Ozzy Osbourne wasn’t just a rock star—He was a lifeline for outsiders like me

Dubai: They say never meet your heroes. I say, unless your hero was Ozzy Osbourne, because now, heartbreakingly, we never will again.

There’s no delicate way to put this: I loved Ozzy for the exact reasons some people shook their heads at him. The man bit the head off a bat on stage, who else could turn a public health hazard into a rock legend moment? That level of chaotic brilliance spoke to me. Here was someone who wore his weird on his sleeve (or on his tongue), and did it unapologetically. I ate it up, well, not the bat, but the attitude? That, I devoured.

As someone who still reads Rolling Stone in print (yes, they still print it, thank you very much), I grew up loving stories about Ozzy, the chaos, the kohl, the glorious mayhem of it all. I was part of the tribe that dressed in black not because it was slimming, but because Ozzy made it cool. Deathly eyeliner, statement rings, a wardrobe that looked like it was curated by a haunted castle, I did it all!

In my mind, I wasn’t just a fan, I was a style icon. My family disagreed, but they also didn’t get the beauty of a Black Sabbath riff or a strategically placed crucifix.

But beyond the madness was the music. Ozzy's voice didn’t just cut through the noise, it was the noise, in the best possible way. Raw, eerie, powerful. The first time I heard Paranoid, I felt seen. “People think I’m insane because I am frowning all the time” felt like a line written just for me and my signature scowl. It wasn’t a phase, it was a lifestyle. And Ozzy understood that.

Then there was Mama I’m Coming Home, a song that proved he wasn’t just the Prince of Darkness but also the poet of vulnerability. He made heavy metal feel soft without ever losing its edge. Only Ozzy could make you cry and headbang in the same track.

And how could I forget Dreamer? That aching, hopeful ballad that felt like Ozzy’s soul laid bare. “I’m just a dreamer, I dream my life away…”, a line that hits harder now. For someone known for madness and mayhem, he also dreamed of peace, of a better world. It was tender, introspective, and somehow still unmistakably him. A reminder that even rock’s wildest spirit had a heart that hoped.

And No More Tears? Don’t get me started. That’s the one I can actually sing. (Badly, but with heart.) That haunting intro, the gritty buildup, the wail of his voice, it’s like a thunderstorm in song form. It lives in every playlist I’ve ever made for long metro rides or car drives, bad days, or late-night soul-cleanses. It’s catharsis. It’s pure, spine-tingling Ozzy.

And of course, Crazy Train, the anthem of glorious insanity. That unmistakable riff, that wild energy, and that yell at the start? It’s the sound of rebellion on wheels. I’ve shouted along to it in cars, in kitchens, in my head during meetings that went on too long. It’s a lifetime of madness, electrified.

I could go on and on. Because that’s what Ozzy gave us, decades of sound, of spectacle, of feeling. A legacy that doesn’t stop at the speakers, but lives in us, eyeliner and all.

I regret never seeing him live. I always thought I would. That one day, somehow, I’d catch the farewell tour, No More Tours II, and scream my heart out with a crowd of equally eyelinered misfits. But that chance is gone. And it stings.

So here’s to Ozzy - madman, legend, bat-slayer, voice of a generation. You were never just a rock star. You were a mood, a movement, a beautifully loud reminder that being different is powerful.

And yes, I’ll still be wearing black. Some habits, like Ozzy love, never die.