Parkinson’s & a broken neck Ozzy’s outrageous odyssey I SHOULDN’T BE A LIVE!
A familiar high, panto-ish voice crackles through the intercom. “Oh my God, are you just off the f***ing flight?” The intercom is on the iron gate above a sign saying: “Never mind the dog. Beware of the owner.” It squawks again. “You must be f**ing knackered!” I’m not even over the threshold of this multi-million-dollar Los Angeles mansion and already I’ve been Osbourned.
With an electronic buzz and a cackle, lady of the house Sharon Osbourne, in all her pint-sized, potty-mouthed glory, beckons me inside. I pass through perfect gardens, past a gnome flipping the middle finger and into a cavernous reception hall dripping with art, photos and statues.
Scampering down the stairs comes a Pomeranian, what looks like a miniature husky, and another that looks more like a dandelion seed.
The library is the lair of Ozzy Osbourne, the mansion’s most “Ozzified” room, with history books, crucifixes, a bat-shaped chandelier and a portrait of his Pomeranian dressed as Henry VIII.
On his desk, awaiting his signature, are a pile of “Certificates of Ozzthenticity” to accompany
