I’ve said to Sharon: ‘Don’t cremate me, whatever you do.’ I want to be put in the ground, in a nice garden somewhere, with a tree planted over my head. A crabapple tree, preferably, so the kids can make wine out of me and get pissed out of their heads. As for what they’ll put on my headstone, I ain’t under any illusions. If I close my eyes, I can already see it: Ozzy Osbourne, born 1948. Died, whenever. He bit the head off a bat.
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