Jimmy Page and Robbie Williams have a land dispute

Tuesday is often a dull and futile day. Nothing interesting ever happens on a Tuesday. It’s the day that suburban grandfather’s wake up early to pick up the newspaper and get a head of the local news. That’s most Tuesday’s, but not this Tuesday. If you were as keen on the news as that crinkly old grandpa was you’d have seen shocking and upsetting news that Robbie Williams and Jimmy Page, millionaires that live in huge houses, are locked in a land dispute with one another. Page, who lives in a turreted red brick tower house has just won a delay in his favour on Robbie Williams elaborate and expansive plans to build a huge underground swimming pool in his own property. This epic slobber-knocker took place at the blood-soaked gladiator arena of the Kensington Town Hall, where a planning committee meeting housed the guitarist himself and shadowy representatives of Robbie Williams. Together, they politely duked it out as best they could with the decision landing in Page’s favour. The unbearable oppression of Williams huge swimming pool is to be justly opposed.

You must be relieved. Imagine, if you can, the grotesque masquerade of wealth involved in such an empty and mindless dispute. The depths the psyche of wealthy men will plunge to in order to find indignation in the building plans of fellow millionaires out in the walled gardens of West London. The riches they sit upon must mask the stench of sweating working men as they are devoured in the rat cages of London offices, or the women who are trailed into the rotten armpits of commuters, all of them breathing heavily in the humid tube stations that crawl beneath the pavement of everyday life. The fantastic talent of the greatest musician ever, Robbie Williams and his despotic claims to underground land must not be tolerated by Jimmy Page, the rock and roll dragon whose oppression is an unbearable curse – too strong to bear in his mansion tower house.

Jimmy Page’s London mansion

The funniest part of this is the blindness. The sheer, stumbling invisibility of their own privilege is like a fantastic hum of light seen in a weeping desert. And while the internet will drag your ass through the mud because you misused a pronoun, the real battle of privilege is being won by aging millionaires, quietly squirreling away their wealth in pointless, nihilistic displays of obscenity. The dead reputations of our public digital lives lay slain at their feet and the real elder statesman of wealth remain hidden from the bitter battlegrounds of our digital war on each other. They are the cowardly English generals of 1917 that quaffed spirits and vodka as the men in drab uniforms were chewed to death by hot bullets in the cow fields of France.

That is to say nothing of the achievements of Williams and Page. Perhaps, in some warped timeline they have paid their dues. They’ve earned their right to be preposterously, stinking rich. As I mentioned earlier, Robbie Williams is a fantastic, legendary musician. A hero to the world over and possibly the greatest of all time for sure. No one would dare level criticism his way for his brilliant recitals of mediocre song. He is the singing poet we need, but surely do not deserve. Who can forget his many legendary lines like “let me entertain you”!? And entertain he did. For many years. Robbie, we salute you. Thank you for singing.

How do they even fit these houses inside London?

And how about Jimmy Page? That fantasy dragon who breathes like a lumbering beast from the imagination of a heroin user. His guitar licks were the vampiric twirls of blood slashing across the canvass of rock and roll, where he and his peers helped steal the talent of dead black musicians and bury their legacy for good. His tendrils extend from beneath an ornate funereal dress, like a cloak that unsuccessfully hides shameful secrets dangling between shaken legs. He is an ageless formation, a cloud of smoke that will never die; living on thanks to the stolen blood and dreams of the musicians he ripped off, killed, and buried in the desert like an uncomfortable secret we hope no one ever finds out about.

And as these titans of culture rage on, their electrical rain storm treats us all to a vision of wealth and obscene privilege that most of us in the dirt can only dream of. They remain oblivious. They aren’t really here and west London isn’t really a place. Not where they live. In the toilet stools of derelict, urine stained pubs, or the bricked up housing soon to be turned into gaudy condominiums, it’s easy to ignore something that’s always been in your sight. It’s a gigantic obelisk that pierces the clouds and settles somewhere above in heaven, while we, our faces in the mud and excrement of rent payments, gas bills, parking tickets, we poke holes in our Sunday best and call each other names. Sometimes, villainy is hidden in plain sight, and it’s that elephant in the room that causes us to hate each other so much.

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