Like a bat finally returning to its crypt, Ozzy Osbourne prepares for his final curtain call. The 76-year-old icon, whose veins once pumped equal parts whiskey and adrenaline, now trades mosh pits for orthopedic slippers as he gears up for Black Sabbath's swan song this July at Birmingham's Villa Park. "I don't wanna die in some hotel room," growls the man who once snorted ants off the pavement - a statement that somehow qualifies as his most sober revelation in six decades.
The self-proclaimed Godfather of Heavy Metal will exit stage left perched upon a literal throne - whether floating above the stadium or anchored to the spot remains as uncertain as his 1970s memories. This isn't just a concert; it's a Viking funeral for the rockstar lifestyle, complete with a who's-who of metal royalty including Metallica, Guns N' Roses, and Tool serving as pallbearers. Tickets evaporated faster than dry ice at an Ozzy house party, proving the world still craves one last taste of the man who bit heads off bats (allegedly) and made parental advisory stickers necessary.
Sharon Osbourne, the iron-fisted Valkyrie who's steered Ozzy's chaos like a demonic cruise director, confirms their next act involves trading tour buses for Buckinghamshire's allegedly haunted Welders House. The 18th-century pile, complete with its own psychiatric ward history, promises to be the perfect setting for reality TV's first gothic retirement home. "We'll rescue dogs, yell at neighbors," Sharon muses, painting a domestic scene more shocking than any of Ozzy's onstage antics.
The transition proves trickier than expected. Between Ozzy's refusal to fly (thanks to leg clots) and son Jack's insistence the manor is "bloody cursed," the Osbourne relocation saga has more plot twists than a Netflix documentary. Ozzy, now wheelchair-bound after Parkinson's and seven spinal surgeries, cracks wise about bionic legs while secretly mourning the loss of what he calls "the greatest circus act in rock history."
In a twist that would make Satan chuckle, the man who famously mistook a horse for his drug counselor now spends evenings sober, watching reality TV with the grandkids. "Shopping with Sharon makes me want to stab myself," he confesses, proving some things never change. Yet beneath the trademark grumbles lies genuine gratitude: "My fans carried me through fifty years of madness. Now I just want to say goodbye properly."
As the final chords of "Iron Man" echo across Villa Park this summer, they'll carry more than just musical weight. This is the last rites for an era when rockstars were mythological creatures - equal parts genius and trainwreck. The bat-biting, ant-snorting, spine-reconstructing Prince of Darkness may be trading his throne for an armchair, but the legend, like his surprisingly intact vocal cords, remains indestructible.
