A History of a Family- Part 6- Marmite

 The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 6. Marmite

After my comments in a previous blog about the origins of one of the ingredients for fruit gums from the leather tanning process you may be entirely justified in expressing surprise that the subject of my last family history series is another substance dredged out of an industrial process.

Although often associated with a meaty and beefy taste this is as far from the actuality as could be imagined. Marmite is a yeast extract. The original producers, long since absorbed by an American Corporation were based in Burton upon Trent, logically and logistically the ideal location just downwind in terms of proximity to the large commercial breweries that provided considerable employment, wealth and celebrity to the town. As a student, when it was not practical to otherwise cycle from Nottingham to home, some 90 miles or so, I would take the train and the line ran through and paralell to the huge operational plants. The hop silos, stainless steel vat and pipes proudly bore such British institutional brand names as Carling, Worthington and Bass and later Marstons and Coors. I was always aware of the approach to Burton upon Trent because it was soon in view  after passing through Tamworth where the Reliant car factory was and in the open ground close to the lines it was always interesting to see the fibre glass shells of the three wheeler Robins but incongruously next to the aggressive and quite well regarded Scimitar sports coupe.

The success of Marmite, also the french name for a large cooking pot as depicted on the classic label, also launched the Bovril product. In my mind it is an insult to Marmite to include that other stuff in the same breath and sentence. I had a bad experience with Bovril whilst holding a jar above head to try to see how much was left. The same exercise with Marmite holds no hazards but I did not allow for the looser, runnier composition also encouraged by inappropriate storage in a warm pantry cupboard and the grainy, bovine
derivative took some effort to wash out.

Through my teenage years I began collecting Marmite jars. I should qualify that these were not empty, washed out and clean but still each contained perhaps half a teaspoon. I was sure that yeast extract was indestructible and so with a tightly fitting old style metal lid there were no concerns over the nurture of a globally contagious bio-plague. I proudly had on display in my bedroom a full set of the different sized jars and a good number of spares behind the best example in each category. The collection went everywhere with me at key stages in my life.

Marmite went well with everything. Not just the fundamental toast topping but complientary on top of cheese, with scrambled egg, stirred into gravy or direct into a meat pie. A generous knife edge was required to thickly cover a slice of bread for a packed lunch sandwich and with enough left to be lavishly licked off the blade. I am aware that there are those who may feel a bit nauseous at this stage if they have not been brought up proper to love Marmite.

I was very upset by the sellout of the brand but ultimately reassured by the fact that there is little scope to spoil such a perfect taste. There has been an attempt to broaden the product range by packaging changes and collaboration with other brands. Most ridiculous has been a squeezy tube effect jar- what were they thinking. Most exploitative was the Guinness venture with limited edition production runs with jars traded on E-Bay rather than opened up and spread for enjoyment. Most trendy was its addition as flavouring on rice cakes. The commercial possibilities are potentially endless and no doubt there is a whole department within the Unilever skycraper dedicated to the infiltration of Marmite into the emerging economies. What next- Marmite flavoured rice, poppadoms and noodles? I was amused to hear that Stateside super and hypermarkets stock the product in their ethnic foods section.

My own children are fans of Marmite and the association with our family appears to bode well for continuation of this love affair into the future. My Mother has told me that on our return to the house from a night out on the town, as young adults, she and Father could only really relax and get to sleep in the early hours to the sound of the front door being locked and the noise and smells from the production of cups of tea and marmite on toast permeating up the stairs from the kitchen.

A History of Family -Part 5- Scandinavian Furniture

 The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 5. Scandinavian Furniture

A few bits of furniture get handed down through the family from one generation to another and between households within the close family and in-laws. It does take a lot of income and effort to fit out a house in order for it to operate as a going and growing concern. We have bought some items at Auction Sales, other second hand outlets and the rest on a cash purchase or interest free schemes from one or more of the out of town centre retail parks.

Not everything has survived but most items have served with distinction bearing the proud scars of shoe buckles, the scorch rings of cups of hot beverages, upended spillages of carbonated and soft drinks, fragments of crisps and random crumbled biscuits, various bodily fluids and age wrinkled leather cushions. The rubber-wood dining table and six chairs is just about holding out but has required some crude patching and bracing repairs using wedges of wood and glue to keep the legs straight and solid. One of the chairs is beyond salvage being very unstable and it is always a last minute manouevre to direct away friends and relatives intent on taking up that place setting in order to avoid injury, embarassment and a civil action.

The childrens bedrooms had started off in a pine furniture theme. The girls shared with matching single beds, heavy pine headboards and large carved acorns and the look was complimented by a large waxed pine wardrobe and chest of drawers. Our son, perhaps ahead of his time, got a metal fabrication of high level bed accessible by a vertical ladder with upholstered sofa bed and a ledge desk below. The altitude at which he slept was quite close to the ceiling and must, on reflection, have been quite a terrifying and lonely experience being so detached from the rest of the household.

