Geezer Butler He showed up barefoot on my doorstep. That’s how it all began. No fanfare, no lightning bolt from the sky — just a young man with a wild grin and a spark in his eye that didn’t quite match the worn soles of his feet. “Okay,” I said, half-joking, “you’re in the band.” I had no idea I’d just opened the door to 57 years of madness, laughter, music, and, eventually, the kind of grief that clutches your chest and makes the world a little dimmer. Ozzy Osbourne wasn’t just the frontman of Black Sabbath. To me, he was the laugh that echoed through the chaos, the friend who always picked up the phone when life hurt too much to speak. Even now, as I try to put this all into words, I still see him — not the myth, not the legend, but the man. The Ozzy who’d give you the shirt off his back, then moon you to lighten the mood. The one who, even in his final days, dragged himself into rehearsals with a cane sparkling like something out of a pirate’s treasure chest. He could barely stand. He barely spoke. But damn it, he showed up. That’s who he was. We had drifted, as people do. After our 2017 tour, life took us in different directions. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in years — until Aston Villa brought us back together. Standing again in that stadium where we’d once run wild as kids, something clicked. It felt like coming home, in the most bittersweet way. July 5, at Villa Park, was our last bow. But none of us knew it. We thought we had more time. Isn’t that always the story? At the rehearsal, I saw the toll time and illness had taken. It hurt. Ozzy, once larger than life, needed help just to get through a few songs. But he didn’t complain. He sat, he sang, and he smiled that crooked smile that said, “Let’s do this one more time.” We didn’t talk much that night. We should’ve. But backstage, with cameras flashing and people buzzing, it all felt like a blur. There was no hug, no epic farewell. Just a handshake, a cake, and a hole in my chest I couldn’t name at the time. I keep thinking about all the things I should’ve said. I should’ve told him how much I admired his strength, how his loyalty shaped my own. I should’ve told him he was the heart of Sabbath — not just the scream, not just the spectacle, but the soul. I should’ve thanked him for those late-night calls, especially when my son was fighting for his life. Ozzy called every day, even when we weren’t speaking. That was who he was — more than a bat-biting wild man, more than the Prince of Darkness. He was the Prince of Laughter. A man with a filthy joke on his lips and a golden heart beating underneath. People will remember the madness — the doves, the Alamo, the chaos. But I’ll remember a man who, when no one else was watching, reached out his hand and held tight. I’ll remember the invisible bond between us four — Ozzy, Tony, Bill, and me — forged in smoke, sweat, and sound. We were brothers once. We always will be. And now, the house is quiet. The music’s stopped. I keep listening for that laugh, that off-key hum, that Ozzy-ism that made even the darkest days feel absurdly light. But it’s gone, and the silence is deafening. I wish we had more time, mate. I wish I had just one more night, one more laugh, one more song. But as you always said — wish in one hand, and, well, you know the rest. Rest easy, Oz. It’s been one hell of a ride. Ozzy Osbourne ❤️
Ozzy Osbourne was known for his wild stage persona and outrageous rock star antics, but behind the scenes, he had a heart of gold, according […]
