Like the time I racked up 30 hours on Just Cause 2, which had the engaging concept of a one-man army basically blowing up everything in his path.

So engrossed was I in the role of Scorpio, the bomb-happy soldier, that I found it hard in real life to drive past petrol stations without flinging an imaginary grenade out of the window.

Or there was the time when I played far too much Far Cry 3 – a game that sees you in the jungle, creeping up on enemy camps from a distance. Several times I would be out and about and, seeing something interesting on the horizon, would be half-way to reaching for my night-vision binoculars before realising that I was Ramsay Cudlipp, journalist and lily-livered pacifist, and not a highly trained vigilante who was scoping out his next potential victims.

And if I play too much Football Manager (the realistic simulator which lets you take charge of your favourite team), reality and fiction eventually start to blur together until there comes a point when I get confused seeing Gareth Bale turn out for Tottenham Hotspur when I seem to remember selling him to Real Madrid for £100 million.*

Read the rest of Ramsay’s column in Saturday’s JEP.

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