Past the palm trees and monster 4x4s with idling engines and suited chauffeurs, I arrive at the front desk of the Beverly Hills Hotel 10 minutes early for my 11am interview with Sharon Osbourne. She is staying here while her Los Angeles home is being refurbished. A few calls later her assistant tells me our meeting starts at 12.30. "Change of plans?" the receptionist asks wryly. "Welcome to Hollywood."
In the hotel's restaurant I resist "Sinatra's meatballs", even though my jet-lagged body thinks it's dinner time, and eke out a coffee. Two twentysomething men on the next table are talking about crypto-bond markets and the likelihood of a 2024 presidential race between Donald Trump and Dwayne "the Rock" Johnson, the wrestler turned actor who's flirting with entering politics. "The Rock is probably pretty centrist and he'd attract Gen Z," says blue chinos before his mate soliloquises on "the dying animal that is the boomer white man".
At 12.34 Osbourne — camera-ready with her trademark purple-red hair and a fully made-up face — arrives to save me. She has previously admitted to spending a fortune on plastic surgery and looks better in the flesh than in recent social media pictures. "I had a full facelift done in October and I looked like one of those f***ing mummies that they wrap [with bandages]," the TV star says, chuckling. "It hurt like hell. You have no idea."
The operation lasted five and a half hours and the initial result was worrying. "I'm telling you, it was horrendous. [To the surgeon] I'm, like, 'You've got to be f***ing joking.' One eye was different to the other. I looked like a f***ing Cyclops. I'm, like, 'All I need is a hunchback.'" Ozzy, Osbourne's rocker husband who has had work done himself, was similarly horrified. "He said, 'I don't care how much it costs, we'll get it redone.'" Her face is "settling now" and she's pleased with it.
Osbourne is the definition of a force of nature, radiating energy that zaps away any jet lag. She swears relentlessly, makes pantomime "oohs" and is faultlessly polite to the liveried waiters.
We're meant to be talking business: Osbourne is a star signing for TalkTV, the television channel being launched tomorrow by News UK (which also owns The Sunday Times). "Ooh, I think it's fabulous," purrs the 69-year-old, who will front a primetime evening show, The Talk, alongside five as-yet-unrevealed panellists. They'll discuss "whatever is the big news that day". The channel's strapline is "Straight Talking Starts Here", which seems a perfect fit for Mrs O. "You say what you feel and you're not following one party at all," she says, admitting that she doesn't vote for any political party. "I don't trust anybody. I just don't think anybody's there for the right reason."
Osbourne is joining her "very good friend" Piers Morgan, who will present his own show, Piers Morgan Uncensored; she got the gig after stepping down from co-hosting a US chat show on CBS, also called The Talk, following an almighty brouhaha.
Let's rewind. In March 2021 the Duchess of Sussex gave her bombshell interview to Oprah Winfrey, in which she said an unnamed member of the royal family had queried "how dark" the skin of her unborn son might be; revealed her mental health became so bad she "didn't want to be alive any more"; and said she did not receive the help she asked for from Buckingham Palace. On Good Morning Britain the next day Morgan said: "I'm sorry, I don't believe a word she says."
Thousands complained to Ofcom about Morgan, who critics argued was racist for disputing Meghan's lived experience. He later quit ITV. Ofcom eventually cleared him, citing his right to free speech, but told ITV to take greater care around content discussing mental health and suicide.
Across the Atlantic, Osbourne had tweeted her support for Morgan. The following day Sheryl Underwood, Osbourne's black co-host on CBS's The Talk, challenged her on whether she was racist herself on live TV. Osbourne fought back. Cue a media frenzy and CBS launching an internal investigation. The Talk went into an extended hiatus. Osbourne apologised. "To anyone of colour that I offended and/or to anyone that feels confused or let down by what I said, I am truly sorry," she wrote in a statement. "I panicked, felt blindsided, got defensive and allowed my fear and horror of being accused of being racist take over."
During the hiatus colleagues stepped forward with claims that Osbourne had made racist and homophobic remarks off camera — some of which she admitted, others that she denied. She is unrepentant about greeting one lesbian colleague with coarse sexual language. (She says the woman was a friend and found it funny.) She is remorseful, however, for using a racial slur in reference to her former colleague Julie Chen, who is Asian-American. Although she adds: "I never said anything about her eyes [as has been alleged]. Ever, ever, ever."
