Marmite Deficits

Okay here we go.. this time I swear I'm gonna do it. Nothing's going to stop me, my will is strong, my mandate pure, and my body and mind are ready, willing and able. Yes. That's right, I'm actually going to try to keep a blog, and update at least often enough that the site doesn't get to delete me, along with all the other poor fellas that once had aspirations of blogging glory and then thought it was more enjoyable to watch Neighbours instead.

Okay, so I never thought it was more enjoyable to watch Neighbours (maybe when Kylie Minogue was still starring and Love Train was popular). Maybe.. ok probably, Love Train came later. Or before. Oh stop it - don't nitpick!

I'm sitting here right now cross legged on my bed with a plate holding a delicious serving of New Zealand Marmite on Toast. It is actually good enough that 'Marmite' and 'Toast' deserve to be spelt with a big M and a big T. At this particular point in time however, I might just be inclined to think its better than it really is. Marmite starvation can tend to do that to a man - in fact, I have self-diagnosed myself as having acute Marmite Deficit, something that can happen to any kiwi who has strayed for too long from New Zealand.

One might ask: "but why and how did you get Marmite Deficit?". This question is best answered with a short and under-done story, kind of like:

Inadequate story teller: "Well, because I decided to live as far away from New Zealand as any sane marmite lover can get".
Inadequate story listener: "But where!? Tell us Marmite man!".
Inadequate story teller: "Well, because now I live in Iceland".
The End.

So.. yeah, that's about it really, I live in Iceland, and far be it from being all scandinavian and open minded and all that jazz as I thought it might have been. Ohhh noo. You couldn't find an imported Marmite jar here unless you decided to burgle your Mum's old friend that lives in the next town. And that's pretty much impossible since a) they know who you are and b) most kiwis abroad guard their Marmite in a rather zealous, but arrestingingly adorable, manner.

Trying to induce some manners in the savages doesn't seem to work very well either. I once had the hope that if only I could convince them that Marmite was Good (like all that is holy, including cows), then they might start importing it and I would never have to worry about bribing friends to send me some ever again. But now I have learnt my lesson... the last brave Icelander that decided to try it promptly screwed up his face and, wretching and grasping his throat, made a direct bee line for the bathroom, where a good quantity of perfectly good Marmite (a few grams) was unceremoniously delivered to the stinky depths of Davey Jones' toilet locker.

So, it seems there is not much hope for me. I will have to continue to lie, cheat, and steal to obtain my Marmite fixes. During those periods when I fail to use any of the aforementioned methods in any vaguely successful manner, I will resort to staring at my custom made Marmite poster on the ceiling above my head, my left eye twitching spasmodically.

There're even several Marmite groups on Facebook, doncha know.. I applaud the valiant souls who created them. Hopefully as I add more Icelandic friends on facebook I can goad them somehow into joining the groups and thereby trick them through some form of internet hypnosis to help me find Marmite.

Enough writing, I'm off for a second helping!

The above text as well as this line may or may not contain entirely fictional elements.