The legendary Ozzy Osbourne has been laid to rest at his mansion in Buckinghamshire, England, following an emotional private funeral. The ceremony took place at his family home near Gerrards Cross, fulfilling his wish to be buried beside a beautiful lake on his vast 101-hectare estate. As well as ozzy fucking osbourne in flowers beside the pond Among the attendees were some of his closest friends, including Zakk Wylde, Marilyn Manson, Corey Taylor, and Rob Zombie.

The legendary Ozzy Osbourne has been laid to rest at his mansion in Buckinghamshire, England, following an emotional private funeral.

The ceremony took place at his family home near Gerrards Cross, fulfilling his wish to be buried beside a beautiful lake on his vast 101-hectare estate. As well as ozzy fucking osbourne in flowers beside the pond

Among the attendees were some of his closest friends, including Zakk Wylde, Marilyn Manson, Corey Taylor, and Rob Zombie.

“The Prince Sleeps Beside the Lake” – Ozzy Osbourne’s Final Wish Comes True

The ceremony took place at his family home near Gerrards Cross, fulfilling a promise made long ago. No arenas. No public spectacle. Just quiet, green English countryside and a still, moon-shaped lake reflecting the soft August sky. It was exactly what he wanted.

Ozzy fucking Osbourne — heavy metal’s dark prince, the bat-biting madman, the man who turned chaos into an art form — was finally at peace. And somehow, it made sense that even his farewell would be as theatrical as it was personal. In the middle of the wildflowers near the water’s edge, a sculpture spelled out his name in bold, living blossoms: OZZY FUCKING OSBOURNE.

No censors. No edits. Just Ozzy.

The phrase, chosen by Sharon and their children, wasn’t meant to be crude. It was how fans shouted his name in the throes of a concert, how they tattooed it on their bodies, how he was introduced on stage more times than anyone could count. It was his battle cry, his brand, his legacy — raw, wild, and utterly unforgettable.

Guests were invited quietly, not by press release but by phone call. A simple message: “Come say goodbye. He’s home.”

Elton John came in a simple black suit, his glasses misty with grief. Paul McCartney held hands with Sharon at one point, whispering stories of the early days, of how Ozzy once called The Beatles “the reason I ever opened my mouth.” Jimmy Page stood silently near the back, hands folded, eyes closed, a private prayer playing out in his mind.

There was no pulpit. No priest. Just Kelly, Jack, Aimee, and Sharon at the front, and behind them, the pond — calm, glassy, surrounded by willow trees. A soft instrumental version of “Mama, I’m Coming Home” played from hidden speakers nestled in the trees. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. The lyrics hovered in the air, more felt than heard.

Jack stepped forward first, his voice tight but strong.
“My dad wanted to be remembered not as perfect, not as a saint, but as honest. He said, ‘If you cry, don’t do it because I’m gone. Do it because I made you laugh your ass off at least once.’”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, muffled by tears. Even in death, Ozzy knew how to get a chuckle.

Kelly followed, her speech more emotional, more raw.
“He was never ashamed of who he was. He was never afraid to love loudly, mess up, apologize, and try again. He called me every night — every single night — until he couldn’t speak anymore. And when I asked him how he wanted to be remembered, he said: ‘Like a fucking firework. Bright, messy, loud, and beautiful.’”

The ceremony was short. Ozzy had always hated long goodbyes.

Instead of a religious rite, Sharon read a passage from Lord of the Rings, one of Ozzy’s favorite stories:
“‘I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.’”

Then, as the casket — black with silver bat-winged handles — was lowered into the ground beside the lake, a single dove was released. It circled once, twice, then vanished into the trees.

No one clapped. No one wailed. The silence spoke.

And then… a single guitar string was struck.

From the edge of the gathering, Tony Iommi stepped forward with a Gibson SG slung low. No amplifier. No effects. Just him, and the soul of Sabbath. The moment he played the opening riff to “Changes,” many couldn’t hold back. Tears flowed. Heads bowed. Sharon leaned into Paul McCartney’s shoulder.

“I’m going through changes…”

It wasn’t a performance. It was a prayer.

Afterwards, guests wandered the estate. Some placed flowers around the pond. Others just stood in quiet groups, sipping tea or Scotch. Someone lit a joint in the garden, and no one complained. Ozzy would’ve approved.

There were murals on the stones, hand-painted by fans and family over the years. One read “Madman, Musician, Mensch.” Another: “Still barking at the moon.”

As the sun dipped behind the trees, the lake caught fire with the last gold of the day. Sharon stayed long after most guests had gone. Alone now, she sat beside the grave, watching the wind stir the petals of the giant floral lettering.

She whispered, “You did it, baby. You made the whole world scream, and you still came home.”

And in that moment, the trees creaked gently, the water lapped the edge of the stones, and somewhere — whether in memory or magic — a laugh echoed faintly, unmistakably Ozzy’s.

Postscript:

Later that evening, fans from all over the world began making pilgrimages to Gerrards Cross. Not to take selfies, but to leave guitar picks, notes, and vinyl copies of Blizzard of Ozz. Security kept things peaceful, but no one stopped the grieving. Ozzy had given his life to the stage, and in return, the world gave him eternity.

Under a carved stone marked simply “John Michael Osbourne – 1948–2025” lies not just a man, but a movement.

The prince of darkness didn’t just rest in peace.

He went out in flowers, guitars, and the loudest fucking silence the world has ever heard.

Would you like a follow-up about the fan tributes or how Sharon carries on his legacy?