Her time was up at CBS. "They said to me, 'You are on permanent suspension. We don't think that you're repentant enough. And we will decide whether you ever come back.' And I said, 'Well, who's going to make that decision?' And they said, 'We can't tell you.'" She told them to go sing.
Half of America, or what felt like it, suddenly believed Osbourne was racist and, inevitably, the death threats poured in. "They were saying they were going to come in the night, cut my throat, cut Ozzy's throat, cut my dogs' throats," she says. Round-the-clock security was hired.
It seemed like a brutal end to a dazzling transatlantic career — first as a music manager to Ozzy, later as a judge on The X Factor and America's Got Talent, and more than 10 years co-hosting The Talk. "My phone as far as my TV career here [was concerned] was nonexistent, not one call. Noth-Ing," she says, pushing around her salad ("no bacon, balsamic dressing on the side"). "In England and Australia it never changed. Here it was like I was dead."
In February Whoopi Goldberg was only briefly suspended as the host of The View, a rival US talk show, after saying that the Holocaust was "not about race". Why the seeming double standard? "I'll tell you why, because it's the Jews, and nobody gives a f***," Osbourne says, after stressing that she has always liked Goldberg.
In a country bitterly riven by the culture wars, Osbourne paints a grim picture of what happens "when people turn on you en masse". She bunkered down indoors: "I said, 'I ain't going out, I ain't doing anything.' I just couldn't stop crying because all I was thinking about was all the things that I've gone through in my life, and now they're calling me a racist, this is insanity."
Months of ketamine therapy — where nurses carefully administered the Class B drug — brought salvation. "If you're a person that stuffs things [down, ie, suppresses things], 'I'm fine, I'm fine,' this drug relaxes you. You're not out completely. You can hear, you can talk, but you're so relaxed, and you can't bullshit on it," she says. "It's a truth drug."
Osbourne's life has always tended towards the extreme. She grew up in London with her Jewish father, a notoriously ruthless music manager who changed his name from Harry Levy to Don Arden, and her mother, Hope Shaw, a one-time vaudeville dancer who wrestled with depression. She recalls how her late father, who managed the Small Faces and Black Sabbath, was arrested and tried in the 1980s for allegedly having one of his associates kidnapped and beaten up after suspecting him of embezzling cash. Arden was acquitted. It was Osbourne's brother, David, who ended up in prison for several months for his role in the affair. The siblings have never been close: "Our parents always pitted us against each other. One week they loved me and then they loved my brother. It was always, 'He's a schmuck, she's a bitch.' "
Osbourne joined the family business aged 15. When Ozzy was chucked out of Black Sabbath by his bandmates for his wild antics, Osbourne became his manager and married him. Her family threatened violence and tried to persuade Ozzy into divorce. "It was living hell," she recalls. "I gave a letter to the police which said, 'If anything ever happens to me, my children, this is who is responsible.'"
In those early days — around the time that Ozzy bit off that bat's head on stage — the marriage was violent, with fights about "women, drugs and booze". Later on, during one notorious occasion after returning home from playing at a peace festival in Moscow, the Prince of Darkness, four bottles of vodka down, started strangling his wife. He went to rehab; she didn't press charges. "I thought [the violence] was normal and Ozzy came from a family that, on a Saturday night, the husband would go to the pub, get loaded, come home, beat the wife," she says. Did she ever consider herself a victim of domestic violence? "Never, because I gave as good as I got. I can't say that I never hurt Ozzy. Of course I did."
The pair were often on the road touring but had three children together — Aimee, Kelly and Jack — to look after too. "Was I a perfect mother? No way. Do I wish I'd been there more? Absolutely," Osbourne says. "It's hard and when people say, 'I want it all,' you can't have it all. Nobody has it all because something's got to suffer."
She has previously described her relationship with Ozzy as "a Shakespearean play". It has certainly not lacked drama: his infidelities, drug addictions and a near-fatal quad-bike accident in 2003, her colon cancer the previous year, stratospheric telly career and mental breakdowns. She is adamant that he has saved her as much as she has saved him, and muses that without him she would have probably ended up behind bars with her dad. "He's the only man other than my father that I've ever truly loved," she says. "The only one."
