This story is not recommended for children.

It's Saturday morning. Prime time for the toy pushers. Advertising slots at this hour cost more than a life. Thirty seconds of sculptured multimedia, expanding like a coiled spring into the minds of children who sit glued to their Tab screens, unable to break away.

Saturday Snapperday. It's the only show to watch. Compulsory coverage and necessary viewing where rows of perfect kids dressed in all the right labels cheer on cue, waving at the camera as it focuses on their logos for the appointed dose of pre paid exposure.

The god in the booth watches it all, as the puppets dance to his tune.

Controller - "Okay, give me a close up on those Cougar Trainers."

Nine AM. Saturday and all the Boy Bands sit back stage. They are Christmas decorations waiting to be admired. Shiny trophies to be adored and then stuffed back in their box until the next time they are needed.

Controller - "Three, two - Christ! Tell the fucking brat to sit still! Switch to seven! Switch to seven!"

Ray Fey is talking to his agent over the phone stitched into his Lapel. Only the four centimetre wide silver disc emblazoned with the swallow logo lets you know it's there. Of course it's this season's logo which makes it three times the price of last season's logo. Today he'll wear it six times on nationally syndicated shows and his record label will rake in a tidy sweetener every time it happens.

Ray Fey is arguing with George Luton Maxwell about artistic freedom. He wants to speak out against the war in Korea but Max the Manager isn't giving an inch. Ray's not paid to have an opinion. He's just not aimed at the thinking end of the market. It's very fucking important that he gets it into his thick skull before he makes somebody very unhappy.

Ray Fey is a Boy Band Hero. He's black and bald. Muscles rippling under tailored cotton T shirt. The latest in a never ending production line of non-threatening fantasy action figures. He's a merchandisable hero for secret masturbation games. He sings songs about True Love and has his pubic hair removed by electrolysis. (Just like his opinions). He's an emasculated sex bomb. A walking, talking, gorgeous oxymoron. Squeaky clean, with a nasty drug habit and a shelf life slightly longer than a tin of beans.

Of course, once upon a time he was a class act. A lifetime ago he'd been a Ticket Master, working hordes of shady punters with an underground reputation to die for. But then opportunity had opened her legs for him, and all thoughts of artistic integrity had been put on hold as he'd jumped on board the slippery pole for a chance to get his face seen on shows like Snapperday.

Ray Fey is on in eighteen and a half minutes, after the first instalment of Pirate Lizards.

Max the Manager is trying hard. "What you got to understand, Ray, is that we don't need you to speak out against the war."

Ray doesn't like this. It makes him wonder just who's in charge of his career. It makes him feel too small. "Dammit, you're not listening!" He gestures with his hands as he's talking. Fingers wide - homeboy style. "I need to be heard. We got to stop the war, right? I mean we got to stop the bombing!"

"It don't work like that, Ray. Listen. You air political views - even ones that are popular, and all your demographic is shot to hell. Here's the news, kid. Listen up: We need you to fill the eight-to-twelve year old consumer band. You know what band that is, Ray?"

Ray Sighs. He looks up at the ceiling with his gorgeous black face looking like thunder. It's a shot the snapperatzi would kill for. "Sure I know what that is. It's - what is it? Band two."

"That's right, Ray. That's real fucking smart, kid. You're a band two commodity. You remember?"

"Sure I remember. Like you tell me every freakin' day."

His Manager's Voice trickles out of the tiny stud inserted deep in Ray's ear. "That's right, Ray! Band two. If you go speaking out like some God damn badge wearer, you're gonna get all those little girls saying "what the fuck is he on about?' Then they go ask their big sisters to translate, and suddenly the big kids are lovin' you too. "Oh wow!' They'll say. "That Ray Fey - he cares about the war! He's so straight!' Next thing you know, they're downloading your tracks. And do you know what that means?"

Ray Fey takes a deep breath. "It means I'm fuckin' with your demographic." His voice is tired.

"There you go, kid. It's nothing personal. It's all about business. Trust me, we've seen it all before in this game. Leave the political angst to bands like SmartPloy. They got the band three demographic and the peacenik script to go with it. Think they give a shit about the war? It's all in their contract, Ray. That's how it works. Three, four years, maybe. Then we'll see if you can make the switch. But for now we need you on band two."

