Jo wasn't looking forward to be being the rear end of a tap-dancing pantomime cow again. "It is telly", Cecil had offered, "What we've always talked about. After the last time, I had a very promising conversation with a woman from CBeebies. She said they were always looking for strong character performers." But Jo had grown weary of her agent's empty encouragement, and no matter what Cecil said there was no way that sweating her arse off in half a cow suit was going to be her breakthrough performance, no matter how much money the milkshake people were paying.

The studio bell trilled, breaking Jo from her thoughts. Time for another take. Jo managed to heave her fur-covered waders out of the canvas chair and slip on the braces that kept her costume up, nearly spilling her Styrofoam latte in the process. "Watch it mate," sneered Simon Daniels, "Actors are replaceable, but that costume's not." Wanker. Why did he always have to behave like that, Jo wondered. Bloody directors are all the same.

As Jo trudged to the studio floor, she could feel the beads of sweat tumble down her face. The heat under the lights was intense, and getting up close and personal with Bernard's backside was a always heavy cross to bear. "Once more into the britches, darling?", Bernard effused, his portly frame straining the seams of the Fresian-print leotard. "Have we rehearsed our shim-sham-shimmys?" From the way his jowls glowed, and from the whiteness forming at the edges of his mouth, Joe sensed that Bernard had had something a little stronger than a latte over lunch. Probably downed an extra plate of the onion bahjis too. Bernard was a decent enough old-school buffer, but he wasn't without a seamier side and Jo was about to spend the next half-hour just six-inches away from it. Crouching behind him to assume the position, she snapped the catches on the costume that sealed her in the foetid prison. "Careful with the thermometer, nurse!" Bernard quipped, knowing Jo couldn't hear.

"Turn over" shouted Simon. "Flavourites spot two, take one". On this floor, Simon felt powerful. This was his arena; his artist's studio - where he could craft his short films ("commercials", as the bloody clients insisted) and where he felt truly loved. Becoming the UK Creative Director of the second-largest advertising agency in the world had been a long, arselicking road, but now Simon was confident that clients came to McAvoy-Goranson for their TV spots because of his own track record. His Diesel sunglasses shielded his bleary eyes from the lights, and masked the evidence of last night's excesses. "First positions" he growled into his headset mic, "Cue playback". The sound man gave Simon a nod, and got ready to play the commercial's sugary upbeat jingle. "And before we go again - pantomime cow, watch the steps will ya? It's a bounce onto the kid's bed on 'savour it, -Fla- vourites', not on 'don't be droopy, it's so gloopy'. I mean, Jesus, if we're going to do this as a Luis Bunuel homage, we might as well get the timing right. What do you reckon, you silly cow?" A generic-looking PA nearby chuckled a little-too-loudly at Simon's joke. Yes, there was no doubt to Simon that from his directorial throne he had the respect of all he surveyed.

"Tosser", said Jo from inside the cow's midriff, listening to Simon's so-called direction in her earpiece. Anyway, it was Bernard who always jumped early, not her. She was getting too old for all this nonsense. "Don't lose sight of the dream", she reminded herself, bringing images shuttling through her mind of every producer and commissioning editor she'd tried to get close to, just to get noticed. She'd watched a dozen girls her age go from children's continuity announcer to kids' craft-show presenter to legitimate pop chart host, and every time she winced she could feel her crows feet crinkle. She knew in her gut she was better than any of them, and a dab hand with the sticky-back plastic too. But she also knew the game. It wasn't what you knew; it wasn't even who you knew anymore. It was all about the shot. The breakthrough appearance that made people sit up and take notice. Getting exposure. Jo needed to shine, and her ever present shroud was tearing her in two.

The music started up, and Jo autopiloted into the tap routine she'd rehearsed all week. The steps had become lodged in her muscle memory now, and although she couldn't see a thing she focused her attention on the music in her ear. Over the jingle, Jo could also hear the studio chatter - which as usual was dominated by the sounds of Simon selling his own hype to the client. It was difficult to make out clearly, but Jo sensed that Simon was laying it on thicker than usual today. Tuning out Simon's trademark bollocks, Jo listened to the music for her cue - the part of the commercial where the camera swooped from the tap-dancing stage school saccharines to the cow's solo tap spot, which climaxed in a bounce on a child's bed (actually a disguised trampoline, since the prop beds used in rehearsal had all collapsed under Bernard and Jo's combined weight). Jo and Bernard readied themselves as the music notched up a gear.

"Fla-vour-ites" (kick-left) - "they're the new sens-ation" (kick-right). "Smooth-n-whipped" (left stamp-shuffle-toe) - "it's a dairy cre-ation" (right left stamp-shuffle-toe).

Jo was really sweating now. Her eyes stung and the small air space made it difficult to concentrate, not least due to the gurgling sound coming from Bernard's guts. She felt his knees start to bend. "Shit", she hissed. "Not yet!" But Bernard couldn't hear her.

"Now don't be droop-y" (lean-left. LEAN-LEFT, DAMMIT!).

Bernard's knees continued their descent, pressing his backside even closer to her face. Jo wanted to pull Bernard over into the proper position, but she risked splitting the costume apart. Pantomime cows need the most single-minded teamwork and anyway, the only proper thing to do was to go with the situation until the director said otherwise.

