A Eulogy for Ozzy Osbourne: The Prince of Darkness Who Lit Up the World
- Gary Michaels
- Jul 28
- 8 min read
The world recently lost a legend. Ozzy Osbourne died on on the 22nd July 2025. In honour of them man and his legacy, I wanted to write a eulogy for him and for those who loved Ozzy Osbourne, so here it is.
A Eulogy for Ozzy Osbourne
Ladies and gentlemen, mourners and metal-heads, misfits and moon-howlers, we gather not to whisper, but to roar. Not to tiptoe around loss, but to celebrate the firestorm that was John Michael Osbourne, or plain ole 'Ozzy' to the rest of us.
John. Ozzy. Dad. The Prince of Darkness. Whatever you called him, we're here to eulogise a man who turned pain into poetry, noise into legacy and life into a stadium-shaking spectacle.
Ozzy Osbourne left us on the 22nd July 2025, at the age of 76, but you can’t talk about Ozzy in years. Time never made sense with him. He lived in guitar solos, in feedback loops, in the space between chaos and comedy.
He didn’t age, he endured, and when the world tried to put a full stop on him, he just added another exclamation mark... or three.
We've lost The Prince of Darkness. The Madman. The Godfather of Heavy Metal. The man who taught us that it’s OK to be a little broken, as long as you never stop fighting.
His passing leaves a silence that feels impossible to fill.
Because Ozzy wasn’t just a singer, a performer, or a reality TV star, he was a force of nature.
A man who lived louder, darker and more unapologetically than most of us ever dare to dream.
And yet, beneath the bat-biting, the devil horns and the infamous antics, there was a man of deep love, surprising warmth and relentless resilience.
From Birmingham to Black Sabbath: The Birth of a Legend
Ozzy was born in Birmingham in December 1948, a working-class lad from Aston with a voice that sounded like it had been carved out of thunder.
School never made sense. Work never fit. But a microphone? That fit like a leather glove.
Ozzy’s story began in a place of hardship, factory smoke and the kind of grit that either breaks you or forges you into something unbreakable.
For the young John Osbourne, music wasn’t just an escape; it was survival.
We didn't know it at the time but when in 1968 at the age of 20, he joined forces with Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler and Bill Ward, history was made and Black Sabbath was born.
In 1970, he and his band finally unleashed a sound on the world that had never existed before.
Doom-laden, bone-deep, spiritual in its darkness. Heavy metal was born and Ozzy was its wild-eyed prophet.
Black Sabbath didn’t just create heavy metal, they gave voice to a generation’s fears, frustrations and fantasies.
Songs like "Paranoid", "Iron Man", and "War Pigs" weren’t just music; they were prophecies. They were revolutions with a drumbeat. They gave voice to the voiceless, the weirdos, the working-class kids who had too much anger and not enough outlet.
Ozzy turned all that into art and his voice, that primal, haunting wail, became the soundtrack of rebellion.
He sang about war, madness and the end of the world, and somehow, in doing so, made millions of kids feel less alone.
But fame came at a cost.
The excesses of the '70s nearly destroyed him.
And when Sabbath let him go in 1979, Ozzy could have faded into obscurity. Instead, he rose again, this time, as a solo artist, proving that his story was far from over.
Some thought he’d fade away, but no. He came back like a bloody banshee, launching a solo career with "Crazy Train" that tore up the rulebook all over again.
Collaborations with Randy Rhoads, Jake E. Lee and Zakk Wylde… his voice carried across generations, his persona never dimming.
He wasn’t just a survivor. He was a resurrection in leather pants.
The Solo Years: A Phoenix in Leather and Chains
With Sharon at his side, his manager, his protector, his love, Ozzy's solo career would cement his immortality.
Blizzard of Ozz and Diary of a Madman weren’t just albums; they were declarations.
"Crazy Train" became an anthem for the outcasts. "Mr. Crowley" turned the occult into poetry and "Mama, I’m Coming Home" showed us that even the Prince of Darkness had a heart that ached for love and redemption.
His live performances were spectacles of chaos and brilliance. Who else could bite the head off a bat (accidentally or not) and still have fans chanting his name decades later?
Who else could stumble through a haze of substances and still deliver vocals that shook the soul?
Ozzy was never polished, never perfect and that’s exactly why we loved him.
The Osbournes: The Man Behind the Myth
Then in 2002, after years in the musical wilderness, came The Osbournes. It hit MTV like a headless bat out of hell. Literally. It was the show that changed everything.
Overnight, the world saw Ozzy not as a rock god, but as a bewildered, lovable dad who couldn’t work a TV remote to save his life.
The world met the real Ozzy, mumbling, hilarious, swearing at remote controls and tiny dogs.
We saw Sharon, his anchor and partner in madness. We saw their children, Kelly, Jack and Aimée, growing up in a household that was part sitcom, part asylum, but all love.
We laughed as he muttered "Sharon!" in confusion, cheered as he fumbled through parenting and cried as he fought his demons in real time.
The show didn’t just make him a superstar, it humanised him.
Here was a man who had survived the darkest excesses of fame, who had battled addiction, who had been written off more times than anyone could count… and yet, there he was, making us laugh, making us cry, making us love him even more.
