We’re all in agreement now that Drake’s Hotline Bling is nothing more than a passive aggressive misogynist anthem accompanied by some truly wonderful dancing, but what of this tribute wrapping paper? Can it possibly be guilty of the same crimes? Well, yes and no. Mostly yes.  The design initially seems to dodge the problematic aspects of the song – namely the fetishisation of the good, obedient girl – by focusing on Drake alone. He is distilled into a series of graphic representations. Two of them actually are Drake, rather unimaginatively: Drake doing the aforementioned dancing, Drake doing that phone-hand sign last sported by David Brent. Another is a plush non-threatening poloneck; another a non-threatening pair of Timberlands (depending how closely you associate them with turn of the millennium pre-teen girls).  But just because something’s baby pink doesn’t mean it’s nice, and no matter how much reassuring attire Drake associates himself with, the fact remains that this product celebrates a hymn to insidious post-lad patriarchy by eradicating women from the picture completely. And is it simply an unfortunate coincidence that wrapping paper is designed to cover and restrict the movements of an “object” JUST LIKE PATRIARCHY?  Yes, that is a coincidence. But it’s still a reason not to spend a fiver on stuffing for a bin bag. 1/10.  As far as I’m aware, there are two types of wooden clothes peg: the ones with the metal-springed hinge that nans hoard in small baskets (pictured, gripping crinkly peppers), and the ones without the springs that are found on the noses of pre-war slapstick cartoon characters. I’ve never encountered a springless one, for the same reason I’ve never owned a snuff box or experienced intimately invasive thermometry – ie because it’s not 1912 – so I’ll be reviewing the springy ones.  It all comes down to this: has the wooden peg been supplanted by the plastic one? Has penicillin replaced the leech, as it were? I will stand and have a physical fight with anyone who thinks it has. The cold grip of the plastic peg is too fierce. The wooden peg holds a jean or a jegging like Bill Oddie holds an Osprey fledgling. There’s care in it. Delicacy. Yes, moist weather can occasionally result in a woody smudge across a lapel, but it’s idiosyncrasies like these that coalesce into personalities. And you can love a personality.  Wooden pegs might actually represent the most perfect fusion of form, function and soul in all of humanity’s endeavours across its entire tapestry of cognitive evolution. Go on, think of a better one. Not counting a submarine. I have no choice, therefore, but to conclude that the wooden clothes peg is bloody brilliant. 10/10.  First off an apology, Marie. I tried getting to your office to review the man sitting next to you but I left my own office too late to get there before I had to go to the pub and also I don’t know you or where your office is. So, yeah, sorry about that. Instead I have used the pioneering, personalised VR technology I recently installed in my mind and I’m going to imagine this dude and review that imagining.  First thing to say about him is he’s got one of those faces. The sort of face that looks full of self pity, but also arrogant at the same time. Kind of a Lib Dem MP face, if you know what I mean. A bit Tim Farron. Anyway that face is saying, silently if you discount the endless repeated sniff: “I am not very well but here I am in the office being a bloody trooper, because this place couldn’t do without me. you know.” Yes it could mate, yes it could.  I also note that the eyebrows on this face are bent inwards like a Vulcan’s. This I presume is to rebuke anyone foolhardy enough to suggest: if you’ve got a cold pal, if you’re really genuinely feeling unwell and not putting it on cos you’re a self-regarding moaner, then you should be at home, in bed having a fevered dream about an ostrich egg.  So it’s not a good review for this guy. Not a good review at all. But I note one further thing about him. I note, that when you look closely, there’s a small trickle of blood coming from his left ear. Marie George, I do believe you’ve murdered your colleague with a mind ray. 2/10.  When Tim Berners-Lee roughed out his proposal for the world wide web, this is almost certainly the kind of thing he had in mind. Whether perched perkily on a pile of spring onions like Kanye West or plunged deep into some tasty broth like Mena Suvari, the internet has culminated – peaked – in this.  A shrewdly satirical take on the here-today, slurped-up and casually digested tomorrow nature of celebrity? Maybe. But most importantly, Donald Trump is involved, floundering desperately in some hot soup, hunting for a nori strip to grab on to and looking very much like a man who knows his destiny has escaped him. Now that we’ve seen him like this, Trump can never be president. In fact, if this image could be disseminated widely enough, he might even suffer a crisis of confidence, lose his businesses and have to sell his stupid golf courses to a farmer. Hooray for Celebrities in Ramen. Saving the world one Rai Rai Ken at a time. 9/10.  I believe it was Samuel Johnson who said that “a man who is tired of Ainsley Harriott’s face is tired of post-ironic internet meme-ry”. Between endearingly naff calypso tracks and Kurt Cobainsley, Harriott’s cheeky and slightly demonic grin basically powers the internet. Whether this is a good thing is up for debate: myself, I’m pretty bored of this strain of wacky reflexivity. There’s only so many times you can slyly chuckle at a terminally unhip chef-cum-lifestyle-show-host before you start questioning the point of, well, everything, really.  So anyway, someone’s made a website where you can buy T-shirts with Ainsley’s face irreverently photoshopped onto other bits of pop culture: Zelda, Flappy Bird, the old Windows desktop image. It’s pretty dull, largely, with one massive exception: there’s this T-shirt, Let Us See Your Lettuce, that features Harriott’s face mirrored multiple times as if reflected through a kaleidoscope. His garish shirt has been chopped and layered to resemble some strange alien landscape. A sprig of lettuce peeks out coquettishly. It’s trippy as heck, like Goya multiplied by the Chapman Brothers with a bit of Tim and Eric thrown in for good measure.  I’ve stared at it for 23 minutes now, and it looks like some hellish eternity, with Harriott cast as a multiple-headed intergalactic god. No, bigger than a god – a universe to himself. There’s only one rating I can give it: infinity out of 10.
Every Friday, we apply critical attention to things that don’t normally get it. This is an important function that might just hold civilisation together. Or not. We’ll review your suggestions, if you drop them in the comments or tweet @guideguardian