(*Image sourced from and credited to www.facebook.com/marmite*)
Those of you who know me on a personal level will know that I love marmite. Those of you who don't know me on a personal level will know that I love marmite because I'm about to tell you just how much.
It's an unsexy colour. It's thick. It's gloopy. If it gets on your skin it's sticky and awkward and irritating. If it gets in your hair; blimey, you're screwed. It's yeast extract, which sounds about as gruelling and unexciting as a date with a mouldy quiche. But although the odds are stacked against it, it is the singular most DElicious thing that has ever crossed my lips. It takes my mediocre buttered toast breakfast and turns it into the best breakfast that I ever had, even though I ate it yesterday, and the day before that. And the day before that.
Yup, it's safe to say that the yeasty little minx has stolen the entirety of my juicy heart. Love is quite possibly an understatement. I am besotted. (/addicted/deluded, depending on how you wish to look at it....)
To celebrate marmite's awesome new advertising campaign (you can check that out right here), I thought I'd share with you a little marmitey poem that I penned...
I laid upon my satin sheets,
And opened my marmite jar,
I spooned the brown stuff out of it,
And spread it on like tar.
It covered those white naughty bits,
That the sun had failed to tan,
I sprawled across my satin sheets,
And waited for my man.
He strolled in an hour later,
And asked, 'what is this mess?!'
'Yeast extract,' I purred at him,
'Marmite, and nothing less.'
'Oh Barbara!' he wailed in anger,
'Loving you is tough!You look monstrous, you utter tart,
I bloody hate that stuff!'
I cupped my hand to my yeasty breast,
And posed an angry pout,
And then I saw the empty jar,
And knocked the b*stard out.
Are you a lover or a hater?! Has your marmite been pushed cruelly to the back of the cupboard? End marmite neglect folks. Send your unwanted tubs to me.