The Osbournes: Scene One: A Nice Sunday
Lie-in (continued)
We sat and ate our lunch, passing dishes
over his head while Ozzy lay with his face in his plate,
snoring. When the meal was over, Sharon and the nanny had just
begun clearing away the plates when Ozzy finally came to.
Raising his head from his plate as slowly as he'd lowered it
half an hour before he looked around and gave out the call now
familiar to millions of TV viewers the world over:
“Shaaaaaron!!!”
“What?” she snapped.
“Help!”
“Why? What have you done
now?”
He looked down at himself. The large stain
on his pinny, the mash falling from his face and hair, the cold
lumpy gravy smeared across his face.
“I'm all fucked-up…”
“And whose fault is that?”
He looked like he was going to cry.
“Shaaaaron… please… help
meeeee…”
She stood there looking at him, not with
contempt or even much real anger. It was more… tedium.
Like she had seen this all before so many times, which, I
realised suddenly, she must have.
Ozzy tried to stand but couldn't make it
and found himself collapsing back onto the table, scattering
plates everywhere. Sharon shook her head wearily. “Fuck's
sake,” she sighed. Then she grabbed him by the arm,
yanked it around her shoulders and helped him stagger out the
door and up the stairs to bed.
I sat there, fingering my pint of wine
with the bits of coke floating in it, wondering if I was ever
going to get my interview done, whether the bloody book would
ever be written. And even if it was, what it was I was supposed
to write. Not the truth, obviously…
When Sharon returned a short while later
it was like nothing had happened. As id we'd just returned from
a pleasant trip round the garden admiring the roses perhaps.
She looked at me and smiling sweetly nodded towards my nearly
empty pint glass and asked: “Would you like a proper
glass or that?”
“Thank you,” I said,
“That would be very nice.”
Sharon fetched me a proper wine glass, a
new bottle of very good red, opened it with a very
fancy-looking corkscrew and poured me a fresh drink. Then we
sat down by the fireplace. Still no mention of Ozzy's state or
what - or who - had caused it.
“Right,” she said, “you
better get out your tape-recorder. We'll be waiting for ever
for that fucker to talk to you. Whatever you want to know, you
better ask me. Where did you want to start?”
