The first hour was telling. Jeremy’s Cockometer flickered between 2 and 3 as he cruised. Then he spotted a tunnel. “Oh, go on,” he whispered, dropping two gears. The Vantage roared like a lion with a hangover. The dial snapped to . A robotic female voice announced: “Cock maneuver detected. Unnecessary tunnel roar. Penalty sustained.”
James, meanwhile, was stuck at —the car detected a slight smugness in his lane discipline. 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 first hour was telling
The Stig, who had been running diagnostics on the hyper-GT’s Cockometer, simply revved the engine to the redline while stationary. The meter exploded. They never did figure out what score that would have been. “Oh, go on,” he whispered, dropping two gears
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.
The Volvo, parked silently between a Land Rover and a skip, displayed a final reading of .
Richard picked a bright-orange Porsche 911 GT3 RS. “It’s not me,” he protested. “The car is just… enthusiastic.”