21
The X-Factor
Before The X-Factor I had never had much to do with the British press. Although The Osbournes had been hugely successful in England, it was shown late at night on Channel 4. But The X-Factor, a broader version of American Idol, was prime-time ITV, and it was a watershed for me: I was no longer thought of primarily as Ozzy's wife, I was now "Sharon Osbourne, X-Factor Judge."
Of the three judges on the show--Simon Cowell, Louis Walsh and me--I was very definitely the odd one out. Whereas they were both TV talent-show veterans, I had never done anything like it before. Luckily the people I found myself working with couldn't have been nicer or more welcoming.
The format was unusual. Not only were the contestants in competition against one another, the judges were too. If we got it right, not only did our artist win a recording contract, the judge who acted as that artist's mentor would get a slice of the financial action as the manager.
The show was Simon Cowell's brainchild. There were three categories: under 25s, over 25s and vocal groups. Once the categories had been allocated, the judge's job was to mentor the artists: help them choose songs, direct their stage performances, select their clothes, and generally teach them how to conduct themselves onstage--everything involved in the performance, in fact, down to the way they wore their hair. We were involved creatively and emotionally, because we all wanted our proteges to win. However, we had no idea which category would be ours to mentor until the show went live, three months into the audition process.
It was an overnight success. In spite of going out in direct competition with Dancing With the Stars, for the three months we were live on air, The X-Factor owned Saturday nights. What's more, the British public seemed to take to me, not because I was shooting my mouth off this time, but because I wore my heart on my sleeve. My regular outbursts of emotion were probably because I had the experience of being a mum and I knew that if it was my kid up there and some arsehole had destroyed their dream, I'd want to kill them.
Right from the start, Simon told me not to get emotionally involved, but I found it increasingly difficult. Being diplomatic isn't my style and the sharp edge of my tongue was soon getting plenty of exercise.
I was amazed at how little idea so many of them had of presenting themselves. One of the worst in this area was the guy who ended up winning the contest. His name was Steve, and he turned up at the audition looking like he'd been down the pub all night. He was thirty-six years old and had been around the block more than a couple of times. He favored designer stubble. While George Michael can get away with it, Steve Brookstein could not. I had no respect for him and he had no respect for me.
It all came to a head on the last show. All my kids had been eliminated, and it was down to a head-to-head between Steve, mentored by Simon, and a pop classical vocal group called G4, who were Louis's.
So it's the rehearsal for the final and we've got music, orchestra, lights, fireworks, the lot. Tonight the public has to decide who is the winner, and the studio is electric with tension because whoever wins will walk away with a PS1 million recording contract with Simon Cowell. The two finalists come onstage to do their sound checks and lock in the shots. Steve goes first. We get to the moment when the judges give their comments on the performance. As Simon is Steve's mentor, he goes up and takes his place by his side.
It was no secret that I had never seen the appeal of Steve--in my view he belonged on a cruise ship, entertaining the blue-hair brigade--but on this occasion I felt that he had pulled himself together, so I decided to say so, even though it was traditional to simply go through the motions for the camera and sound.
"Actually, Steve," I said, "you did really good tonight." This was Steve's cue to make some response in return. His response was to roll his eyes and go, "Yeah, yeah, yeah," like a nine-year-old who's just been told not to talk back to the teacher.
I said nothing.
So then he goes into his second song. "I'm not sure you heard what I said last time, Steve," I said, still smiling. "I said you did really good tonight."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
That was it. Suddenly I lost it. "You disrespectful piece of shit," I said. "You are not good enough to fucking wash my underwear. You are a talentless, worthless piece of shit and I'm going to let everybody know about you tonight."
Up on the monitor, I noticed a shudder as the cameramen stepped back in shock and heard the mass gasp of the crew who were watching the rehearsal. Meanwhile Simon, standing beside his protege, had turned white. After what felt like a lifetime, he raised his arms above his head then brought his fists crashing down into his thighs.
