ourselves in for.
© Getty Images
On The Tonight Show with Jay Leno and Sharon, just after the madness began.
© Vince Bucci/Stringer/Getty Images
Getting a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame in April 2002. Left to right: Jack, Marilyn Manson, me, Robbie Williams and Kelly. Not sure I want to know what Marilyn’s thinking about.
© Albert L. Ortega/WireImage
With my biggest fan.
© Getty Images
Having a blast with Kelly. Our duet of ‘Changes’ went to number one in 2003.
© George Chin
At Welders House, messing around on my dirt bike.
© George Chin
Before…
…and after. I broke my neck, my collarbone, eight ribs and punctured my lungs, and was in a coma for eight days.
© Rex Features
With Elton, the most generous man I’ve ever met.
© Frank Micelotta/Stringer/Getty Images
Meeting Liz Taylor. My father once told me she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
© Frank Micelotta/Stringer/Getty Images
My rock ’n’ roll hero.
Shaking hands with the Queen. She didn’t have to bring me flowers.
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And meeting, err… me. Filming with impersonator Jon Culshaw. That’s him on the left. I think.
© George Chin
Wish I’d been dressed like this when I caught the burglar in my house in 2004.
With Maggie, one of my seventeen dogs.
© Getty Images
Me and Sharon, just after the burglary. We lost ?2 million worth of jewellery.
On stage at the Tower of London for the Prince’s Trust in 2006.
© Frank Micelotta/Stringer/Getty Images
Black Sabbath being inducted into the Hall of Fame with Tony (centre) and Bill (far right).
Arm in arm with my sisters. From left: Gillian, me, Iris and Jean.
Sharon, trying to keep my hand away from the knife, at my sixtieth in December 2008.
My incredible family.
Patient Notes
‘OK, Mr Osbourne, I’m going to ask you a question,’ said the doc. ‘Have you ever taken any “street drugs”?’
This was the new guy I went to see when I decided to get clean. I’d spent almost forty years blasting the booze and the pills, so it seemed like a good idea to see what kind of damage I’d done.
‘Well,’ I told him, with a little cough, ‘I once smoked some pot.’
‘Is that it?’
‘Yeah, that’s it.’
The doc carried on prodding me and checking his notes. Then he stopped and asked, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Well,’ I said, with another little cough, ‘I’ve taken a bit of speed. A long time ago, y’know?’
‘So just the pot and a bit of speed?’
‘Pretty much, yeah.’
The doc carried on doing his thing. But after a while, he stopped again. ‘Are you absolutely sure it was just the pot and the speed?’
‘Well, I suppose I’ve had a few toots of the old waffle dust in my time,’ I said. I was starting to warm up now.
‘So pot, speed and… a few lines of cocaine?’
‘Pretty much, yeah.’
‘And you’re sure about that?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I just want to make absolut—’
‘Does heroin count?’
‘Yes, heroin counts.’
‘Oh. And heroin, then. Just once or twice, mind.’
‘Are you sure it was just once or twice?’
‘Oh, yeah. Fucking crap drug, heroin is. Have you tried it?’
‘No.’
‘Too much throwing up for my liking.’
‘The nausea can be intense, yes.’
‘It’s a waste of booze, that’s what it is.’
‘OK,’ the doctor snapped, ‘let’s just stop this. Are there any drugs you haven’t taken, Mr Osbourne?’
Silence.
‘Mr Osbourne?’
‘Not that I’m aware of, no.’
More silence.
Finally, the doc said, ‘And what about alcohol? You mentioned that you drink. How many units per day?’
‘Oh, about four? Give or take.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Bottles of Hennessy. But it depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On how long I pass out between them.’
‘And it’s just the Hennessy?’
‘Well, beer doesn’t count, does it?’
The doc shook his head, let out a big sigh, and started to rub his eyes. He looked like he wanted to go home. Then he asked, ‘And do you smoke, Mr Osbourne?’
‘Now and again.’
‘What a surprise. How many per day, would you say?’
‘Oh, thirty-ish?’
‘What brand of cigarettes?’
‘Cigars. I don’t count the cigarettes.’
The doc started to go very white. Then he said, ‘For how long has this been your typical daily routine?’
‘What year is it?’ I asked him.
‘2004.’
‘Nearly forty years, then.’
‘And is there anything else in your medical history I should know about?’ asked the doc.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I got hit by an aeroplane once—sort of, anyway. And I broke my neck on a quad bike. Then I died twice during the coma. I had AIDS for twenty-four hours, too. And I thought I had MS, but it turned out to be a Parkinsonian tremor. I broke my clack that other time. Oh, and I’ve had the clap a few times. And one or two
