The hill I would die on is made of Vegemite. Marmite is a minuscule mound in comparison. A hapless hillock. A negligible knoll.
Vegemite is Australian penicillin. It cures everything from homesickness to heartbreak. From pleb to celeb and prime minister to prisoner, Vegemite is our culinary mainstay. Aussies are not that big on etiquette – our only breach of etiquette is to suggest that we adhere to any. But there is one cardinal sin: not to like Vegemite. It is a trait that, socially, places you just below leper and just above Maga supporter in our estimation.
When I moved to London in the late 1980s, it was to Barry Humphries’ neighbourhood. So many Aussies moved into the area that we nicknamed it Vegemite Valley. Barry’s house backed on to mine, so whenever he’d return from a trip he’d send me a message to say: “Kathy love, I’m poised at your rear entrance.” A totally Vegemite comment if ever there was one; no Marmite lover would ever be so wickedly irreverent.
My British friends think Vegemite tastes like industrial solvent. One bite sends them screaming from the room, mouths on fire, gagging. Well, you Brits must just be concussed from hitting your heads on the low-hanging beams of your Tudor mansions, because Marmite is a sickly sweet imitation of a true salty, meaty taste sensation.
In many ways, our countries’ preferences for Vegemite or Marmite epitomise the differences in our national characteristics. The chief products of England are pessimism, puddings, pinstripe, sexual perversions, queueing, quipping, murder mysteries set in Oxford, Marmite and politeness. Your politeness is very Marmite-like. You’re polite to the point of being insipid. Tread on an English person on the tube, and they apologise to you. A Vegemite eater would knock your block off.
Vegemite is astringent, acerbic, straightforward, bold, daring and dynamic. It’s as dry as our Aussie humour – which is drier than a dead dingo’s donger. Vegemite calls a spade a spade, not a “long-handled work implement”.
Vegemite has a bold, confident, no-bullshit brio. Marmite, meanwhile, is a thin, watery, pale apology. Marmite says: “Good morrow. I trust you’re sufficiently rested? Could I interest you in a little light repast of the breakfast variety?” Vegemite yells: “Oi! Bet youse ratbags have been up all night shaggin’ … you’d better mainline me, now, you randy root-rats!”
And speaking of carnal encounters, if Marmite was a potential date it would say, “Perhaps you would grace me with your presence over a cup of tea?” Vegemite’s response? “Let’s slip into something more comfortable – like each other.” In fact, if Marmite was a beverage, it’d be a tepid cup of something over-brewed and milky. Vegemite is an espresso shot that punches you in the face, then steals your wallet.
So spread the word about the world’s best spread. Marmite pleads: “Do you love me or hate me?” Vegemite says: “I don’t care what you think, suckers.” And that’s the real difference between them; Marmite wants to be liked, but Vegemite knows it’s won already; no wuckin’ furries.