The decision was made on practical and stylish grounds to go for the Swedish range through IKEA. A store had opened up beyond Leeds, some distance from home but very easy to get to on the M62 motorway. We had not experienced anything like it before, well not since the Habitat store closed in Hull. The IKEA store was huge. A low, sprawling retail shed painted corporate blue and with flashes of yellow from the National flag and colours.

We were unsure of how to proceed from the wide, bright entrance but were soon swept up in the relentless stream of customers, some determined purchasers and those just out for the day. The children grabbed handfuls of the small unfinished wood pencils and the tape measures and us parents followed shouldering a large in-store shopping bag. Whether very clever marketing or the only way to fit the stock under one roof the progress through the building was tortuous along very winding and quite disorientating pathways. The Scandanavians may well have modelled the store on a typical mythical journey through the mountain passages of their uplands or the densely packed forests of the hinterland. I was getting quite dizzy and woozy under the artificial lighting and atmosphere. Again, very clever or practical is the location of the cafe/restaurant and rest area midway along the quest through the store. A bit like a very welcome leafy glen during an arduous trek.

On first impression the room displays and assembled furniture was very striking. Not altogether surprising for a nation known for its innovative design and flair through such brands as Volvo, Saab, Dime Bars, Abba and pornography. We marked off in our catalogue those pieces that would go well in the childrens rooms. There were cabin beds with clever concealed storage for toys, clothes and bedding. Desks could take a PC and TV and with shelf and drawer space so that the children would not ever have to leave their rooms until for University. We speculated on a large display unit for the dining room. We left that day with nothing apart from countless pencils, tape measures and night lights.

A few days later I returned in, yes, you guessed it, the Volvo estate car to purchase and collect a long list of furnishings. It was only after struggling to push the largest trolley to the checkout that I realised the potential problem of getting the whole lot into the car. I would have to flatten all the seats and squash my chest cavity to the steering wheel to get maximum load bay depth. I looked at my son who had come along to help and wondered if IKEA had something like an overnight creche. Although all in flat pack boxes some were exceptionally long. It was a bit like a reverse Jenga game to load, unload, re-arrange, swear, load, recover my son from under the packaging, load, move son again and so on until the trolley was empty and the tailgate could very carefully be lowered and pressed shut. My son was somewhere behind the flat passenger seat. If I avoided heavy braking I would get him home in one piece.

The car tyres were, under the laden weight, almost rubbing in the wheel arches. The car was dangerously and recklessly overloaded. Fortunately it was now 9pm on a winters evening and my chances of attracting the attention of the motorway police was much reduced. My vehicle would have warranted a full 30 minute slot on STOP POLICE!. The journey home was very cautious. I averaged 56 mph and the in car computer recorded my best ever fuel economy at 66mpg which was unprecedented.

The assembly from flat packs was equally traumatic. The operation took up a whole room plus overspill. The generation of litter and waste was frightening. Clear and plain English instructions were very helpful and the diagrams easy to follow. Slowly and not altogether surely the 'whatever' would emerge from the one dimension into a full multi dimensional shape. Tricky bits included fitting in the shelves and the flexible sides and backs. As each piece of furniture was assembled and then moved to its resting place I noticed quite a collection of residual bolts, screws, nails, plastic fittings and metal widgets type things. Was this a matter for concern? Eventually all rooms were furnished. The composition was mainly veneer covered chipboard but there was still a very pleasant aroma of freshly cut wood. Eyes closed we could well have been in a forest anywere between Stockholm and Uppsala.

From the first day of use the IKEA furniture started to gradually fall apart.

Last weekend marked the demise of the last stubborn IKEA item. I struggled up the metal steps at the Civic Amenity Site with the violently dismantled parts of the 'Billy Bookcase' before launching them into the huge waste skip. As I glanced into the gloom I was certain that, but in no particular order, the whole of Aisle D section 4 of the Leeds IKEA store had been relocated to the same fate.

A History of a Family-Part 4 Greek Art

 The BBC recently ran a radio series with the help of the British Museum on 100 objects that shaped or contributed to the history of the world. These ranged from statues to coins and from toys to modern technology. I have tried to achieve the same sense of significance but in relation to our family for a few objects lying around the house currently or remembered from growing up.

Part 4- Greek Art

The current austerity measures being endured by the Greek nation are so far detached from our perception of their lifestyle that the impact is very difficult to appreciate. Most Brits, having experienced a summer holiday in Greece, will certainly upon returning to our cold and drudgingly boring shores, not be able to resist a daydream for a moment on the romantic aspects of selling up everything here and starting up a Taverna or Restaurant in the wonderfully warm climate and fantastic scenery of that country. In reality, the only business opportunities may be in the Greek equivalent of Scunthorpe or running a mini-mart, heaven forbid, only frequented by pink skinned English tourists looking to buy McCain oven chips and frozen Goodfellas pizza.

