BBC Confirms Air Date for Emotional Ozzy Osbourne Documentary “Coming Home”

The BBC has announced the air date for a deeply moving documentary that will give fans one final, intimate look at the life of one of rock’s greatest icons. Ozzy Osbourne: Coming Home, a one-hour film produced by Expectation for BBC One and iPlayer, will air on Sunday, August 18 at 9pm.

A Final Chapter in the Prince of Darkness’s Story

Filmed over the course of three years, the documentary captures the extraordinary ups and downs of Ozzy’s later years as he and his wife Sharon pursued their dream of moving back to the UK. What began as a planned reality series, Home to Roost, evolved into an emotional documentary after Ozzy’s health began to deteriorate. The result is a raw, inspirational portrait of resilience, love, and legacy.

The film offers unprecedented access to the entire Osbourne family — Sharon, Jack, and Kelly — as they navigate life’s most difficult challenges together. It promises laughter, reflection, heartbreak, and the unshakable family bond that made the Osbournes one of the most recognizable families in music and television.

Ozzy’s Final Bow

Fans will see Ozzy’s determination to fight against his declining health in an attempt to perform again. That determination paid off when he took to the stage at Villa Park, giving what would be his final performance — a powerful and emotional moment that left fans in awe just weeks before his passing.

Tragically, Ozzy Osbourne — Black Sabbath’s legendary frontman, six-time father, and global icon — passed away earlier this year. His death certificate listed the cause as an acute myocardial infarction and out-of-hospital cardiac arrest. But perhaps most poignantly, the certificate described his occupation as: “songwriter, performer and rock legend.”

A Family’s Farewell, A Fan’s Tribute

Clare Sillery, BBC Head of Commissioning, Documentaries, reflected on the importance of the film: “We are honoured to have had the opportunity to film with Ozzy and his family. The film captures an intimate glimpse into their journey as they prepare to return to the UK. It features family moments, humour, reflection, and shows the enduring spirit that made Ozzy a global icon. We hope it brings comfort and joy to Ozzy’s fans and viewers as they remember and celebrate his extraordinary life.”

For longtime fans, the documentary will feel like both a farewell and a celebration. It promises to be a reminder not only of Ozzy’s wild, defiant career — from his days with Black Sabbath to his unforgettable solo success — but also of his humanity, humour, and deep love for his family.

A Legacy That Lives On

Since their first appearance on television in The Osbournes back in 2002, Ozzy and his family have shared their lives with the world, redefining what it meant to be a rock star offstage. Coming Home closes that circle, giving fans one final chance to walk with the Osbournes through joy, sorrow, and the enduring power of love.

For those who admired him for decades, this documentary isn’t just television — it’s a chance to say goodbye to a man who gave his life to music, rebellion, and unforgettable performances. Ozzy Osbourne may be gone, but his spirit, his songs, and his legacy will continue to echo forever.

Watch Ozzy’s Emotional Final Concert

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“AFTER 50 YEARS IN HOLLYWOOD, NOTHING PREPARED US FOR THIS.” — GOLDIE HAWN. The screening room was small. The lights dimmed. The film — Song Sung Blue — wasn’t even finished yet. Rough cuts. Missing scenes. No polish. Goldie sat next to Kurt. Just another early viewing. They’d done this hundreds of times. Then Kate Hudson appeared on screen. And something cracked. Goldie says it didn’t feel like watching her daughter act anymore. It felt like watching something rise to the surface — something private, something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to see. Without a word, she reached for Kurt’s hand. He was already reaching for hers. They cried. Not the kind of crying you do at premieres. The kind you haven’t done in decades. The kind that catches you sideways and leaves nowhere to hide. It wasn’t pride. Goldie keeps coming back to that word. It was recognition. Like meeting your child again, as a stranger, and realizing you didn’t know how deep she actually went. Song Sung Blue was supposed to be a film about music, about a husband-and-wife duo chasing a dream. But somewhere in those unfinished frames, it became something else for the people who raised Kate. No score yet. No final color. And somehow that made it hurt more — because there was nothing between them and what Kate was doing on that screen. Goldie hasn’t said which scene broke her. Kurt hasn’t either. But the people in that room say the silence afterward lasted a long, long time.

HE WAS A SHORT, IRISH-ROMANIAN KID FROM CHAGRIN FALLS, OHIO, WHOSE FATHER GROOMED POLO PONIES FOR A RICH MAN AND WHOSE MOTHER CLEANED OTHER PEOPLE’S HOUSES TO PUT FOOD ON THE TABLE. HE WAS DYSLEXIC IN AN ERA THAT HAD NO NAME FOR IT, AND THE OTHER KIDS LAUGHED AT HIM EVERY TIME THE TEACHER MADE HIM READ ALOUD. HE WANTED TO BE A JOCKEY. THE JOCKEYS TOLD HIM HE WAS TOO TALL. AND THIRTY YEARS LATER, HE WOULD STAND ON A SOUNDSTAGE IN HOLLYWOOD AND MAKE HARVEY KORMAN LAUGH SO HARD THE MAN WET HIS PANTS ON LIVE TELEVISION. He wasn’t supposed to make it. He was Thomas Daniel Conway, born in 1933 in Willoughby, Ohio, in the deepest part of the Great Depression. His father Dan was an Irish immigrant who groomed horses on a rich business owner’s estate. His mother Sophia worked as a cleaning woman and seamstress. The boy was baptized Toma — the Romanian version of Thomas — at a Romanian Orthodox church where, as a baby, he nearly crawled out the door before the priest could finish. Tim grew up in a house with beer stains on the kitchen ceiling. His father brewed his own beer and put in too much yeast, so the bottles exploded in the night and shot the caps straight up into the plaster. The Conways had no money for storebought beer and no money for a new ceiling either. Then came school. “In high school, and even in grade school, people couldn’t wait for me to get called on to read aloud because I would put words into sentences that were never there. They thought I was being funny, I guess, so they would laugh at me. And I just continued that through life.” He had dyslexia. Nobody knew what it was. So he turned what was supposed to humiliate him into a routine. He made the other kids laugh on purpose now, before they could laugh at him. By 18, he wanted to be a jockey like the men his father worked for. He was too tall. By 22, he was drafted into the U.S. Army. By 25, he was back in Cleveland writing skits between movie reruns at a local TV station, working with a wisecracking partner named Ernie Anderson — whose son Paul Thomas Anderson would one day direct Boogie Nights and There Will Be Blood. Then came 1961. A visiting comedienne named Rose Marie watched a tape of his sketches and refused to leave Cleveland until somebody put him on a plane to New York. By 1962, he was Ensign Parker on McHale’s Navy. By 1967, he was a recurring guest on a new variety show hosted by a redhead named Carol Burnett. He called his mother in Ohio to tell her. She told him: “Ken Shutts down at the hardware store is taking on new help. You should apply. That crap on TV isn’t going to last.” That crap lasted eleven years. He won six Emmys. He made Harvey Korman break character on national television so many times the bloopers became more famous than the sketches themselves. He told audiences across America: “They told me I was finished. I’m just getting started.” Then came his final years. Normal pressure hydrocephalus — water on the brain — slowly took the timing, then the words, then the man. His daughter Kelly and his second wife Charlene fought a public legal battle over his medical care while he lay unable to speak. He died on May 14, 2019, at 85. Some men chase the spotlight until it kills them. The ones who matter learn to make a roomful of strangers cry from laughing — even when they themselves can barely read the script. What Carol Burnett wrote on her Instagram the day he died — calling him “one in a million” — tells you everything about who he really was.