"This has to stop," he barked. "Now. Enough. It's not getting anybody anywhere." Then, pointing to me, "Get to your dressing room." By this time Steve was leaning on Simon's arm, pretending to whimper, as if trying to hold back tears, his bottom lip quivering, while at the same time glaring at me out of the corner of his eye. "What, what did I do? Why does she hate me?" Having no audience to appreciate this dazzling performance, he focused on the crew. I was nearly impressed: his acting was a great improvement on his singing. The whole thing made me want to vomit.
I stormed off to my dressing room. Any minute, I thought, somebody would come knocking at the door to rap me on the knuckles. The producer, the director, Simon, somebody. Nobody came. I called Ozzy to ask what he thought I should do. "You have to be true to yourself, Sharon," he said.
Still nobody knocked at the door, except the runner, as usual, to give me my five-minute call.
So the public is let in, there's not an empty seat, and it's the final. I sit in the middle of the judges' desk, Simon on my left, Louis on my right. The atmosphere between the three of us you could cut with a paper knife.
Steve sings his first song, and Simon is up there beside him waiting for our comments. I had actually decided to say what I had said in rehearsal, that tonight he'd done great. But when it came to it, I couldn't control my emotion. I didn't rehearse it mentally. It just came out.
"You're a fake," I said. "You come on as Mr. Nice Guy and Mr. Humble, but you're not. As far as your singing goes," I continued, "it's like what you said about your girlfriend, you're like a Volvo, you're reliable."
A commercial break followed immediately. As soon as the red light went off, two producers came rushing down from the control room onto the floor. It would be a good idea, they said tersely, for me to apologize to Steve as soon as we went back on the air. I flatly refused. It would be utterly hypocritical, I said. And it would have been.
So then Steve sang his second song. And I delivered my second diatribe. It just kept coming and coming and it was terrible. It was as if I had taken a verbal laxative. I kept dumping on him. I should never have done it. I meant to be a professional. And then, little by little, the audience started booing and hissing at me, because good ol' Steve was very, very popular.
He won. As the dry ice, the fireworks, the balloons and confetti were going off, I left the judge's chair and walked slowly to my dressing room, my head held high. There was no way I could have gone onto that stage to congratulate him. Nobody even noticed that I had left the studio.
Back in the dressing room, my makeup artist, my hairdresser, my stylist and my assistant had their hands on their faces like that painting by Munch. Total shock.
"Quick," I said. "Pack up. Let's get the fuck out of here."
In the studio the celebrations were at full pitch: it was the last show of the series. Six months of hard work and it was everybody's time to let loose, all the crew and all the other contestants who had been involved in the show had been invited and were celebrating.
I didn't want to see anyone. I was just grabbing makeup and throwing it in my bag. The two finalists had recorded a Christmas single that was going to be released the following day, and all I could hear was Steve's voice with 400 people singing along to every word. Then, finally, came the knock at the door: one of the producers, sweating and speaking fast in short breathy
tones.
I should be ashamed of myself, he said. ITV had had 120 phone complaints about the way I had spoken to Steve--a new world record, apparently; the previous high for any program was 100. I was persona totally non grata. I left the studio numb. I can't say I was sad, but I was physically and mentally exhausted. More than that, I was confused. How come I could see this guy as a jerk, yet nobody else could? Or had I gotten it all wrong?
When I finally got home that night I held on to my husband so tight it's a wonder I didn't suffocate him. And, as he often does, he hit the nail on the head. "You'll be looking for a new gig," he said.
The next day the Sunday papers slaughtered me. Simon was quoted as saying I was a loose cannon, and he didn't want people like that on his show. He was right. I took it too far. I had forgotten that this was a TV show. I had forgotten that the audience at home needed someone to warm to. Perfection wasn't what they wanted.
I heard that Simon never wanted to see me again, never wanted to talk to me again, never wanted to work with me again, and I didn't blame him. I had just committed professional hara-kiri. I thought I would never hear from anybody at ITV again. And I began to think: my talk show in America didn't fit. I don't fit. Anywhere. I can't play the game. Simon's right. I'm a loose cannon.
April 21, 2005, 6:30 p.m.