As a family our first foreign holiday involving air travel was to the Ionian Island of Keffalonia. We joked about the name of the place. Why do second hand car salesman like the island?  Because it has only had one careful owner. Boom boom. We were complete novices when it came to foreign travel . The package trip was through one of the main companies and I think we were quite shocked at the cattle market type approach from being herded into the queues at the airport, poked up on to the plane, force fed from a trough type tray and then released, eyes blinking to become accustomed to the glaring sun and initially startling heat at our destination.

We had dressed for the whole journey in what we thought was sensible attire to cope with the dual climate of Manchester and Greece. We had misjudged the whole thing and amongst a plane load of replica football shirted passengers we must have looked like we had got lost on the way to a garden party. The first few hours on Greek soil were a complete blur. We had lost all sense of time after a very early arrival for our flight and some prior days of excitement interrupted sleep. It was about early afternoon as we boarded the coach for the transfer to our accommodation.

The road journey gave a brief glimpse of the island but only about ten feet ether side because of the very narrow lanes and either a precipitous drop to the sea below or a towering rocky cliff above. As our fellow travellers were dropped off in what appeared to be barren locations apart from a gate and steep footpath to whatever they had booked to stay in we became increasingly anxious about where we would be deposited. The brochure photo of our self catering apartment was very vague and blurry, a white rectangle heavily cloaked in foliage with a lawn in front.

The actual place was in fact a white rectangle heavily cloaked in foliage. There were three rooms for the five of us, one being the living area doubling up as a twin room plus folding Z bed for the children. The kitchen was a small galley. The shower room had a dry toilet. This was bemusing and quite frightening for an English family who were experts in flushing lavatories on any excuse or whim. Exhausted as we were I volunteered to go out to find food. I had no map, a distorted sense of direction in a foreign place, no comprehension of the Greek language and unsuitable footwear for the scorching road surface. I was not even sure where things like towns and shops were.

After a slog up the hill behind the apartment and down the other side I could not see any signs of civilisation. There were roadside shrines every few metres but I was not sure if these were for lost tourists or deceased locals. At last I reached Argostoli, the main town on the island. The first shop that looked like a general store loomed up like a mirage to my parched, dehydrated but curiously sweaty form. I played safe on the purchases in the absence of McCain oven chips or Goodfellas pizza.

The freshly minted Euro note I handed over to the proprietor brought him out in spasms of anxiety. It must have been a huge denomination and after some mutual progress through my perspiration soaked money belt he took a selection of lower numbered notes and seemed very happy. I was now faced with the return walk, considerably more drained than when I had set out and now with two plastic bags of bulky carbohydrates,sweets and other consumables. I must have looked quite a sight as I struggled back to the hillside road.

After some miles I was aware of a car moving slowly up behind me as though stalking my every move. I hoped that I was not going to have a shrine dedicated in my memory from a drive-by incident. As the car pulled alongside an English voice offered me a lift. The driver was staying in the same apartment building, had seen us arrive on the coach and thankfully had recognised me. That was not the best of starts to the Greek holiday. It did get considerably better and we fell one hundred percent for the climate and relaxed lifestyle. Vacations in the British Isles had always been a matter of cramming as much in to every hour as possible. The Greek equivalent was to do a bit in the cool of the morning, keep out of the sun for much of the day or immersed in a swimming pool, avoid being seen amongst the shops when closed for the protracted lunchtime of the locals and then emerge for a full 8 hours of casual activity from about 5pm.

Towards the end of our 2 weeks it was that time to buy souvenirs for family at home and as a good memento of our stay. In the clock tower gallery of Argostoli we had seen a painting of a sad youth in bright colours on what looked like the lid of a crate of citrus fruit. Three short lengths of wood with twin cross bracings at the back. The colours were vivid and the young subject was wistful and enigmatic with pronounced cheek bones, dark hazel brown eyes and cloaked in a bright red robe. Upon expressing an interest in the painting we were introduced to the artist. She explained that the character was Telemachus, the son of Odysseus who originated from the island of Ithaca which was only a short boat ride from the north east shore of Keffalonia. The young warrior had set out to look for his father who had been missing for 20 years. Apparently, something had kicked off involving his mother and his dad's attendance was required to deter the unwelcome attentions of some potential usurpers to his position as head of the dynasty. Telemachus and his errant father returned to wreak a horrible fate on the pretenders and the rest is set in legend. The background to the painting sealed our intention to buy it and what would have been our Duty Free budget was blown on five bits of overpainted wood.

The picture retains its vivacity and dynamism  even today after many years of being displayed at the foot of our stairs. As holiday souvenirs go it knocks a stuffed donkey into a cocked sombrero.