My friend drove from Leeds to Wrexham to watch his football team play. For most of his life, before a couple of likable Hollywood actors bought his club, very few people watched Wrexham play. You didn’t have to book a ticket in advance, and you certainly wouldn’t have struggled to park. Things have changed. And change must be embraced – especially if it’s resulted in your unfashionable team becoming an object of worldwide desire. So, via the world wide web, my friend booked himself a parking space at Wrexham’s B&Q, 2pm to 6pm, three quid. Up he parked, walked to the ground, and watched his team come back from 2-0 down to win 3-2. Nice work all round. The following morning, still warming in the afterglow of this famous victory, he received an email from the online parking app provider inviting him to, believe it or not, review his parking space. How on earth was one supposed to review a parking space?

It’s as if these bloodless purveyors of goods and services on the internet hunger for the affirmation they might once have enjoyed in face-to-face transactions. So soulless, yet so needy. I’ve been puzzling over a review request of my own, concerning a drip tray for my coffee machine. Its predecessor I had washed, put in the oven to dry, forgotten about, and melted out of shape. It looked like an objet d’art, a statement perhaps on the absurdity inherent in our veneration of kitchen appliances. I was more than happy to submit a short review of my own performance here: moronic. But how to review the new component? For one thing, in all good conscience I cannot provide an authoritative review until I’ve used it for a few years. Yes, it replicated the original and fitted nicely and performed the function for which it was designed but that was all I could say. It would be like reviewing a theatre performance based on the opening scene.

If there’s a coffee bean of a serious point here, it’s to do with the language. If AI or whatever is so clever then why can’t it get its words quite right? If, instead of asking for a review, it said, “Everything all right with what we sent you?” or “Get parked up OK?” that would have been fine.

The need for feedback is fervent. I don’t seem to be able to visit a branch of Caffè Nero – which I do most days – without generating a request for my review of the experience. I’ve yet to formally respond, but here is my review: yes, very nice, good coffee, but please stop trying to upsell me even further into three-quid-for-a-coffee territory by offering to make my drink with a special bean or whatever it is.

With some organisations, the how-was-your-experience offering seems to be the most efficient aspect of their whole operation. Every time I visit my GP, I get a text asking me how it all went and whether I’d recommend the place to a friend. Occasionally, it seems to be the only part that works properly at all. I recently took a relative for an 8am scan at a major London hospital. The instructions were promisingly specific: be there on time or you’ll miss it. Great, we’d be in and out. In the event, their computers were down, confusion reigned, and the scan only happened after many blank looks and a lot of hanging about. Reassuringly though, the part of the IT system that sends out feedback forms was in fine working order – we were being asked to rate our experience within minutes of leaving the premises.

As for my friend’s review of his parking space at B&Q Wrexham, he posted the following: “★★★★★ – a magnificent space! Bryn Law, Leeds.” Sounds fantastic. I might pay a visit myself.

 Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist