Richard picked a bright-orange Porsche 911 GT3 RS. “It’s not me,” he protested. “The car is just… enthusiastic.”
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.” top gear cockometer
James May leaned in, adjusting his spectacles. “It’s a secondary dial, clearly aftermarket. The font is… aggressive. What does ‘C.O.C.K.’ stand for? Center of Control Kinetics?” Richard picked a bright-orange Porsche 911 GT3 RS
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… Jeremy’s Cockometer flickered between 2 and 3 as
“No, James,” Richard Hammond grinned, bouncing on his heels. “It stands for exactly what you think it stands for. And look—there’s a needle. Zero to ten.”