Their 40th wedding anniversary is this summer; will they have a big party? "It depends on how Ozzy is. Probably not." Now 73, he's struggling with Parkinson's disease and the after-effects of surgery following a fall in his bathroom in 2019. He's still making music, but Osbourne cares for him "a lot". "It's very difficult, because the combination of the Parkinson's and his accident, you go, well, which one is this? Why's this happening? Why's that happening?" she says, choking up.
Determined not to cry, Osbourne insists on changing gears. "Let's throw something, have a go at somebody," she says, mischievously. "The Kardashian sisters?" It's arguable that without the Osbournes no one would have even heard of the Kardashians, the billionaire reality TV titans, and bottom implant surgery wouldn't be booming. In 2002 Sharon, Ozzy, Kelly and Jack (Aimee opted out) became global celebrities after inviting cameras into their Beverly Hills home to film The Osbournes, a novel concept in that pre-social media time.
"I get why [the Kardashians] are as big as they are," Osbourne says. "But I'm old-school and think, 'Well, what's your talent?' This world of selfies in your underwear, selfies topless, selfies showing your food, selfies in bed — I just think, 'Oh, for f***'s sake.' "
The Osbournes was a huge hit, but the family walked away from the show after three years. "It was affecting my kids. It was that time where you're experimenting with drink and drugs. They used to go to clubs and people would give them whatever they wanted. They were 15 and 16. It's like, 'Are you nuts?' "
Today, Jack, 36, is training to be a search and rescue paramedic, has three children with his ex-wife, the actress Lisa Stelly, and a fourth on the way with his fiancée, the interior designer Aree Gearhart. Kelly, 37, a recovering alcoholic, is weighing up whether to return to TV presenting after falling off the wagon during the pandemic. "She went into treatment and stayed a long time to get herself sorted," Osbourne says. "She's doing so good." Aimee, 38, is a singer who still shuns fame. "Aimee doesn't like the life we lead. It's not her," Osbourne says. "The kids don't get on [with her], and I'm not going to bullshit and say they do."
Above everything else Osbourne loathes fakery and prides herself on being genuine in a city of charmers and blowhards. "In the entertainment industry everyone's a hypocrite, everybody's a jobsworth. Everybody overnight became politically correct and 'walk on eggshells'," she says, bringing up Will Smith's Oscars slap. "When he wins [the best actor award], everybody stands up. It's, like, you're such hypocrites. You're going to go home and say how disgraceful his behaviour was, but you stand up and give him a standing ovation."
Can Smith make a comeback? "Of course. He's probably making his next movie now," she says, griping that showbusiness will always follow the cash. "You know, it's like I've always said, in this industry, if people could make a buck off you … If Hitler were alive today, they would give him a TV show."
On the thorny political question du jour — what is a woman? — Osbourne doesn't pause before answering. "It comes from within," she says. "It's not for us to decide what is a woman and what isn't." However, she thinks it is unfair for trans women to compete against women in sport, and criticises what she sees as a celebrity trend for having a child who identifies as trans or nonbinary. "It's, like, hey, it's not an accessory. This isn't the 'in thing'."
Osbourne says she can empathise with people who are unhappy in their bodies — although in her case it has been to do with bulimia rather than gender dysphoria. "It's horrific. I used to eat and eat and eat. It was part of my shield," she says. "I felt that the less attractive and the bigger I was gave me strength. It's weird but that's how I felt." Osbourne confesses that she still throws up after eating. "I'm, like, I just f***ing ate that, I'm going to get rid of it. I've done it for years and years. It's become part of me," she says. "Do I accept it? Do I like it? No, I have the worst acid reflux in the entire world."
She also confesses to an addiction to shopping. What does she buy? "Too many clothes, too many shoes, too many bags, too many candles. I don't like a sofa — let's change it again. I don't like the colour of this room. Let's change it again." There's no looking at the price tags before purchasing: "It's terrible. It's a new-money way to live your life. It's a way of showing off." Today she is wearing a blue Zara suit (US$150, about NZ$226), new Chanel shoes (US$1350) and a plain white T-shirt, "which cost about $600".
