“All I want is a nice skirt, some patterned leggings, or even just a tee”
Shunning supercars for shopping trips in Fo rza Horizon 4.
They’re a generous lot, my employers in Forza Horizon 4. Bonuses I have been given over my time in the game include buckets of praise every time I make other road users fear for their lives, an actual house in exchange for a minor favor, and pretty much an entire garage full of cars. Actually, scratch that: It’s more like a car dealership. I’ve got everything from retro bangers that Simon from The Inbetweeners would turn his nose up at, through to an expensive supercar that spits fire from its exhaust in a fashion that makes me suspect it’ll fail its next MOT. Still, I’m not satisfied. The reason? My outfit. While it was easy to make my Drivatar look at least vaguely like the real me (I’ve got a very generic hairstyle, I admit) and to get my disconcertingly chirpy satnav/AI chum to call me by my actual name, getting away from the default outfit has been more hassle than getting off the M25 in rush hour. Jeans and a promo tee? That just ain’t my style. First, if you’re making me use my chest as a walking billboard for your racing festival, you’d better be paying me for the privilege. Second, dresses, skirts, and leggings are where it’s at: scientific research (carried out by me) has demonstrated that elasticated waistbands allow for at least 57% greater consumption of chicken nuggets by volume. In short, this kit has got to go.
threads not treads
As a result, I become borderline obsessed with the game’s Wheelspin mechanic, which grants you a turn on the wheel of fortune after certain achievements. Prizes include hefty sums of credits, new emotes, horns for your cars, actual vehicles and new threads. I rack up spins thick and fast, because (brag alert!) I’m not terrible at this game, as the AI likes to primly remind me as it nudges me to up the difficulty. The problem is, all I bloody win is cars. So many cars. How do you think I laid my mitts on a Pagani Zonda C? I sure as heck didn’t pay 2.1 million credits for it.
I hate to sound ungrateful, but new rides are wasted on me: I’m content with the first Bentley I won, now tricked out with an obnoxiously large spoiler, a holographic purple paintjob and a gold bonnet. Subtle it’s not, but it’s certainly easy to find in a car park. All I really want is a nice skirt, some patterned leggings or even just a tee without some godawful garish logo on the front.
In my bid to look like I’ve managed to make even the briefest of pitstops in Primark, I end up haring back and forth across the British countryside like a 17-year-old who’s just got their licence, agreeing to any and every deathrace, dumb stunt and dangerous show-off feat going. The cumulative amount of road tax I’m paying skyrockets. And then, one glorious winter day, the textile gods smile beatifically down upon me, and I’m gifted… a blue checked shirt. Yep, the clichéd, much-ridiculed uniform of the games journalist. I guess it’s a start, at least.
THEN, ONE GLORIOUS WINTER DAY, THE TEXTILE GODS SMILE BEATIFICALLY DOWN ON ME