There's not much he can do about it. He's the idol of millions, but only millions of Band two consumers.

Six months ago, the nation held its breath as he made his bid for fame. Every day, viewers in their millions tuned in to see him and his rivals struggle to earn a place in Guys Squared, the Big Time Boy Band with the Big Band Cover Sound. His meteoric rise to fame that was a roller coaster of anguish and raw talent raging against the world.

And the public were there with him every step of the way. Every soft focus setback, every carefully scripted rejection, all lovingly sculpted by committee. Psychologically tailored by think tanks and focus groups to manufacture him as the ultimate victim-turned-hero. The illusion of the struggling but brilliant artist winning against all odds was served in easily digestible forty-minute slices, each as tirelessly choreographed as any wrestling match.

His manager is starting to wish he'd been given an i-con to nursemaid instead of another snotty kid. Sooner or later Ray Fey will go off the rails and that will be the end of him. He'll start wanting to write his own material, release his own tracks. Then it will be time to ditch him and move on to the next product. Ray Fey might even last another six months after that.

But it doesn't matter much. His replacement is already pulling in the advertisers faster than news crews to a soccer bombing. Dannymatic has a daily tea-time slot where his pre-ordained struggle for recognition with the faceless, bureaucratic record company is earning advertising revenues worth more than three months of standard music sales. The nation gets to watch him pay his dues, starting small, in love with music and unbearably cute, being knocked back by bullish executives, trying again, and inevitably emerging triumphant due to sheer hard work and talent. By the time the series is over and his first track is released, band two girls will literally slash their wrists for him.

Ray Fey is back stage, listening to the Saturday Snapperday theme music as it swells up.

We're here - We're here!
Everyone that matters they here
It's here - it's here - it's here
Every single Snapperday here!

The kids sing along, adding their tuneless chorus to the backing track. They've been queuing since five for a way in, with their parents dozing in the car lot dreaming of sex with strangers. Each child has been vetted for looks with the ugly kids filtered through to the back. The top ten percent have been hand picked by Product Scouts to sit on the front row and wear the gear. Silver phone lapels, the right logo hats, that watch.

Jerdine's making out with the camera. It's her slot and she's out there to score a few more demographic shifts by getting the nation's dads up in the morning. The sport is still three hours away, but just look at her! Who can resist?

Look at her! She draws in the money, because punters with erections don't switch off. They stay turned on and tuned in. They watch and wait all through the commercials because they know that maybe - just maybe - there's a chance that the low camera might just give them another glimpse of those tiny white panties again.

Each carefully cropped uppie and downie is precision placed to hold their interest through another forty minutes of product placement and pulped publicity.

Controller - "Okay, ready with pantiecam - three two one - go. And ready camera two ... now. Great. Hold it there... Now, let's see the crowd for a Sabati T-shirt."

Jerdine has the longest, blondest hair you ever saw and she's contractually obliged not to get it cut short. She is almost wearing a Remé Andrew crop top that lets you occasionally glimpse the bottom of her breasts and a translucent wrap that leaves the imagination redundant. She smiles at the camera and you'd swear she was in love with only you.

The kids go wild. Nobody knows why, except everyone in the studio who can see the "Cheer" sign light up.

Now it's Richie's turn. He's mad, Richie! He's a laugh, isn't he? He used to be on that programme. You know the one? With all those people trying to be famous? What was it called? He's got spiky hair and big eyes and he"s just about young and skinny enough to bring in the Pink Punters. Give him a year and even his own mother will have forgotten who he once was.

He's trying hard to announce the day's line up and be mad at the same time, but at the back of his mind is a little voice of reason that's telling him that he can't do it. He knows he's finished and if you look closely you'll see there's fear in his eyes. He's reading the autocue and wondering how he ever got there.

He goes through the list of turns. Boyband. Cartoon, Boyband, Girlband, Competition, Token Community Feature, Cartoon, Boyband ... So it goes on.

Cheryl is waiting for her big performance, too. She's on in eighty six and a half minutes and she isn't the slightest bit nervous. Today she has nine nationally syndicated appearances. Three of them are interviews, four of them are plugging her latest track, and two of them are chatcasts.

