Marmite … but then she might not …

March 2, 2011

As you know, I am a fair man and perfectly willing to applaud the marketing brilliance of others, even though,  as I will be the first to admit, those moments of excellence and inspiration are generally driven by inebriation.

So it was, a few years ago, that I saluted the Marmite ads, you know the ones, the ‘do you love it or hate it’ variety. It was dying on its feet. All I knew about it was that there was a jar at the back of my kitchen cupboard that was growing old and whiskery,  that it had once been owned by Jimmy Goldmsith the playboy and asset stripper, and that it was part of Margaret Thatcher’s signature dish for hubby on a Sunday evening. It had seen better days.

Now, in my local Tescos, there is a whole shelf of different sized jars, and even one squeezy upside down jar which was presumably for those who can’t get enough.  There are TV ads. There’s a website complete with oven-baked cashews, kitchenware, merchandise of all sorts, and goodies that can be sent all over the world.

And all based around the bright idea of someone who decided to scrape the residue off the bottoms and sides of beer barrels and put it in a jar. Or so I heard.

As for me, well, I don’t love it to that extent. Maybe if I was an expat living somewhere warm, spending the kids’ inheritance, I’d miss it. And I don’t hate it either. Bit like sex, really. I wonder if anyone has done any research linking liking or loathing Marmite with the frequency and avidity of people’s sex drives?

Just a thought.

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