For the audition shows, my alarm would go off at 7.30 a.m. and I would hop in the bath to try and wake myself up. As I rise early each day for The Talk, it wasn’t the getting up as such that fazed me, it was the jet lag, because I would have just flown in from LA, which is eight hours behind the UK. So my body thought it was getting up at 11.30 p.m.
Meanwhile, my wardrobe supremo Maggie would have quietly let herself into the suite, and be steaming about three outfits for me to choose from for that day’s filming. Then there would be a request from someone in production for me to wear something with a ‘splash of colour’, and I would completely ignore them and wear what I liked, which was usually black or cream.
After my bath, I would emerge from my bedroom to find Maggie steaming away, my make-up artist Trisha ready to beautify me and my assistant Claire ready and waiting with my pot of tea, a few slices of lemon and either a bowl of bran or a couple of poached eggs.
Just like every other woman on television, I like to have my own people around me. All the people who work with me have done so for years. I consider them to be extended family. Trisha knows that when you get to my age, good make-up is all in the blending. If my regular hairdresser Lino isn’t around, she does my hair too. Then it’s on with that day’s chosen outfit and into the car to head to the filming location for 10 a.m. sharp.
In Manchester, we filmed at Old Trafford, a stunningly high-end stadium with fantastic facilities where we could each have had a private room to sit in during downtime. Except that there was very little downtime any more, because just about everything was filmed and we were constantly followed by the cameras.
During the occasional five-minute breaks, the other three judges and I would be taken to a communal room where the make-up artists and production crew sit, and we would be filmed the entire time, even while I was slurping a quick bowl of soup.
When Simon was in situ, he was also acting as producer, which he does superbly. He has a fantastic eye, a natural instinct for knowing what makes great television. Yes, The X Factor is a talent show, but it’s also a TV show and he would be editing in his head as we went along. Both Louis and I learnt so much from him in the first four series because he would regularly tick us off, explaining that if we had taken this or that road with that contestant, this or that would have happened and then there would have been a great scenario at the end of it, but we didn’t…
But the new philosophy seems to be film absolutely everything and let’s see how it pans out. I know that TV shows have to evolve to stay on top, and that they are trying to make the viewer feel more involved by filming everything backstage too, but it’s much more draining for the judges because from 10 a.m. to 11 p.m., when filming wrapped, we would rarely get a break from the exposing eye of the camera lens.
Most nights, after a couple of wind-down drinks with the others in the bar, I would get back to my room, exhausted, then start making telephone calls, first to the kids to make sure they were OK, then to Julie in LA to go through any Black Sabbath business or other work matters. So to say I felt shattered the next day would be a masterly understatement, but it would be the same relentless schedule again until that phase of filming finished and I would hop back on a plane to LA.
I wasn’t complaining; they were paying me well and I wanted to do it. But there were plenty of times when I was reminded that I’m not getting any younger. I was also missing my family terribly, and when Jack or Lisa put Pearl on Facetime to me, I would have a little sob afterwards.
So now it’s the first live audition show of the tenth anniversary season and Louis, Gary, Nicole and I are standing at the back of Wembley Arena, tucked out of sight of the crowd. It’s a vast space, but the collective heat of the assembled bodies on this hot July day is overpowering, though thankfully it does nothing to diminish the buzz of excitement.
The usual handful of production staff with clipboards and earpieces hovers around. One of them, a young girl, smiles warily at me, presumably because my reputation for speaking my mind precedes me. I smile back and give her a little wink, just to reassure her that I don’t bite.
Simon’s long-standing warm-up man, Ian Royce, is going through his routine, making them howl with laughter and whipping them up into the high-octane frenzy you need to create an atmosphere on TV – otherwise the filter of the camera lens kills it stone dead.
I close my eyes for a couple of seconds, trying to control the butterflies in my stomach. Perhaps sensing my unease, Louis throws an arm around my shoulder and gives it a little squeeze.
‘You OK?’
