A conversion of the monster coin-op hit, and yet another driving game.

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Tea was my favourite drink. Hot and kind to the palate. But tea has an image problem, especially in the US. They called me lemony or something, saying I was too English for my own good. But I shocked them once and ordered a glass of Bourbon County. Cool and strong. The shock. Good and bad. Long and short. Hot and cold. In and out. All the extremes of life were swimming past my eyes. Suddenly I felt like driving. Then I remembered... all those jingles and songs and angry rockers and posters and messages on beer mats. Don't drive drunk.

Deep regret followed. My urge for the road, hampered by a mere whim to fight an image. I had to sober up. Tea. More tea. Tea and toast. By the eighteenth cup, morning had broken. My head was hollow and my eyes built like a stained-glass window. Thankfully, my car had stuck to Perrier the night before and didn't fall for the temptations of bourbon.

There it sat, red, sleek, effusing motorisation and reeking of racing. A Ferrari F40 was more than a car. It was a legend. If it couldn't walk the catwalk, fashion was a sham. Red, pulsing, bulbous like a ripe snookerball. Engine - purring. A craving for the stench of rubber on tarmac... rock... snow. A craving for the sight of windscreened vistas. A craving for a lack of paving. Road time!

New York. Speeding to the core of the Big Apple. Taking a bite from the neon-smudged night, gotta keep cruisin', gotta keep movin'. Four-wheel frenzy and it's my turn to drive.

Four stages to complete, four cities each heat. Conditions. Locations. I only ever see the road. Driving day, driving night, not able to distinguish black from white. The rhythm of the road beats through my veins and it beats and it beats as it rains and rains. The highway code would advise to pull over and take forty winks, but I'm on a run and I'm short on time and I only see the finish line.

Overtake. Cut up the opposition. Drivers who are just as sick of the road as you. Avoid the obstacles. Out run. Out run. On to LA, city of angels, California dreamin'. The finish line. I see the finish line. Through the line, glory bound. Garland crown. Safe and sound.

Turbo Outrun is a race against a Porsche 959 across the United States of America. From New York to Miami, Miami to Oklahoma, Oklahoma to LA, the game provides a varied scenery with competent graphics. Some of the most memorable aspects of the game concern the scenery. The giant moon beaming over nightime Chicago and the desert red sun shining over the desert. With fifteen cities and the Grand Canyon to race through, you should at least brush-up on your geography.

Controlling the car is a little difficult at times, even with a joystick, although this may be a result of my poor quality machinery or lack of coordination.

The turbo option can send the car flying to avoid the Police and speed away in the race although, if it is not used sparingly, the car may overheat.

The game is big. Sega bill it thus: "Driving's biggest game ever just got bigger." If compared with Ocean's Chase HQ it is possible to realise that size isn't everything.

Turbo Outrun does not have the edge that Chase HQ offers in terms of speed and action. It is a large driving game with a good concept but I tend to think that the bigger the shoes, the sloppier the feet.

Basil Bread