Marmite v. Vegemite

Talk to any Marmite-loving Brit about moving to Australia and sooner or later the big Marmite Problem will come up. On Australian supermarket shelves, in amongst the Cadbury's chocolate, Heinz Baked Beans and a plethora of other recognisable brands, Marmite is conspicuously absent. And in it's place? Vegemite.

Those little red and yellow jars have been taunting me whenever I go grocery shopping. "Try me!", they seem to cry out at me, making me feel weak from Marmite withdrawal. But thus far I resisted, the advice of friends ringing in my ears: "If you like Marmite you'll never like Vegemite"...."it tastes like Marmite gone wrong"....."just get someone to send you some Marmite in the post"....

But today, I caved in. The curiousity had become too much. "If I just try it once, I never have to try it again", I thought to myself, and before I knew what was happening I was grabbing the jar, hurrying through the check-out, and dashing back up the hill home, where my loaf of bread awaited.

Dear readers, I invite you to join me now, on a journey of Vegemite discovery.

Let us start with the jar. The jar itself looks harmless enough, and it even has a yellow lid like Marmite. I bought the smallest size - easier to dispose of in case of taste-bud disaster - 150g of 'concentrated yeast extract', which cost just over $2. Proudly made in Australia since 1923. Let's see just how proud they are entitled to be.



The lid is stiff, but off it comes. The moment of truth awaits - will it look and smell like Marmite? It certainly looks like it; opaque and brown. The smell is similar too, although sweeter and perhaps less potent. Now my bread is at the ready, a nice layer of margarine on top. Only half a slice, in case it is horrific. Knife goes in....



It's like jelly! It is not runny like Marmite and in fact resembles more of a marmalade in its consistency. It does not reform it's flat surface when you remove the knife, which is disconcerting. But still, I've got this far, so on to the bread it goes. It spreads nicely; being less sticky that Marmite it doesn't pull the bread apart or refuse to leave the knife. Now we have the finished article....



I chew carefully. It is most definitely a sweeter substance than Marmite, and a lot less salty tasting. This would all be acceptable were it not for the strong aftertaste of beer. Yes, I am aware that yeast goes in beer as well as in stuff to put on bread and that this is therefore only natural, but Marmite seem to have worked out that that is a taste worth removing. Or at least covering up with excess salt. The makers of Vegemite seem to have missed the memo that nobody likes spreading thick brown beer spread on their toast.

Still, I make it through the whole thing and out the other side feeling enlightened. Whilst different from Marmite and perhaps an acquired taste, I think with a bit of perseverance I could get used to this Vegemite malarkey.
But don't worry, Marmite, it's just a little fling: you're still my number one yeast extract!

crepuscular musings

If you only read one book in your life....I strongly recommend you keep your mouth shut.

Ok ok, stolen Simon Munnery jokes aside, let's say rather, if you only read one book in the near future, I strongly recommend you make it this one:



I loved this novel. For me it felt like a true return to form for Will Self. After being slightly underawed by Dr Mukti & Other Tales of Woe, and then becoming slightly lost in the middle of the rather overambitious Book of Dave (although DO persevere with this for the fantastic ending, where it will suddenly all make sense with a big jolt to the senses), The Butt is well-written, well-developed, and doesn't drop the pace. Yes, it is peppered with Self's usual vast range of pretentious vocabulary and absurd metaphor, but to me that is all part of the charm. I love writers who can mess with the English language like he does, and really make you think about every word you are reading.

However, I must add one qualification to this recommendation: I strongly recommend you do NOT read this book whilst endeavouring to discover Australia for the first time.

Billed by the author himself as an allegory of the invasion of Iraq (or rather, of the US/UK liberals' reaction to the invasion of Iraq), the novel tells the story of American abroad Tom Brodzinski. Whilst holidaying with his dissociated family at a bland, sanitised resort in a vast, apparently troubled continent, he resolves to become a better man by giving up smoking. After enjoying his ceremonial Last Ever Cigarette, he flicks the butt absent-mindedly over the edge of the balcony, where it lands on elderly fellow American Reginald Lincoln, who is hospitalised as a result of the burn. Unfortunately for Tom, as a result of his marriage to the young, nubile Atalaya, Lincoln is a member of a mystical desert tribe, who don't believe in accidents. Since the customs of the tribe are incorporated into the country's national civil law, Tom must make reparations for his 'crime' by delivering goods to their base, deep in the desert. Thus Tom begins the lengthy road trip that forms much of the narrative, along with unbearable companion Brian Prentice, who also must make reparations to the same tribe. Although the law prevents each man from knowing the details of the other's crime, the goods to be delivered reflect its nature. Tom becomes therefore convinced he is sharing the journey with a convicted paedophile.

The land in which the story takes place and through which the pair travel is fictional, and many of Tom's experiences there are grotesque distortions of reality (my favourite section has to be the chapters with the pet-food shooters!). However, it is clear from numerous hints in the text that Self has Australia in mind as a starting point for this absurd terrain.
There is the use of the term "mob" to describe the indigenous tribes - "mob" also being the term used to describe a group of Australian Aborigines. There is the clear tension between the indigenous tribes and the white people - and open racism on the part of many of the white people Tom meets. There is the geography of the land: the big, cosmopolitan city of Vance, an oasis of commodity and air conditioning (although with a cockroach problem), set apart from the miles of desert, nothingness, and small settlements that seem to make up the rest of the island continent. And most amusingly, there is Tom's recurring irritation at the natives' habit of lifting the end of every sentence into a question?

What you get from the novel is some sort of cross between Iraq and Australia; a twisted, exaggerated Australia gone wrong, but a depiction which you cannot help but feel is at least partly based in some kind of fact (albeit a subjective take on the facts). Spending my first days in a new continent, accompanied on the one hand by conventional guide books, but on the other hand by the influence of this novel, led to an odd, rather disconcerting first impression!