Ozzy hated the sound of vacuum cleaners.
Ironically, for a man who came alive onstage when a guitar wailed, there was just something about the pitch and frequency of that particular sound he couldn’t stand.
After a lifetime waging war against inner demons, addiction, and the abiding unease of celebrity, the mad-man conductor who issued the boarding call for Crazy Train, was regularly driven to the edge of sanity by the ostensibly mundane—TV remotes that refused to obey, blenders launching countertop mutinies—and, his own personal hell—the silent offense of untrained dogs leaving “presents” on his rug.
Such was the paradox of John Michael “Ozzy” Osbourne—the man the world would come to know and love solely by a nickname born not of admiration but of derision. “Ozzy” was a mocking twist on his surname, teasingly hurled by schoolyard bullies amid the factory-choked skyline of 1950s Birmingham—a city of industrial gloom, still pockmarked from Luftwaffe bombing raids …
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