I simply nod and smile, focusing in on the fact that Roycie is in the throes of finishing his routine.
I want to do this. I need to do it, for closure. To put things right.
Apart from the long hours, the audition stages of the past few weeks have been water off a duck’s back, particularly as we returned to the old format of doing them in a small room with just the four of us and the contestant present. But you’re operating in a vacuum because the shows don’t get aired until several months later, so you have no idea how you’re coming across or being received.
Today is different. We are at Wembley Arena and, for the first time since rejoining, I will walk out in front of a live studio audience. My insides are on fucking spin cycle.
A live studio audience is that deeply scary unknown factor, the reaction of which you can never take for granted. They will either love you, in which case they’ll raise the rafters, or they’ll hate you and boo with all the gusto of a pantomime audience when the wicked witch appears on stage. And there isn’t a damn thing I can do to predict or change which of those two reactions it’s going to be.
I’d like to be able to say that I couldn’t give a damn whether they liked me or not, but it’s not true. I do. And even if ninety-eight per cent of that audience is cheering, I will only hear the two per cent who are expressing their dislike of me.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for the X Factor judges!’ booms Roycie. It’s time.
As the four of us walk down the central aisle through the 4,000-strong crowd, they go absolutely wild, cheering, whistling, clapping and even stamping their feet. I feel the vibrations through the floor as I walk towards the raised judges’ table in front of the stage.
This is the part I love. The moment when the performance begins and I surf the wave of audience reaction, feeling like the Queen of the World lifted up with their applause. It’s a mini version of what rock stars feel when they walk out on stage and thousands of people simultaneously roar their approval. The adrenalin surge it gives you is the most amazing feeling and is, therefore, addictive.
That’s why the Rolling Stones are still putting on shows when most men their age are tending an allotment somewhere. It’s not about the money; it’s about that adrenalin high, about public approval.
Nicole grins at me and I can see that she’s enjoying the buzz too, but to my mind the cheer has been for her and the others, the returning favourites, not for me. As far as I’m concerned, the audience reaction to my return has yet to be determined.
I smile broadly and wave at no one in particular, not daring to focus on any one person in case I see an expression that unsettles me. Then Gary takes the microphone.
‘Hello, Wembley!’
They cheer even louder. The crowd’s affection for him is palpable across the venue.
‘Guess who’s back?’
Suddenly, I’m aware of my name being chanted in unison, starting low, building up steam, then swelling to a loud crescendo, a Mexican wave of sound.
Sha-ron! Sha-ron! Sha-ron!
At last, I dare to focus on individual faces, and the warmth they exude is overwhelming. I can feel tears of relief pricking my eyes and blink rapidly to force them back. Whatever they have read, or thought, about me in the past, good or bad, it is clearly forgotten now and their acceptance of me is universal, their welcome truly humbling. Suddenly, the rumblings in my stomach disappear and I beam up at them
, waving my arm with a queenly flourish before tilting my head and bowing in thanks at their graciousness. Gary hands me the mike.
‘It’s so good to be back,’ I shout as they start clapping again. ‘And thank you so much for giving me such a great welcome. It means a lot.’
I take my seat at the judges’ table and a warm feeling of something approaching happiness envelops me.
It was well past midnight by the time we were through the final day of boot camp. Late as it was, the adrenalin was still pumping and we all went back to Gary’s hotel and retreated to the bar, as had become our practice, though this time we were not in our dressing gowns. We were drained, all four of us, and began talking about what we were going to do next year when the show finished. Gary planned to go back on tour, and work on a new album. Because that’s what he does. That’s his day job. It was the same for Nicole; she was going back into the studio and then on tour. They were both leaving to get back to their lives. Louis too had decided it was time to bow out and is already planning his new boy band.
As for me, Simon gave me the opportunity to return, and I will always be grateful to him for that. But I won’t be doing it next year; physically I just can’t. This was my year, my last hurrah, my chance to complete the circle and put a few old ghosts to rest. I had something to prove. I wanted it to be the perfect finale – ten years of something I had been a part of starting.