Hollywood Boulevard
My father always wanted to live in Hollywood and now he's going to die here. He's seventy-nine.
He's sitting in his chair beside the bed. On the table, among the photographs in silver frames, is a jug of cranberry juice mixed with water.
"Hi, Dadders. I've brought you lots of stuff. Biscuits and cake. So, what's been going on?" My father has lost so much weight since he's been in here, and I worry about how they're looking after him, but they keep his room nice. I will pay for everything for my father but I cannot give him my time. I hardly ever come here. But I will have him taken care of. "Did David come for St. Patrick's Day? He did? And did you have a great time?"
"Sarah."
"That's right. Sally. My nana." We sit looking at family photographs together, the ones that were sent to me by Dixie when my mother died. There's one of us at the Astor Club; another one of my parents, standing in the pool house at the Howard Hughes house.
"You been watching the telly, Dad?"
"I won't . . . I won't be frock . . . I won't . . ."
"Don't worry, Dad. You just rest. Ooh, look. Here's a picture before you had a beard. When did you first grow a beard?"
"I've had one or two."
You can still hear his Manchester accent. In fact it's stronger now than it ever was. One pronounced "wan."
"One of them pradas. Just take it to the bank. That fella."
"What fella's that, Dad?"
"He's got a woman on this thing."
"I think we need to get a rug for you, Dadders. Your room could do with a bit of cheering up."
"That one, I think I was saying chilies. Yeah."
"Have you spoken to Auntie Eileen?"
"Forget now."
"Are they looking after you well?"
"Couldn't really say."
"It's nice here, Dad."
"Suppose so."
"How's that bloke you were having problems with? Is he still a pain in the arse?"
"Yes. A know-all."
"Do you remember when you lived in Prestwich?"
"Being scratch, she'll want to be, she'll want to be somebody and it's not very hard. You can't. Very hard. Yes."
"Have a nice choccy biscuit."
"Must see her right."
"I'll put on some music, shall I, Dadders?"
I walk over to the CD player, press play and pick up the empty box. Frank Sinatra's comeback album, September of My Years, recorded in 1965, when he was fifty.
The melody swells up: "When I was twenty-one, it was a very good year . . . for city girls who lived up the stair . . . their chauffeurs would drive when I was thirty-five . . . but now the days grow short . . . it was a mess of good years." And we dance.
22
Payback
Simon Cowell has become infamous for the way he looks: the high-waisted trousers and long-sleeved cashmere top are his trademark. Jewelry is my trademark, though. I will never know if it was this that triggered the theft on the night of November 22, 2004.
It was Sunday night, and we had just come back from David Furnish's birthday party at the Ivy, and we'd had a great time because David is so lovely with Ozzy, and he and Elton are such caring people. They're very committed to their friendships. They're not fly-by-night friends. But I was so wired and so strung out with The X-Factor that I had taken a couple of sleeping pills, so was out before my head hit the pillow.
Our bedroom at Welders is at the back of the house overlooking the yard, and from my bed I can see through my bathroom and then through another door to my dressing room. All three rooms run along the back of the house. My dressing room was originally another bedroom but I closed up the door from the landing long ago. So it's big. In the center there's an island made up of drawers back to back, and that's where I would lay out my jewelry so it was easy for me to put outfits together. I had my pearls, my diamonds, my gold, my platinum, everything out, so I could construct my look.
The only way in is through the bedroom and then the bathroom, unless, of course, you choose to come in through a window.
At around four o'clock that morning, Ozzy got up for a pee. He must have been sleepwalking, because he has his own bathroom on the other side of our bedroom and he normally goes there. He's sleepwalked ever since he was a child. He can have complete conversations, he can even eat, but he's not awake. Aimee is the same.
So I'm fast asleep and Ozzy is in my bathroom having a pee, and out of the corner of his eye he sees something move in my dressing room. So he walks in and there's a man crouched down wearing a face mask.
