My earliest memories are of living at 14 Lodge Road, in Aston, Birmingham. Aston was badly affected by the war, with “bomb building sites” on almost every corner of every street. I used to call them playgrounds, because that’s honestly what I thought they were.

It was a bleak, industrial town, and people could only aspire to spend their lives on a factory assembly line. My parents were no different — Dad worked nights at the GEC plant, and as he came home, Mum would start her shift at the Lucas car factory. Despite their hard work, money was always scarce. I’d be sent down the road to Mrs Murphy’s house every other night to borrow a bottle of milk or a cup of sugar.

The arguments in our house were almost always about money, or the lack of it, and my father would frequently storm out. I’d ask him where he was going and he’d reply: “Off my head.” “Can I come?” I’d plead, believing “Off my head” was the name of somewhere exciting. He’d invariably end up at the pub, and I’d sit outside, waiting for him to pass me out a drink. I could never understand how a few pints of beer could make such a difference: he’d been screaming at my mother, and half an hour later he’d be belting out Show Me the Way to Go Home. I’d think: “That beer must taste fantastic.” Later, when I had my first sip, I spat it out — it was poison. Although I didn’t like the taste, I found I enjoyed the sensation, so in the end I’d just down it to get drunk.

Being one of six children living in a two-bedroom terraced house was cosy, to say the least. I had three older sisters who would fight all the time, and my two younger brothers and I did all we could to stay out of it, but there weren’t many places to take yourself off to. We didn’t even have a bathroom at first, so every Friday night we’d queue up, oldest first, at the tin bath in front of the fire. As for a toilet, you can forget it. There was one outside, but there was no way any of us were going to go out in the middle of the night, so we’d all share a bucket at the end of the bed.

Eventually, Dad saved enough money to get a bathroom fitted, but it was a real bodge job — the damp course was dodgy and the tiles kept falling off. He spent ages making up a concoction that he hoped the tiles would stick to, and after numerous attempts he got it right. Many years later, when I went back to see the house, his tiles were still on the wall.

Lodge Road was right on top of the Aston Villa football ground, and my mate Pat and I would stand outside on match days and charge fans half a shilling to “mind” their cars. It was a good scam until we decided to expand the business by offering to wash the cars as well. How were we to know that you weren’t supposed to use a wire brush?

Every once in a while, we’d have family sing-songs, which were my introduction to music. My sisters would sing Dream, by the Everly Brothers. They were always much more musical than I was, but then I heard She Loves You, by the Beatles, and my world changed. I had a little blue transistor radio that I’d carry around with me, and I can honestly say the Beatles gave me a reason to live. That’s where the dream started. If it wasn’t for them, I’m sure I’d either be in jail or dead by now.

I’m glad for my humble beginnings. They made me who I am today, and I am able to appreciate my wealth. I’m not bothered by fast cars or flash houses, that’s Sharon’s department. She is obsessed with buying and renovating property — we’ve bought or rented 27 houses in 28 years. She’ll plead with me to go and look at something, and every time she’ll say: “Darling, this is the best house I’ve ever seen, and it doesn’t need a thing doing to it.” Then I move in and a cement mixer follows me. She is good at what she does, though, I’ll give her that — I just wish we could wait for the paint to dry before we move again.

Ozzy Osbourne’s autobiography, I Am Ozzy, is out now (Sphere £20) Interview by Sandie Jones

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