There has been much discussion over the last few years about the rights and wrongs of talent shows such as ours, and the effect they have had on the music industry. Many accomplished artists think their impact is all negative. In some ways I agree with them. It has altered the psyche of young people. A generation of kids has grown up thinking it’s easy to become a star. But many of the contestants have gone on to earn their living in the industry, and without the show it would never have happened. Many of them have become true stars. The real prize is to be able to work at something you love. The acid test is the same as it’s always been: those with true talent will last, and the instant-coffee people will not.
But as Louis, Gary, Nicole and I agreed in the bar, whether we are there or not, The X Factor will go on without us, giving hope and entertainment and allowing real talent to emerge. And the thing that we will take away with us is our friendship.
It was gone 5 a.m. by the time we left. We all had flights booked – Gary to LA, Nicole to Europe, Louis back to Ireland and me to Heathrow. I had a 7 a.m. flight to New York to catch, to join my husband and the band at their base for a few days as they played Toronto, Chicago and Indianapolis.
As for me, I have new responsibilities and new priorities.
Pearly girl, here’s my Christmas gift to you: Nana’s coming home to stay.
Epilogue
‘Fucking hell, Sharon, we’ve had twenty-seven houses in thirty fucking years! Please tell me we don’t have to move again…’
Ozzy is standing in the driveway of our new, rented house on North Crescent Drive, the one I spent so many happy times in with Gert and Sonny, and he’s staring open-mouthed at the number of packing boxes scattered around the place.
‘Stop fretting, Dadda.’ I pull him towards me and kiss his forehead. ‘Why don’t you go and make us a cup of tea?’
He shuffles off towards the kitchen and I stand on the steps at the front of the house, drinking in the beauty of the crescent-shaped garden in front of me. Bella, my Pomeranian, is in my arms, my living, breathing stress ball. Caressing her soft ears always soothes me, and I do so now as I contemplate what my husband has just said.
It’s true. We have moved a ridiculous number of times in my pursuit of the ‘perfect’ home, the one that’s going to be our ‘for ever’ house. But then I start picking fault. It’s too far away, it’s too close to the road, it’s too big, it’s too small. And then we’re off again, packing our life into boxes and hitting the road.
I realise now that the houses have had nothing to do with it; thinking that if the garden were just a tiny bit bigger, or the location just a little more convenient, then our marriage would be happy ever after. But of course, mine and Ozzy’s addictions, and the emotional peaks and troughs they bring, can’t be left behind. They’re in a box that always comes with us, resting in some dark recess of the new place until, once again, it’s opened and they cause trouble.
Rocky appears in the doorway, blinking against the piercing midday sunshine, and I know that Ozzy isn’t far behind. Rocky is Ozzy’s dog, as Bella is mine. They follow us everywhere with blind, unconditional devotion. If only humans could be that uncomplicated.
Ozzy reappears as predicted and hands me a cup of tea. We stand in silence together for a little while, enjoying this brief moment of peace. It’s Sunday and the house is quiet, just me, Ozzy and the dogs pottering around the place. Jack is away filming so, just before lunch, Lisa will bring Pearl over for a few hours. We’ll eat, and then Lisa will slip off to the spare room for some much-needed sleep while the devoted grandparents keep watch.
Ozzy is so besotted with Pearl that he can’t take his eyes off her. When she was here the other day, he scooped her up in his arms, her alabaster skin so pale against the dark spread of his tattoos, and went all Jane Austen on us, taking her for ‘a turn around the garden’.
‘Look, Pearl, this is Nana’s rose garden,’ he said, pulling off a fresh white petal and handing it to her. ‘And this is where we grow vegetables.’
Yes, you read that right. The once rabble-rousing Osbournes have an allotment.
Wherever Pearl is, Kelly is never far away. She adores her niece and plays the flamboyant, irreverent, slightly batty aunt to perfection. I just know that, despite the age difference, she will be a fantastic friend to Pearl when she grows up, and no doubt her own children will form a bond with their cousin too.
