Keeping Up With The Osbournes

Date: 12/20/2025

I seem to have been booted out of my own dream. Sidelined. Pushed to the back of the audience… into nonexistence. I’m still here, technically, but only as a draft. A ghost with opinions no one’s asked for. A fly on the wall of my own subconscious, buzzing faintly, ignored. Kelly Osbourne’s forehead has taken centre stage. Or rather — her lack of one. She’s had a forehead reduction. Everyone is in mourning. You’d think one of the royals has popped their clogs, the way the world is reacting. Like this two-and-a-half inches of skin was a legendary figure that’s left a gaping hole in civilisation. A fallen monument. A national tragedy. Flags at half-mast. Somber piano music. “Get a grip,” I huff, though no one hears me. She’s had an unnecessary cosmetic procedure, she hasn’t cured anything, hasn’t saved any lives, hasn’t pulled a child from a burning building with that forehead. It was just… there. Existing. Doing its job. Her forehead was fine before. If not, better. But that’s just my opinion. And what does that matter? I’m barely even air. She looks… different now. It’s startling how a few inches can rearrange an entire identity. She doesn’t look like Kelly Osbourne anymore. She looks like a budget version. A tribute act. A farce with good lighting. Still — she loves it. And apparently that’s all that matters. The studio audience erupts. Clapping. Wolf whistles. Kelly struts onto the stage, glowing, basking in the applause like she’s just survived chemotherapy rather than a surgeon with a ruler. Before-and-afters flash up on a massive screen behind her, flickering like corrupted memories. One caption reads morbidly; R.I.P. (1984–2025) I stifle a snort. And then — of course — she enters. The queen of hidden foreheads herself. The boss bitch of bangs. Claudia Winkleman. Naturally she’s here. She gets everywhere. Lurking. Pouncing. Staying relevant by sheer fringe-based force of will. She reigns over prime-time television with a blow-dry and the quiet certainty that she’ll always be invited back. She’s interviewing friends and family members who are still grieving Kelly’s… few inches of skin. “I just miss that forehead so much,” one of them sobs, collapsing theatrically as Claudia presses a box of Kleenex into her hands, nodding with grave empathy. Sharon Osbourne is next. She talks about how Kelly hated her old forehead. How she hid it with hats. With tragic fringes — she glances pointedly at Claudia — or once even wore a small dog on her head for an entire week. Anything to smother the insecurity. Thankfully, the dog takes a shit in the middle of the stage and spares us the rest of the segment. But the next one stinks. An old family friend takes us on a guided tour down Forehead Lane. Childhood anecdotes. Baby photos. Laugh tracks. Nostalgia weaponised. I’ll save you the excitement. It’s boring. By now I’ve mentally checked out, ready to turn my back on this mad, mirror-sniffing world. If this is what existence has become — measuring worth in inches of skin — then I’d rather be thin air. The things people do to stay remotely relevant is beyond belief. If I had vocal cords, I would scream. And just as that thought settles, heavy and final, the scene switches channels. I’m on the roof of a colossal skyscraper, hundreds of feet above a roaring city that looks like it's been sharpened, brightened, and approved by producers. Jack Osbourne is here. Because why wouldn’t he be? Recently divorced. Soul-searching. Naturally, this has been turned into a reality show. Of course it has. Nothing heals like a camera crew. A line of potential future Osbournes strut out like they’ve mistaken exposure for opportunity. One has gone the extra mile. She’s wearing a silk dressing gown that flaps violently in the wind, revealing a see-through bra. Defiant. Strategic. “Your nipple is showing!” Claudia gasps, sprinting over to save the day — or ruin it. She wraps the gown tightly around the girl. “You’ll freeze to death, darling.” Then the girl yanks it open again. Freeing the nipple. “Yes. That’s the whole point… darling,” she snaps, her voice clipped and sharp as glass. Claudia rolls her eyes. I think. It’s hard to tell. I can’t see her damn eyes beneath that immovable slab of fringe. It’s obvious who Jack chooses. The nipple has already decided. Nipple Girl smiles, and for a second, something unexpected hits me. She looks young. Exposed. Vulnerable. Beneath the bravado, there’s almost a Lady Diana quality to her — something hunted. Something hopeful. Hard to explain. Especially when her nipple is glaring me right in the eye. “So you’re the lucky nipple — I mean lady,” Claudia gushes. “You’ll be flying to Mexico tomorrow for a trial honeymoon.” Jack is beaming. Nipple Girl looks like she’s just realised that she should've kept that nipple underwraps, after all. “Now off you trot. Have a good life,” Claudia says, shoving them out of frame so she can reclaim it. “And that, folks, is all we have time for,” she purrs into the mic. “I’m starting to feel a bit nippy, aren’t you?” The lights dim. Applause roars. The world keeps spinning. And I finally understand. It isn’t Kelly’s forehead that’s gone missing. It isn’t the nipple, or the dignity, or the privacy. It’s me. I’ve faded out quietly, while everyone else claps.