Talk turns to Britain. She is furious about the red tape bogging down the process for rehoming Ukrainian refugees — "I think it's heinous what [Boris Johnson] is doing" — and vows she'll look into moving two Ukrainian families into the unused properties on her Buckinghamshire estate. Imagine fleeing war and ending up living chez Osbourne, I say. "Ozzy's very well known in Ukraine," she says, a smidge sharply. "I think they'd be happy."
She likes Johnson's "eccentricity", but thinks he should have fessed up immediately over partygate. "Don't underestimate people who voted for you, and tell the truth."
On her no-BS theme, the Duke of York could have saved his skin if he'd only told the truth (as Osbourne sees it) about Virginia Giuffre, who alleges that he had sex with her when she was a teenage trafficking victim of Jeffrey Epstein. "He should have said, 'I wasn't married. Everybody knew me as Randy Andy. My friend at the time [Epstein] was surrounded by young women, and [Giuffre] was up for it, I was up for it, and it's not illegal in England to have sex with somebody her age. Don't come up with bullshit about a pizza place [his alibi was a children's party at Woking's Pizza Express] that closes at 11." (Prince Andrew has always denied the allegations and settled with Giuffre out of court last month.)
An ardent royalist, Osbourne "absolutely adores" the Duchess of Cornwall, because "she's real, she's down to earth and she's a laugh". Clearly Team Kate and Wills, she doesn't like what she calls "the victim thing" with Meghan and Harry, and believes their lives would have improved in the UK had they stuck it out. "The situation is you either love them or you don't. There's no in between with those two."
Tentatively I bring up Ozzy's cheating. In 2016 Osbourne slipped her husband extra sleeping pills to extract a confession about an affair he had with his hairdresser. The truth spilled out and she promptly cut the sleeves off all his coats.
"Back in the touring early days it was 10 people a night, all dirty old groupies. It was nothing to me," she says. "As he got older he knew their names, where they lived, all that." She is puzzled that the other women — there was a "Russian whore" as well — were not especially attractive. "At one point I thought, 'Is he doing it to make them feel good?' The Salvation Army of old groupies."
She can joke about it now, but the betrayal led to Osbourne, who has been on antidepressants for years, trying to take her own life. "I was tired. I couldn't take the drama of everything in my life. Everything was too much," she recalls. So she checked into a mental health facility, or, as she called it, the "semi nut house". "I stayed there and got myself together, and you start off again, don't you?"
Some friends judged her as weak for taking Ozzy back. "No, I'm not. I love him. I can leave if I want, take half of everything and go. I don't want to." He still begs her forgiveness and is "very romantic". "Before his accident he used to bring me breakfast on a tray in bed. And he'd go into the garden and get a flower and write little notes for me. I've got them all framed."
Over icy G&Ts on a face-meltingly hot day, I ask about the physical side of their relationship. "Oh, Ozzy was like a rabbit," she says, delightedly. "He was the only guy that I ever really enjoyed sex with because he'd laugh and be silly." Do they still have sex? "No, no, not now. But I just adore him. I just couldn't think of my life without him. We kiss each other all the time and cuddle."
Osbourne is a fast talker and we cover all sorts. How she's renting a private jet to fly back to the UK with her eight dogs, who have a dog walker and a full-time dog-sitter ("I'd never put them underneath"); the demise of TV talent shows ("You can only fish for so long, and all the fish are gone"); Simon Cowell ("He's like me, he likes a good bit of cosmetic surgery"); and the Russians in Beverly Hills ("Most of the hookers are Russians here. An unbelievable amount").
During a recent dinner at this restaurant she and a girlfriend whispered all evening out of fear someone would overhear their conversation. "Everybody's scared of saying something wrong that somebody would take and sell," she says. "It's no way to bloody live. I don't want it. I don't need it." That's why she wants to leave eggshells Hollywood with Ozzy and the eight dogs and be her best, straight-shooting self back in Britain. "It's just our time to go home," Osbourne says. "I don't want to be judged."
Written by: Laura Pullman
© The Times of London