There can’t be many fates worse than living next door to Jimmy Page in the 1970s. Try to imagine it; there you’d be, trying to cook a nice duck à l’orange for your family in your avocado-colored kitchen, when your walls start shaking because an occult-obsessed heroin addict in Nazi garb has started playing his own music as loudly as possible to impress a coterie of disturbingly young women. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Being Jimmy Page’s neighbor in the 1970s sounds like the worst thing imaginable.
Except, that is, for being Jimmy Page’s neighbor in 2019.