Gran Turismo, sponsored by Arthur Daley – every car a goer

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Gran Turismo 5 (2010)

Oh, how I love racing games. I see them as one of gaming’s purest tests of skill; when done right, they’re a wonderful mixture of patience, focus and control. When done wrong, you get Crazy Frog Racer and Hello Kitty Karting. Whatever poison you choose, it’s all about taking risks, keeping concentration, and outfoxing challenging opponents to get across the line first. And if you can’t do any of that, just spend the most money – or if it’s Mario Kart, hang back at the start and wait for the top items, then goose your pal right at the finishing line. They are now no longer your pal.

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Big Brother is watching you smash into other cars

GT_Sport_logoGran Turismo Sport (2017)

Circumstances dictated that I never got to race my first car, which is a crying shame. Of course, as an antiquated VW Polo with less than a 1-litre engine, it wasn’t really going to inspire on the straights. Come to think of it, its propensity to leak power steering fluid meant it wasn’t a dream cruiser around corners either.

But when you’ve got that special, fire-forged connection between man and machine over several years, where you can communicate fully with your motor, it’s beautiful. You and your car can come together in beautiful harmony, through your hands for steering and gears, your footsies for the pedals, and your bum getting rattled about by the nasty vibrations. And then something deep down under the bonnet (sorry, ‘the hood’) fails, and the car turns around and breaks your heart.

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It’s your chance to play as Hans Moleman in a thrilling deathrace

racedrivin

Race Drivin’ (1992)

I do love witnessing bad driving and the road rage that often follows – it’s a perfect opportunity to see humans at their basest. Look, it’s always understandable. You’re operating heavy, life-threatening machinery. And then some white van man is cutting you up, brake-testing you, giving you rude hand gestures and shouting things in bottom feeder at you. Of course you’re going to give a bit of welly back. After all, you’ve convinced yourself that you are the world’s greatest driver. Or at the very least, you’re country miles better than the constantly-beeping, wrong-direction-indicating, roadsign-ignoring, non-mirror-checking rabble that you always seem to be surrounded by.

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