She listens while Richie tells the sea of labels that she's coming up later. Everybody says "Oooh!" excitedly when the big, blue sign with "Oooh" written on it reveals itself out of camera shot.

There's just time for one quick boyband before the first round of commercials. This is a Class C band - fillers who are good for about ten to sixteen months. They will never tour except to support the Class As. They will never headline a show. The first the public got to see of them was on this very show with their first single - A cover of a song eighty years old. Nobody saw their rise to fame after their difficult struggle. Nobody was rooting for them to make it into the charts. They just turned up with their contracts still wet in their back pockets and sang about Sylvia's Mother, complete with an audience of screaming nine year old girls.

Saturday Snapperday is must watch material for anybody between the age of eight and fourteen. It has been designed by twelve separate psychological design contractors to cater for three different consumer bands and is carefully crafted to be the embodiment of what the kids call class.

It is sponsored by Snapper. A shortbread biscuit covered in white chocolate.

* * *

Ray Fey isn't watching me until I'm just about on top of him. His face lights up when he sees me for just the briefest moment, then he slips back into class mode once more. Ultra class. That's Ray Fey.

By now, the ticket is starting to take hold, and the bass courses through me, taking over my pulse, forcing my heart to dance to its beat. Ray Fey, the master of my heart. He licks up a new menu, keying in to the jam with the second set of phones held tight to his ear.

I gyrate, I groove, I rock the fucking house. Here I am, hardcore in full uproar. Dancing for the masses with moves for all the classes, standing bare-breasted on the DJ's cockpit, whipping the herd up into a frenzy.

Move Mistress - Show us what you're made of! Move Mistress - Show us what you're made of! They love me. They want me. I'm the puppet and they can't touch it. Ray Fey and Move Mistress. Total fucking team. Come and taste me boys. Fresher meat never tasted so sweet. I'm a spinning, dancing, winning, prancing one-woman fucking hard on. You want some? You want some?

Then Ray Fey's new beat kicks in and it hits them like a truck. No army strong enough to fight Ray's magic beats. Better clear the streets. Wave goodbye to your earthly bonds boys. This is going to be unreal.

I lead the dance. I kick, I spin, I'm lost to the ticket and the ultra beat. Livers, Lovers, Kids and Kidneys, all smacking their chops to the bass, lost in the pulse, held in Ray's spell, begging for more, begging for mercy, begging for me.

Move Mistress - Show us what you're made of! Move Mistress show us what you're made of! I spin low and pluck a bottle from the herd, watching it tumble in slow time. Devilish as a dervish. Ninja smooth - smash the bottle with maximum grace. See the colours fly. Watch the rainbows, dig the jewels. Ray Fey ups the juice and I go nova.

Scream boys! You love me! This is what I'm made of!

I spin, letting the blood fly from my chest, Easing the pressure, skin parted by broken glass still held tight. I'm a record and the glass is the needle. Play me! Come on boys! Spin up some jam!

They love it.

Move Mistress - show us - Spin me! Move Mistress - Biiillllleeeeeee...

Lights out. Goodnight. Move Mistress has left the building. Go home, boys. Take care.

"Billy!" It's Ray, crouching over me, his beautiful black face smeared with blood. Strawberry Jam on burnt toast.

"Who did that to you?" I want to tear them apart. Who could cut Ray?

His eyes. Sad. "Your blood, Billy. You let rip. Are you okay?"

And then I feel it hurt. "Oh, fuck, Ray. I'm fucking dying here."

"You're fine, Billy." He's over me like a god. Just hearing him talk I know everything's class. Ultra class. Tears well up in my eyes and he dissolves in a fog of rainbows. I need him to hold me and he does. Blood on his leathers like the day they were ripped from the cow.

"It hurts!"

"I know." His voice is like waves crashing against rocks. I want to get lost in that sound. "You were beautiful tonight, Move Mistress."

"You were electric, Ray Fey. We showed "em didn't we?"

"You bet." He's rocking me in his arms, those strong arms. He blots out the world.

"We been paid?"

"Not yet. First things first. Need to get you fixed up."

"I'm cool."

"You're hurt, Billy. We need to get you sorted out."

"It can wait. It just fucking hurts. Can you hold me a while longer?"

