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.
Richard attempted to overtake a caravan on a blind bend. The Porsche’s nose lifted, the dial buried itself at , and the voice announced: “Cock of the Year candidate registered. Sending telemetry to insurance database.” Richard went pale. top gear cockometer
James, meanwhile, was stuck at —the car detected a slight smugness in his lane discipline. Then James, silent James, found a long, empty A-road
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. But the act of trying in a beige
The Stig sat motionless in the driver’s seat of the new electric hyper-GT, its dashboard glowing like a spaceship’s night shift. In the studio, Jeremy Clarkson squinted at a small, new dial positioned just to the left of the speedometer.