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.
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 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.” Richard laughed so hard he swerved
James selected a 1998 Volvo V70 diesel, beige, with a broken CD changer. “Zero,” he predicted. “I will be invisible.” The challenge was simple: three cars, one road