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.’
