Top Gear Cockometer [portable] Info

The producer held up a printout. The AI had flagged James for the following: driving 4 mph under the limit in a national speed zone (passive aggression), using “sorry” hand gestures that were mathematically insincere, and—the killer—adjusting his sunglasses in a way that suggested he knew better than everyone else on the road.

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

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 producer held up a printout

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

Richard laughed so hard he swerved. The Porsche’s sensor registered the swerve as “hotdogging” and dinged him to . “I wasn’t even doing anything!” he squealed.

James selected a 1998 Volvo V70 diesel, beige, with a broken CD changer. “Zero,” he predicted. “I will be invisible.”

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