Australian Idol: the army strengthens

With each passing week, the army of jilted, scorned, rebuked and publicly humiliated victims of Kyle Sandilands' vile and vehement forked tongue strengthens. They are growing more numerous by the hour. They meet in secret cleaners' cupboards, unused tearooms and behind the giant cutouts of Kate and Emily (aka Black Gretel) in the various audition halls around Australia. They mutter and curse, gnashing their teeth in their foamy rabid mouths, livid with rage. Disappointment and anger have become lodged deep in their broken hearts, like razored shards of poisoned glass.
Kyle.
Kyle has done this to them: he is the one who dashed their small dreams to the mud, and ground them in under the heel of his faux-Cuban-heeled Blundstone. Squinting through his piggy eyes, resplendent in his towering Fructis coiff, with black heart and poisoned soul he has crushed childhood ambitions and fuelled a backlash of scorned auditioners.

They swap mobile numbers and possible stage names. They are an underground force, a sweeping invisible tide of repressed anguish and tears. Soon they will rise up, rise from the takewaway joints, hair salons, retail outlets and dole offices where they spend their days, and unite to quash their common enemy.

If I were Kyle Sandypants, I'd sleep with one eye open for the rest of my days.