Later, I will make us all lunch – correction: order lunch from the Beverly Hills Hotel (some things will never change), and we’ll sit around the kitchen table and chat away, all focusing on darling Pearl and her hearty appetite, laughing as one of the dogs rushes in for a dropped titbit and spits out the slice of courgette in disgust.
Right now, the table is covered in the white plastic crates that are full of Ozzy’s oils and pencils. He sat there and drew for an hour this morning, the light streaming in through the window. He likes to lose himself in it, but it can be tricky for him to concentrate when he’s sitting in the hub of the house.
I take his hand and lead him up a set of stairs at the side of the garage. This is the only two-storey part of the house. We squeeze past at least twenty removal boxes with ‘Ozzy’s Books’ scribbled on the side, and walk into the large room above the garage. It is wood-panelled, with parquet flooring, a vast antique desk and three black leather sofas scattered around it, one placed right in front of a fifty-inch plasma TV screen.
This will be Ozzy’s man cave. It is the second room I have started work on, after Pearl’s nursery. Yes, I’m still bloody mothering him in so many ways, but I know that this room – Ozzy having his own space – will make him happy.
We all need a place to escape to in our lives, don’t we? In every house we’ve occupied, Ozzy has always had a bunker, as we call it. I will bring his paints up here, line the shelves with his treasured history books and music awards and hang his favourite photos and paintings on the walls. Already I have slung his two rubber bats over the chandelier to make him feel at home.
Just after Ozzy and I reconciled, something momentous happened in our marriage. It was the Daytime Emmy Awards, and The Talk was up for five awards, including best talk show. All my co-hosts were going with their husbands or partners, there to support the achievement of their loved ones. In the past, getting Ozzy to a high-profile event like this was like pulling fucking teeth. He would never want to come to the Brits; when we won an Emmy for The Osbournes he didn’t come; the Grammys, the National Television Awards… the list of functions Ozzy has shunned is endless. The only one he likes is the Pride of Britain Awards because he loves th
e stories of courage. But other than that, he would either cause an argument so he didn’t have to attend, or come along and, while being all sweetness and light to everyone else, would be muttering in my ear about me being ‘Mrs Fucking TV’. I understood it, because he hated all the bullshit that went with it, but at the same time it meant that I felt unsupported.
So when I asked him to escort me to the Daytime Emmys, I wasn’t holding out much hope. But he said yes, just like that, without fuss, recrimination or sarcasm. And he was immensely supportive to me there, affectionate too. It meant the world to me, and I honestly couldn’t believe it was happening. For the first time in our marriage, I felt that he had finally accepted that I have a life outside him, and that he no longer feels threatened by it.
He still moans when I go away to do X Factor, but now his tone is wistful rather than condemning. I simply point out to him that when I’m in LA, we have a lot more time together than people who hold down a nine-to-five job.
‘This room should all be finished by the end of next week,’ I say, studying the large photograph of him and Kelly that he loves so much, already hanging to one side of the TV. I know he’ll feel more settled then.
I leave him there, sorting through his books and knick-knacks, and walk back down the stairs, back past the allotment and into the main house. The large black-and-white marble hallway is wonderfully cool in the heat of the day.
The spare bedroom is my unofficial wardrobe, at the moment. Racks and racks of clothes line the walls, a testament to my shopping addiction. About seventy per cent of it is black, about twenty-five per cent cream or white, with just a small splash of colour here and there. My possessions used to be my crutch, my comfort blanket. But now I feel weighed down by them. The plan is to sort through it all and have a clothing sale, perhaps at Christmas, to raise money for my colon cancer programme. That way, I won’t feel so guilty about the money I have wasted on my fashion gluttony. I’m like one of those men who chase a woman, then lose interest as soon as they get her. Except my weakness doesn’t hurt anyone’s feelings, though Ozzy may beg to differ.
Unbreakable: My New Autobiography Page 19
