“Right,” Jeremy began, his voice echoing off the hangar walls. “James, Richard. Look at this. I thought I’d seen everything. A tyre pressure gauge that tells you the weather. A sat-nav that judges your parking. But this…”
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.
Jeremy clapped him on the back. “You see, May? The quiet ones. They’re the biggest cocks of all.”
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 May 2026
“Right,” Jeremy began, his voice echoing off the hangar walls. “James, Richard. Look at this. I thought I’d seen everything. A tyre pressure gauge that tells you the weather. A sat-nav that judges your parking. But this…”
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. top gear cockometer
Jeremy clapped him on the back. “You see, May? The quiet ones. They’re the biggest cocks of all.” “Right,” Jeremy began, his voice echoing off the
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. I thought I’d seen everything