Out here on the internet, there are many reviews. Reviews of new songs, new films, new trailers, new teaser trailers, new news about teasers for teaser trailers. But despite the ubiquity many things fall through the net. Who’s out there reviewing the latest crockery, or pavements, or... er, opera? (editor’s note: people are reviewing opera). Review Anything believes that everything deserves quantifying and so each week our crack team of Guardian Guide critics slap a rating on the unrated, no matter what it is. It’s important work we’re doing, believe that.

Now, down to the business at hand.

Aviation

Reviewing a song made to avoid thinking about death

All you’re basically doing on an aeroplane is keeping your brain from dwelling on the reality of what’s actually going on. Everything is an attempt to avoid that moment of clarity – the realisation that you’re zipping through the sky in a giant airtight bullet full of sharp moving parts that’s waaaay too heavy to have any business being up there. If you crash, all the the brace position does is ensure the top of your head bears the brunt of impact as opposed to your face. But, alas, either way, you go from alive to the width of a pensioner’s doily quicker than you can say “Bernoulli’s principle”.

You can’t smoke, no-one actually has sex in the bogs because cramp and someone else’s diahorrea aren’t arousing, so all you can do to avoid thinking about death is watch a rubbish film about penguins, drink eleven bijou bottles of gin, or eat tabs of diazepam until the ordeal’s over. But Four Tet, AKA electro smartypants Kieran Hebden, gets through flights by actually DOING things. Productive things. It’s a revolutionary idea. He did this on a plane, for instance:

He would have looked like quite the oddball singing “BACK BACK BACK BACK BACK TO THE START” into his Mac with a Merlot in one hand and an unreasonably dense bread roll in the other, so I’m assuming he had the vocal samples recorded prior to boarding. Either way, the track’s a mellow belter, or a melter, or a bellow: jittery, propulsive percussion slide-steps over fluttery layered vocal stabs and catacombic bass. Plus it’s got a proper chorus, like proper songs wot aren’t made on a plane do. It does go on a bit – nothing needs to last 7-and-a-half minutes, Tet, NOTHING – but it’s also a lesson to us all in both the creative potential of distraction and the distractive potential of creation.

In the event of a crash, would you actually see the front of the plane folding up towards you at 600 miles-per-hour like a tsunami of inevitability, or would everything just go black? Never mind – the lesson here is just draw a picture of a pigeon or write a foul limerick or something. You’ll be fine and it will probably be great. 8/10

LH

Pomology

Reviewing the Tesco easy peeler small orange

It’s the easy peeler season right now. The easy peeler tree has blossomed and its fruit has been collected by the happy easy peel farmers of South Africa. They stuff about ten into a bag of plastic netting and then send them to Tesco before retiring home to enjoy the no doubt substantial fruits of their labour. I understand that reads as if they get paid in easy peelers. And given what we know about agribusiness they might well be! Amirite?!?

Anyway, to the orange. Now, I’m a satsuma man, not ashamed to say it. It’s the Empress of Small Oranges. But the easy peeler is becoming increasingly ubiquitous, perhaps because the name actually reflects a consistent quality of the orange; namely that it is easily peeled. An important quality into today’s hectic world!

Anyway, yes, back to the orange. The flesh is firm, the individual capules bursting with juice. That juice, in turn, is thick and sweet. There is neither bitterness or wateriness. If you assembled an orange-curious focus group and asked them to name the qualities they valued most in a small orange, they would surely list these qualities. And that, my friend, is why I can never get behind an easy peeler. Give me the raw unpredictability of the natural world! Give me unexpected tartness! Give me pith! 5/10

PM

The Arts

Reviewing a picture of a cat as Patrick Bateman

Cats, cats, cats, cats, cats, cats, cats. It is no secret that whole swathes of the internet have been colonised by cats, in various states of recumbency, a paw slightly outstretched here, something that could be deliberately mistaken for a derisive frown there. It’s as if we’ve finally lost interest in people, and decided to shift focus to the endless mysteries of felinity instead.

This picture is one of the things that will happen when human beings give up on themselves. Here, a cat is reimagined a fictional yuppie serial killer Patrick Bateman, via something I’m unwilling to classify as an actual pun, so I’ll call very weak wordplay instead.

It’s not the greatest drawing I’ve ever seen, but then again the greatest drawing has probably already been drawn, and at least Victoria O’Callaghan has drawn something that nobody (I’d hope) has ever drawn before. We live in an era when literary invention has been pretty much exhausted, every chord progression has been used thousands of times, and culture, everybody agrees, has completely stalled. Yet there is a light at the end of the tunnel. From Run The Jewels’ Meow The Jewels album (a cat-based remix of the duo’s second record), to that weird Grumpy Cat film and now this drawing, a new era of creativity seems to be miraculously dawning: could the internet’s cat obsession be the deus ex machina in the seemingly doomed development of art?

Something to think about, anyway. 7/10

RA

Socialism

Reviewing the London Tube Strike

For all the hype surrounding the tube strike of August 6, it felt like a rather underwhelming affair from my vantage point on the top deck of the 73 bus. Sure, it was busy. But that often tends to be the case with London buses at 9am. Yes, there was traffic and irritation and frowning but that’s hardly a bolt from the blue either. The only actual, raised-voice fractiousness I saw was a clash between two cyclists whose keen self-righteousness must have been punctured by their temporarily swollen numbers.

As a piece of industrial action it may have been justified or even necessary. As an attempted Bob Crow homage, it was worryingly apologetic in its lack of provocatively Mail-bothering rhetorical flourish. And as a staged spectacle it disappointed, feeling flat, predictable and workmanlike. It was London on a weekday morning only marginally shitter than usual. I’d held out hopes for the second act in which I would attempt to journey home from central London during rush hour. But, with plentiful buses and dispersed traffic, even this felt lacking in impact.

Very much the Be Here Now or Phantom Menace of disruptive industrial actions. 4/10

PH

Cynology

Reviewing a dog contemplating the nature of existence

I don’t know what this dog is. It’s a stupid dog, one of those makes that looks like the mops you get from Lakeland that slots on the end of a “special 4ft extension duster” to clean the “unreachable” corners of your bedsit. Whoever took this photo couldn’t even pick a better Instagram filter than “grandma’s energy saving lightbulb”. No wonder this stupid dog is looking out of the window, watching squirrels run freely up and down trees and feral cats piss on newly potted pansies. No wonder its hair is turning grey.

But wait, hang about, let’s have a McVities Caramel and relax for just a minute: look how perfectly poised that dog is, thinking, as it probably is, how it’d like to dive inside the postman’s bag and gob all over the envelopes. Look at its zen-like stillness as the sun beats down on its furry face (maybe it doesn’t have a face). Look at how cuddly that mop is. It’s hypnotic. This dog is an amazing dog. Whenever my stress levels decide that they want to “pop off” or my anxiety gauge goes “off the scale”, I shall look at this picture of a dog staring out of a window and wish it was giving me the hug I so clearly need. 11/10

KH

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