"It's so gloop-y" (lean-right)

Inside the cow's head, Bernard whispered a prayer. "Forgive me Josephine, but I can't stop the take." In the cow's belly at that moment it came without a sound, but with overwhelming urgency. People didn't say 'silent but deadly' for nothing. Jo gagged as her senses recoiled, but her nervous system was confused. With the sickening taste of Bernard's emission in her mouth, and the sickening sound of the jingle in her ear, Jo's body knew it was time for the jump even before her brain did.

"Keeps you fit, stay for it"

Panic both strengthened and blinded her, and the moment came in a blur. Jo felt her whole body recoil just as her legs left the air. She had jumped too suddenly, and she heard her ears popping. No - not her ears. What was it? "Oh shit, the costume!"

She'd literally jumped out of her skin, and could now feel her wooden hooves make contact with the trampoline. Too hard. Too fast. Her mind cleared, save for one thought - in which direction to aim herself. Looking straight ahead, she saw an opportunity to break her fall.

Bernard had been slow to react, but he now sensed that a being in heap on the floor wasn't part of his character's motivation. He mustered strength to heave his carcass upward, and in doing so became peripherally aware of something hurtling toward him. Someone.

"What the - ?" Jo instinctively thrust her hands forward as she saw Bernard rise. Making contact with his back, she unexpectedly leapfrogged forward, furthering her trajectory. Though her flight lasted a split-second, Jo became aware that everyone else in the studio was frozen to the spot. The only sounds she heard was the blood throbbing in her ears, and the merry jingle of a milkshake ad.

"Sav-our iiiiiiiiiitttttt"

Jo crashed head-first into a trestle table stacked with cartons of Flavourites. The arrangement was supposed to be used in the final shot of the ad, where the saccharine sweethearts from the first scene would rush forward and merrily gorge themselves on product. Jo had just reinterpreted the arrangement as a pinky-browny-yellowy-drippy slop which she now wore over most of her upper-body. Wiping strawberry goo from her eyes she caught sight of Simon, mouth agape and Diesels hanging from one ear. "Do something!" her head screamed. "Save the shot!" Not only would this not be her big break, it could very easily be the end of her TV career.

"Fla-vour-itesss!"

Hearing the product name at end of the jingle spurred Jo into action. Looking to her feet, she saw one or two cartons that weren't covered in their contents. She scooped one up and held it to her face, logo side out. At that moment, all her years of practice kicked in. With the biggest beaming smile she should muster, she leaned her head to the carton, said "Flavourites. Mmm. Savour it.", and licked the dripping gunk from her lips.

"CUT!"

Simon's voice thundered across the studio floor. He surveyed his arena now. The music had ended and the floor was silent. To his left, a gaggle of stage-schoolers glancing furtively at one another unsure of what to do next. To his right lay the front half of a cow, writhing on the floor and briefly putting Simon in mind of the film homage he'd wanted. But now his gaze was fixed straight ahead, to the source of the only sound on the floor. As Jo drip-drip-dripped milkshake in a corona around her feet, she felt herself starting to shiver despite the heat of the lights, and the developing smell of the milk they'd warmed. She saw that Simon was shaking too, but Jo suspected he wasn't sharing her fear. As Simon crossed the floor he heard another sound; a crack. Then another. He wheeled around and realised it was the sound of clapping. Looking murderously for the source, his eyes eventually met with Bill Buzzard, UK Marketing Director for United Foodstuffs PLC. The client. Bill's clapping quickened, and a smile blossomed on his face. For the first time in a long while, Simon was utterly lost. He'd been about to play merry hell with the back end of a cow, and now here was the client seemingly loving every minute.

"I must admit", said Bill with tears forming, "I didn't get what you were going for at first with the whole Bunuel thing. But if that's your idea for a climax then you're a bloody genius!" Simon opened his mouth, but nothing came out. "Reality!" Bill continued, "Anti-advertising! To say nothing of sex appeal. I mean, this could expand Flavourites to the 18-35 group. Imagine that - our kids' product swimming in Magnum and Haagen-Dazs territory! Wherever did you find her?"

Simon's mouth was now involuntarily forming vowel shapes. "F-Find...her?" he eventually managed. He looked again at Jo, still dripping in warm milk, and then again at Bill. "S-She's...er..."

"Jo Watson", said Jo brightly and with more grace than would be expected from someone covered in technicolored goo. She sashayed across the floor, wiped clean her hand and offered it to Bill. "Great product", she beamed. "My five-year-old won't drink anything else. And I must say, I think it's pretty tasty too". She suppressed the little voice that told her she was laying it on too thick, and gave Bill a quick encore of the lip-licking thing.

"My dear girl", said Bill. "If demographics had a face, it would be yours".

By the following year, Jo had her lip-licking routine down cold. As the face of Flavourites, images of her licking chocolate from her top lip had adorned every tube station, billboard and television set in the country. Bill's new clout as Group Marketing Director allowed him to increase the viscosity of the product formula, in response to the copycat craze among young adults. As she stood behind Simon on the podium where he was gushingly accepting his Cannes Lion for Best Media Campaign, Jo couldn't help but smile. She knew that nothing lasts forever, but for now she was on her way. Just then, Simon unexpectedly stopped speaking and ushered her to the mic. Jo blanked for a second, and then started with the first thing that came into her head. "You know, I wasn't looking forward to be being the rear end of a tap-dancing pantomime cow again..."