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Even though I’ve given up the booze, I can still find ways to terrorise the people of England. For example, this is my first summer in the UK since passing my driving test — it took me 19 attempts — and I’ve bought one of those new Audi R8s to celebrate. Well, the car I actually ordered won’t be ready till August, so they’ve lent me this ‘metal grey’ demonstrator to blast around in while the other one gets shipped over from the factory. I hope they’re not expecting to get it back in one piece. Having said that, I’m a much better driver than I used to be — mainly ’cos I ain’t on a lethal combination of mind-altering drugs 24 hours a day any more. I remember on one occasion in the 1970s, around the time my old band Black Sabbath was just taking off, I tried to calm my nerves before one of my many driving tests by taking a fistful of sedatives then smoking my way through half a brick of Afghan hash. It relaxed me, all right: when I stopped at the first red light, I nodded off. By the time I finally woke up, a little red-faced bloke from the DVLA was whacking me over the head with his clipboard and shouting, ‘FAIL!’
Usually the worst thing about visiting England is the weather, especially when you spend most of the year in California, like I do. But it’s actually been hotter here in Buckinghamshire than it is back in Los Angeles — which has been suffering from some late ‘June gloom’ (to do with the hot air from the desert hitting the cold water in the Pacific, or so the weatherman says). I honestly think there’s no better place on earth than England when the sun shines. Mind you, Steven Gerrard & co. did their best to ruin the mood, didn’t they? I’m just glad I wasn’t in America — they take beach volleyball more seriously than ‘soccer’ and they still did better than us. After the Germans’ second goal against England I couldn’t stand it any more and drove my wife Sharon down to Beaconsfield, where I tried to cheer her up by buying her the biggest bunch of flowers I could find. What I didn’t realise is that the R8 has a boot the size of a shoebox, so we had to stick the top of the bouquet through the open roof on the way home. By the time we got back to Chalfont St Peter, there were only about two petals left. It summed up the mood perfectly.
Apart from the bat, the other thing people keep asking me — because I live most of the time in America, I suppose — is what I think of David Cameron. I don’t know why my opinion matters. I’m not exactly Jeremy Paxman, am I? But I wasn’t surprised that Gordon Brown was kicked out. If anyone in any other job in the world had ballsed-up in the way he did, they’d have been out on their ear years ago. Also, I always thought he had the look of a Kray twin about him — in LA, he’d be cast as a villain. But Cameron doesn’t seem all that much different. The trouble is, when you get older all these politicians start to look the same. People say bat- biting rock stars are insane, but what about the kind of people who want to run a country? That’s real f***ing madness for you.
Ozzy Osbourne is the author, with Chris Ayres, of I Am Ozzy. His new album, Scream, is out now.
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