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.
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?”
The Volvo, parked silently between a Land Rover and a skip, displayed a final reading of . top gear cockometer
“That’s impossible!” James cried.
James selected a 1998 Volvo V70 diesel, beige, with a broken CD changer. “Zero,” he predicted. “I will be invisible.” The Stig sat motionless in the driver’s seat
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. “It’s a secondary dial, clearly aftermarket
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.