Top Gear Cockometer May 2026

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

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.

James, meanwhile, was stuck at —the car detected a slight smugness in his lane discipline. top gear cockometer

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.

“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.” Richard picked a bright-orange Porsche 911 GT3 RS

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

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 meter exploded

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.