Currently blasting Crazy train, and I’ve just had neighbour banging on the wall and then came round knocking. So in great Osbourne fashion, I said, God has just died and I’m celebrating his legacy with a beer. I will switch off before 11, don’t like it? You know who to call.

Currently blasting Crazy Train, and the walls are shaking in time with Randy Rhoads’ legendary riff. I’m in the zone—Ozzy’s iconic howl filling the air like a war cry from a more rebellious era. I’m not just playing music; I’m channeling the spirit of rock ‘n’ roll in its most untamed form. It’s Saturday night, the week’s tension needs to be exorcised, and there’s no better priest than the Prince of Darkness himself.

So, as I’m midway through my impromptu one-man concert, the inevitable happens. A sharp, deliberate banging erupts from the adjoining wall. The kind that isn’t trying to be subtle. A few moments later, there’s a knock at the door—loud, insistent. I already know what’s coming. No one ever knocks like that to borrow sugar or invite you to a barbecue.

I open the door, and there they stand—my clearly agitated neighbor. Probably dragged from their Netflix-induced stupor or jolted from a suburban meditation session. And look, I get it—Crazy Train isn’t exactly ambient lo-fi. But tonight isn’t about background noise or quiet introspection. Tonight is a tribute.

So in the true spirit of Osbourne, I take a breath and deliver it deadpan: “God has just died, and I’m celebrating his legacy with a beer.”

It lands like a cymbal crash. Their expression morphs from irritation to outright confusion, maybe even mild concern. I’m holding a cold one, wearing an old Sabbath tee that’s seen too many washes, and behind me, Ozzy’s voice is still carrying the chorus, daring anyone to stop the madness.

“I’ll switch off before 11,” I add, more out of courtesy than compromise. “Don’t like it? You know who to call.”

And let’s be clear—I’m not advocating constant disruption or total disregard for neighbors. But this wasn’t a Tuesday at 3 a.m.; this was a moment. A loud, glorious, electric moment of catharsis. A salute to a musical legacy that refuses to go quietly. And sure, maybe it wasn’t literally God who died (though the line hits harder if you say it like Ozzy just took over your soul), but rock ‘n’ roll is spiritual in its own way. It deserves a proper celebration—volume up, inhibitions down.

The thing about Crazy Train is that it’s more than a song. It’s a state of mind. It’s chaos wrapped in guitar solos, angst delivered with theatrical flair. When you play it loud, it forces the world to acknowledge your presence. It’s a middle finger to mediocrity and a shout-out to every misfit who’s ever felt more at home in the noise than in silence.

So yes, I eventually turned it down. I’m not a monster. But for those few glorious minutes, I rode the crazy train, full throttle—and I have no regrets.