Ozzy didn't scream or shout because he was sleepwalking and probably thought it was a dream. But when the guy saw Ozzy, he made a dash for the window. But this window is narrow, and even though the guy must have been small he squirmed his way out feet first, so his head and upper body were still in the room and Ozzy got him in a headlock. Ozzy knows all about the neck and how vulnerable it is, and he says he could have snapped it like a straw. Having worked in a slaughterhouse, he said it would have been the easiest thing in the world, because the guy's feet must have been dangling out of the window looking for the rungs of the ladder and the weight of his body was resting in Ozzy's arms. But even in his half-conscious state, my husband decided he couldn't have a man's death on his conscience, even a thief's. So basically he shoved him out of the window. It's a drop of about twelve feet onto a terrace with a few shrubs to break the fall.
The first I knew of it was when Ozzy came running in, screaming to me at the top of his voice: "We've been robbed! Call the police!"
I sat straight up in bed like a jackknife.
"Call the police, Sharon, we've been robbed!"
But what with the pills I'd taken, I was so muzzy that I couldn't remember what country I was in. I asked Ozzy where we were, but he didn't seem to understand. He was in shock, still running around the bedroom naked. First I dialed 9 to get an outside line, because I thought I was in Doheny. Then I dialled 411, directory assistance in America. Finally I got through, said we'd been robbed and to please send somebody around immediately. When I put the phone back on the bedside table, I saw that my ten-carat diamond ring and my wedding bands were gone. I called the police again: "Please send a helicopter, this is serious." I still had no idea what was going on.
And it was serious. When I checked my other jewelry, all my best pieces had been taken. The most heartbreaking was a 54-carat sapphire, which I always called the Swimming Pool, a huge ring. They stole my pearls, pearls the size of jawbreakers with a diamond clasp. The daisy necklace Ozzy bought me for our twentieth wedding anniversary from Van Cleef, two limited edition watches by Franck Muller--one of them alone was wor
th PS100,000. And little things, like a pin a promoter had given me back in the seventies: a circle of diamonds around the initials ELO. It wasn't something I would ever wear, but it was my past. They took one of the first pieces of jewelry that Ozzy gave me, again a pin, with the initials S and A, the A in diamonds. I would never wear it, because of the A--but, again, it was my past. Most ridiculous of all, they took a ring that I had gotten for a photographic session, an enamel owl with a big diamond on its head. Except that it wasn't a diamond, it was a fake. And they took two pairs of fashion earrings--real stones, but not investment diamonds. They were probably worth about PS10,000 each, but considering what else they were taking, this was like small change.
In fact, this bastard probably thought he was the one who'd been robbed when he saw how little there was in his swag bag. Some nights on The X-Factor I'd have a million pounds' worth of jewelry on, and it would be different pieces every week. What these criminals hadn't realized was that it wasn't mine, and that somewhere out of sight of the cameras were the security guys who had brought it. Guys who, once the show was over, took everything back to the vaults at Van Cleef or Tiffany or wherever. Because the jewelry was on loan. Just like for the Oscars.
When the police arrived all they found were the pictures caught on closed circuit TV of a man coming in with a ladder and then running away.
Even when I realized the extent to which we'd been robbed, my main reaction was How dare you come into my house when you know that we're there. How dare you even try and fight with my husband. That man could have beaten us both to death, and if they ever did catch him I would get great satisfaction from doing him serious bodily harm.
The likelihood is that the perpetrators had done a dummy run a whole year earlier. Shortly after Christmas 2003, when Ozzy had only just come back from the hospital, we found muddy footprints in the hall and a windowsill was dirty. And I thought, that's funny, so we went to the security cameras and rolled back the tape, and lo and behold there's a guy with a ladder and a face mask filmed coming onto our land and leaving. We did a complete inventory, but nothing was missing. Cilla Black, who lives about five miles away, had been badly robbed not long before, and the police said there was a gang of about ten of these people who were very dangerous, and for the next month the police were constantly at the house, waiting in the yard. But nothing. When we went back to LA, all the valuables in the house--silver and paintings--were put into a vault away from the property, which is what we have always done.
Sharon Osbourne Extreme: My Autobiography Page 33
