Since man first put daguerrotype to candlelit window, we have striven tirelessly to define what we are. Rockstar’s latest magnum opus, Grand Theft Auto V (I’m reliably informed that “Grand Theft Auto” is an American term meaning to have one’s motor conveyance removed without permission) is a seething cornucopia of set pieces loosely thrown together like the lapels of a Peter Storm Wax Jacket on a photoshoot for Harpers and Queen.
Three main characters in the game (I’m reliably informed that a ‘game’ is some sort of pastime that people enjoy for social distraction, or ‘fun’ as it appears to be known) are controlled by the player, they stand tall like imperfect Prometheans, begging us to fall at their feet in worship when their inherent flaws tell us that we should ideally run screaming into the trees instead.
The game begins as Maxwell Dingblat (one of the three main protagonists, with all the charm and sexual appeal of a Victorian Fairground Sideshow Prizefighter) is gently having his face smashed in by a youth (I’m reliably informed that a youth is someone of non-advanced years who usually cannot leave the house without some sort of hooded garment) wielding a baseball bat (no one bothered to reliably inform me what Baseball is nor why one would need a racquet to enjoy it).
In the process of reviewing this game, I quickly lost interest, preferring to slowly unzip my trousers while Debussy’s “Clair De Lune” (The Polish Symphony Orchestra version, conducted by Sir Piotr Englovski, naturally) tinkled gently in the background, marvelling at myself in the full length Tiffany mirror while the game mindlessly flashed (with volume muted, naturally) behind me. Screaming abuse at myself in the mirror for precisely 35 minutes, while flaying myself with a branch of fresh tarragon leaves, I could clearly demarcate the needs of the flesh and the needs of the stygian void of gamers who would entertain themselves with this sewer-dribble spun lazily onto a DVD disk like the emissions of a cancer-raddled myopic Khazakstanian.
Utterly spent, pen still in hand, I stumbled over to the desk with my pressed velour trousers around my ankles to try and impart to you why you should leave this game on the shelf, and entertain yourself with some Inuit Porn instead.
(Our thanks to Edge Magazine for allowing us to travel into the future to reproduce their review without their permission)