Andy Richardson: Macca? I'd rather chat to Ozzy, Frank and Noddy

I didn't. My bucket list featured these guys: Ozzy Osbourne, Frank Skinner and Noddy Holder. As far as I was concerned, my buddies could bag interviews with the Spice Girls, Take That or The Rolling Stones. Providing they didn't stray onto my Black Country turf, I was happy.

The first on my hit list was Noddy Holder. I'd come close to interviewing him before: no, that's a lie. I'd actually come close to hearing his voice, which is different. It was loaded in the lift of Walsall Art Gallery. I stepped into the lift and heard Noddy's dulcet tones saying: "Goo'in oop'," while ascending to a top floor café.

An interview with Noddy's pre-recorded lift voice would have been useless.

So, Noddy, how are you?

'Goo'in oop'.

The band doing okay?

'Goo'in oop'.

Where would you like to be in 25 years?

'Goo'in oop'.

Reading that back, I'm changing my mind. An interview with Noddy's lift voice would have been fine. It's a pity that ship has sailed.

Soon after my lift experience, Noddy appeared at some function at Walsall Town Hall. We got to talk and I understood every word. I didn't need a translator or an interpreter: I lapped up every word. He was charming and personable. He was humble and straight and he still felt passionate about Walsall. God love him. There were subsequent chats: he is a true gent.

Frank was next. We met in a hotel room somewhere in London. I accused him of being posh because he'd been brought up in Smethwick, which made him laugh. We talked about places we knew and about Albion's glory years. We'd seemingly stood on the same terraces at the same time back in the day, when Laurie, Cyril, Brendan and Big Ron were leading the charge.

He seemed to find me funny. Or, to be accurate, he laughed a lot. I guess those two things aren't the same. The bank laughs a lot when I phone to request an overdraft – but they don't seem to find me funny.

My quest to interview my very own Black Country-Brummie triptych was one man short: Ozzy. He was the hardest to track down. His glory years had earned him unimaginable riches and he'd moved out to LA.

I came close, interviewing his wife, Sharon. I dearly wanted to call her Shaz, I think she may have approved, but discretion got the better of me. I also interviewed his father-in-law, Don Arden, the notorious sixties rock manager. I'd come into possession of a copy of his unpublished autobiography. The self-styled Al Capone of Pop, who was rumoured to have dangled pop stars by their ankles from tall buildings, was unimpressed. He found out my home number. He called me. He told me it would be a good idea not to use the story. I agreed. Knee caps are hard to replace.

And then I got the call. Ozzy invited me to his house in Beaconsfield to talk about his fitness regime. Yes, the man famed for biting off the heads of bats and enlarging his liver with vast quantities of banned substances wanted to talk about protein shakes, ab crunches and his cardio programme.

I was ushered into his kitchen, where vast dogs slathered over my toursers. Ozzy lay on his back – the first and last time any interviewee has done so– and proceeded to crunch. One, ummhha. Two, ummhha. Three, ummhha. His intention was to reach a thousand. At 17, I asked him to stop. The experience was too surreal.