Top Gear Cockometer -

By the time they reached the Highland hotel, the scores were locked. Jeremy finished with an , having done a three-point turn in a farmer’s driveway just to hear his own exhaust echo off a barn. Richard held a 9.2 —the Porsche had detected him “revving at a horse.” But James…

The challenge was simple: three cars, one road trip from London to the Scottish Highlands, and a hard-wired Cockometer in each. The rules: drive normally. The car’s onboard AI, linked to throttle position, lane changes, rev-matching aggression, and the frequency of unnecessary downshifts, would assign a real-time “Cock Rating.” The higher the score, the bigger the cock. top gear cockometer

The true chaos began at a roundabout. Jeremy, refusing to indicate because “everyone knows where I’m going,” saw his rating climb to . The dashboard light turned from amber to flashing red. A new message appeared: “Consider a bicycle.” By the time they reached the Highland hotel,

Then James, silent James, found a long, empty A-road. He glanced at the rearview mirror, smirked—a tiny, forbidden smirk—and planted his foot. The Volvo wheezed from 60 to 78 mph over forty-seven seconds. But the act of trying in a beige box was so profoundly cockish that his meter slowly, inexorably, ticked up to . “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he muttered. The meter ticked to 4.5 for complaining. The rules: drive normally

Richard picked a bright-orange Porsche 911 GT3 RS. “It’s not me,” he protested. “The car is just… enthusiastic.”

Jeremy clapped him on the back. “You see, May? The quiet ones. They’re the biggest cocks of all.”