger, the Alien designer. Clearly confused by her entrance, Ozzy, in the loudest stage whisper I’d ever heard, said, “Jesus f****** Christ, she’s got bird flu.”
Ozzy had the timing of Michael McIntyre.
For 25 years he was also a mainstay of our annual Men Of The Year Awards - art directing shoots, winning awards, presenting awards, hosting dinners, parties, and generally supporting us in a way few other people did. He did everything with enthusiasm and gusto – helped enormously by Sharon, of course – but every conversation with him was peppered with a slew of profanities. I once asked David Furnish to interview him for GQ, and as David was transcribing the tape, he kept sending me emails with updates on just how many times Ozzy had used the word ‘f***’. His first one just said this: ’60.’ Then ‘100!’, before David temporarily stopped counting. His final tally was 259. When I later told Ozzy this, he said, quick as a flash, ‘F***, is that all?’
Around 20 years ago we decided to honour Ozzy with a ‘Legend’ award, something we reserved for the very biggest stars, people such as Madonna, Elton John, Paul McCartney and Led Zeppelin. In advance of the awards show, which this year was being held at the Royal Opera House, we held a small dinner for Ozzy in the private room at Cipriani, just behind Claridge’s. We invited some contributors and a smattering of Ozzy’s friends and ended up with a massively fun table including Tracey Emin and Jay Jopling, Maurice Saatchi, James Nesbitt, Elton John and David Furnish, Peter Mandelson, and of course Ozzy and Sharon. Apart from the fact that Jopling had insisted on bringing a portable TV with him, so he could watch England play a World Cup game (incongruous, I know), the biggest contretemps of the evening was when Ozzy took off all his clothes so he could show off his tattoos to our Chairman, Jonathan Newhouse. In an act of benign one-upmanship, Jonathan took off his shirt to reveal a massive Yakuza tattoo.
Ozzy’s response was predictable, but no less funny: ‘F*** me, you win.’
As I got to know him, I realised he cared about two things: his work and his family. He was fastidious in his attention to his music, and genuinely cared about the quality of what he produced. He was also the long-suffering patriarch of a very public family which brought him as much joy as it did heartache. To diffuse his image as a wild rock and roller, he used humour. Some think he used it as a defence mechanism, although I like to think it was simply that he was an extremely funny man.
Sorry, an extremely f****** funny man.
So long, Ozzy.
Dylan Jones is Editor-at-Large of the London Standard