"Cops outside, sweetness. We need to get you out of here. I've got guys stowing the rig. Can you stand?"

I grip the back of his jacket and my fingers sink into the smooth leather. "I'm cold."

As soon as I've found my feet and worked out which way is up, he takes off his jacket and puts it around my shoulders. It has his scent on it. Sweat and smoke from a thousand hazy nights. Heady and dark, like the man himself.

Lost in the coat, I let him help me away from the dance floor, sidestepping the broken glass and the blood. Never knew I had so much in me.

"How bad am I?"

"You've been worse."

"Cut myself up pretty good, though."

"The mix was too strong. I'm sorry. Should have been watching out for you."

I want to tell him it's not his fault. I want to blame it on the ticket. But the doors come crashing down and the cops pour through like gushing oil. Ray doesn't hesitate. He scoops me off the floor like a rag doll and throws me over his shoulder. I cry out when the ripped flesh takes my weight, but by then he's already running. He's a charging bull. Someone shouts him to stop, but he's out the other door before they get trigger happy about it.

"Hold tight, Billy!" Ray shouts, running down the stairs to the basement. He's a charging buffalo. Here we go! I bounce around on his shoulder like a sailor's bag as he bursts through the door into the car park. I'm facing back the way we've come, just seeing the first of the cops push through the door as I hear the van door opening. Moments later I'm in the back with all the wires and the tubes, the gadgets and the gizmos.

"Keep low. Try to get comfortable."

"We going to a hospital, Ray?"

"Hospital's too far." He's in the driver's seat, moving fast. He swipes the keylock and the van lights up. "We'll have to stop by at Fasbuck's and see what he can do for you."

The van smells of fuel. I close my eyes, feeling cold and tired. I want to cry, but I don't want Ray to hear. I really, really, really want to go to a hospital.

Clean and white. I want that more than anything.

We start moving. I feel it, but I can't tell which way. Seems like the whole world's tilting one way or another. It just doesn't seem fair. Why can't I go to a hospital?

From far off, I hear a noise like the sound of firecrackers, and I hear a noise like the sound of Ray swearing and cursing. But it's so far away. It couldn't be real. I just want to go somewhere bright and clean...

Somewhere where the women wear white...

* * *

Cheryl is on in five .. four .. three ..

That's her song. Listen to that beat. It's not something you hear, it's something you feel. Do you have any idea how many hours of research have gone into that sound? It's a heart-beat, mixed with the sounds of a hundred people making love. They're in there, somewhere, although you'd have to be a vampire bat to spot them. The sounds of sex underpin the track, just out of hearing range. Subliminal to the ridiculous

And here's Cheryl, performing the latest track from her multicast. (Yours to download to the playbank of your choice - three minutes of sampled sex and kitten soft over exposure. Swipe your paysticks over the screen now, or click on "Billing Options".)

Her hair is purple. Now it's green. She's got eyes like a newborn deer and a face like a seven year old. Her nose is so tiny it's almost not there. But look - that figure! Did you ever see a skirt so short and white? Slender legs with supersoft skin, a waist to die for, and - a simple yellow T Shirt today. Very shrewd - Her tits are like rockets and they point at you like Kitchener's finger.

"Hey!" She calls out, her well-educated East California accent sounding warm and inviting. "How are you all doing out there? It's Saturday ... That makes it a Snapperday!" Cheryl is the latest and greatest in a long line of virtual celebrities. Ever since computers went neural these characters have been getting smarter and smarter. I'll bore you with all the details some other time, but for now all you need to do is watch her. Look at that smile! You can't help it, can you? Whether you're a boy or a girl, whether you're pink, vanilla or black and white, you know you want her.

The kids go wild. They're worshipping the eight metre tall plasma screen with their mouths wide open and their eyes glazed. Look closer. Cheryl is wearing a little silver disc on one of her ears. It has a swallow logo etched into it.

Isn't that strange? Why does a virtual celebrity need a telephone earring?

Because Swallowtel pay good money to make sure she does.

Cheryl is milking the audience and she's milking teenage boys across the country. She's an i-con, which is Geek-Speak for an Intelligent Construct. She sings and wiggles on the make believe stage, basking in the glow of ray-traced spotlights.

Enjoy the show. We'll be back after this word:

Gyroscope.