Ozzy became something rarer than a rock god, he became beloved. Not just for his music, but for his honesty. For letting us see his flaws, his recoveries, his confusion, his heart.
He wasn't untouchable. He was real, and that made him immortal.
The Struggles and the Strength
Despite the fame, Ozzy’s life was never easy.
His battles with addiction were public, painful and at times, seemingly endless.
There were relapses, rehabs and moments when even his most devoted fans wondered if he’d make it, but he always did.
Because Ozzy wasn’t just a survivor, he was a fighter.
In his later years, as Parkinson’s and other health struggles slowed him down, he never lost his spirit.
He kept recording, kept performing when he could, kept that mischievous glint in his eye.
Even in his final interviews, he was still Ozzy, cracking jokes, swearing like a sailor and reminding us all that life is too short to take too seriously.
The Legacy: More Than Music
Ozzy’s influence stretches far beyond rock ‘n’ roll.
He was a cultural icon, a symbol of resilience, a man who proved that you could fall a thousand times and still rise again.
He inspired generations of musicians, from Metallica to Slipknot, from Dave Grohl to Post Malone, artists who saw in him the freedom to be loud, to be wild, to be themselves. But more than that, he gave hope to the broken.
To the kids who felt like outcasts, to the addicts fighting for sobriety, to anyone who ever felt like they didn’t belong, Ozzy was proof that you could be flawed, messy, even a little crazy and still leave your mark on the world.
The Final Black Curtain
We must talk about his final show because Ozzy didn’t just fade away. Of course he didn't.
No, he bowed out the only way he knew how; loudly, defiantly, gloriously.
On 5th July 2025, Ozzy took to the stage one last time at Birmingham’s Villa Park, the city where it all began.
It was a homecoming. A full circle. A love letter to the fans and to the music that had defined his life. The venue shook. Fans came from all over the world, old-school Sabbath heads, teenage metal disciples, families with three generations in denim and black tees.
He opened with “Bark at the Moon,” and the crowd howled like it was 1983 again. “Mr. Crowley” followed, haunting and fierce. Zakk Wylde returned for the solos. Sharon stood just off-stage and when he sang “Mama, I’m Coming Home,” there wasn’t a dry eye for miles.
He ended with “Paranoid.” Of course he did.
No encore. No pyrotechnic overkill. Just a man, a microphone and a standing ovation that seemed to last forever.
It wasn’t just a concert, it was a farewell ritual. And Ozzy knew it.
He said to the crowd, in that unmistakable Brummie growl:"This is it, my loves. Thanks for keeping me alive longer than I deserved. I love you more than words can scream."
And then he walked offstage, slowly, but with purpose. No theatrics. Just a wave. A grin and he was gone.
We didn’t know it then, but that was the last roar of the dragon.
Goodbye
Whomever he was to you, Ozzy wasn’t just a musician. He was a movement. He was absurd and profound. The man who bit the head off a bat but would cry at a Beatles song.
A man who talked to ghosts and teleprompters in equal measure. Who survived addiction, disease, fame, scandal and time itself.
He gave voice to the dark, but never gave in to it.
His legacy isn't just in gold records, rock anthems or sold-out tours. It's in the outcasts he made feel seen. The kids he gave purpose to. The bands he inspired. The tears he earned. The laughter he shared.
And the volume he turned all the way up on life.
Ozzy once said:
"Of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most."
We laughed, but we also understood. Because in that sentence is the Ozzy we knew, wild, wrecked, witty and wiser than people ever gave him credit for.
He was never just the Prince of Darkness. He was the jester of chaos. The bard of the misunderstood. The saint of second chances.
So how do you eulogise a man who’s already been eulogised in thousands of tattoos, murals, guitar solos, and screams?
You don’t. You just thank him, so I will.
Thank you, Ozzy, for the music, the madness, and the mayhem.
Thank you for being proof that broken people can build beautiful things. Thank you for the bat, the laugh, the growl, the love.
Sleep well, you bat-biting bastard.
And wherever you are now, stage, sky, some hazy cosmic lounge, I hope they let you plug in and play because heaven just got a lot louder.
We love you, Ozzy. Always.
Finally, to Sharon, his rock, his warrior, the love of his life, thank you for standing by him through every storm.
To Jessica, Eliot, Louis, Jack, Kelly and Aimee, your father’s spirit lives on in your strength, your humour, your refusal to back down and to the millions of fans who screamed his lyrics, who wore his shirts like armour, who found solace in his music, Ozzy was yours as much as he was his family’s.
Ozzy once sang, "I’m just a dreamer, I dream my life away." , but he was wrong.
He wasn’t just a dreamer. He was a doer. A creator. A man who turned his nightmares into anthems and his chaos into art.
The world feels quieter without him, but his voice, that ragged, glorious, unmistakable voice, will never truly leave us.
It’s in every riff of "Crazy Train," every scream of "Paranoid," every laugh from The Osbournes reruns. It’s in the stories we’ll tell for generations, about the man who bit the head off a bat, who survived the unthinkable, who made being weird something to celebrate.
So tonight, raise a glass (or a peace sign, devil horns up) to Ozzy. The Prince of Darkness is gone, but his light will never fade.
RIP Ozzy, we'll see you on the other side.
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