Denmark bans Marmite

Marmite, so good the Danes hate to see it anywhere within their borders

The news that Denmark has this week banned Marmite caused widespread panic among British expat’s in Denmark, but Tim Harvey reveals the consequences could be much further reaching…

Since I emigrated to Malmö just over a month ago, I have often, from the lofty position that is the eleventh floor of my apartment, contemplated the beautiful land that is Denmark glinting at me from across 500 metres of bitterly cold Baltic Sea.  I have laughed and reminisced at length about great parties in Copenhagen, and discussed the virtues of a country whose inhabitants seem almost impossibly well-mannered and carefree.

So why, then, does the same view now cause a sickening knot to twist in my stomach, debilitating me and forcing me to quickly draw the blinds? Why does the land that once emanated so much warmth and conviviality now seem angry, loveless and ensconced in the unforgiving clutches of my antipathy? The answer is simple: Denmark, to my immeasurable anguish, has banned my favourite foodstuff, Marmite.

The savoury spread has become so synonymous with the mantra ‘you either love it or hate it’, you suspect that it is only a matter of time before the definition of ambivalence is replaced in the dictionary by the words ‘See. Marmite’.  Those who hate it react to the slightest taste of it by spluttering, gasping for water and generally pulling a face like a 17th century gargoyle.  They talk about it in the same reproachful, venomous way that they would talk about Al Qaeda, the congestion charge or Gary Glitter. 

Those who love it can talk about it breezily, and affectionately, in the way that you would expect someone to discuss their favourite childhood cartoon series, and are at once capable of launching an impassioned defence of the delicious, salty spread to any curmudgeonly detractor.

But it is the added vitamins contained within yeast extract (Marmite’s official, periodic table name, commonly abbreviated to YE. It‘s next to Einsteinium)  that have irked the Danish government into adding Marmite to the list of substances in it’s naughty book, alongside Bovril and Marmite’s feral cousin, Vegemite.  These added vitamins, the Danish government would have you believe, contain malicious chemicals which are capable of causing a great deal of harm to all whom they meet.

To say that this been met with opprobrium by the ex-pats who currently call Denmark home would be like saying that Jewish people tend to look back at the holocaust with disdain.  There has been outright fury from Marmite consumers all over Denmark who have not let geography hinder their consumption of the vitamin-B-rich spread.  Apoplectic messages have appeared all over internet forums from defiant Marmite fans who promise that the Danish authorities will have to pry open their cold, lifeless fingers in order to snatch away what for many of them is the ultimate home comfort.  Tit-for-tat retaliation has even been mooted in some quarters, with a blanket ban on Danish bacon and Carlsberg export being suggested as the perfect riposte to these newfangled sanctions.

Why does this concern an expatriate living in Sweden though, I hear you ask.  Has there been rumblings about a similar ban being introduced in Sweden? Are we about to see the kind of blatant Scandinavian supporting vote more commonly associated with the latter stages of the Eurovision Song Contest?  Or have clandestine Danish officials infiltrated Sweden’s top brass, bribing them into mirroring the ban in the first act of a greater coercive movement which could eventually spell doom for Marmite on a global scale? Well, no, not really.

In fact, it seems that Sweden’s reputation for harmony and tolerance is still very much intact, at least on the Marmite front (The Marmite Front, incidentally, being the name of a group of fanatical Marmite fans who have been suggesting the most extreme acts of revenge. NB. Not to be confused with the United Front of Marmite, who are an altogether more docile organisation).  No, the cause of my unease is that for me, and anyone who lives in Skåne, it is far easier to travel to Sweden via Copenhagen, and that raises all manner of problems.  Though I have only been in Sweden a month, I have already exhausted my first batch of rations which, owing to the 35 kilos of other stuff in my baggage, was the most I could manage to bring on my first trip.  These rations included a box of Jaffa Cakes (which are available at Netto, proving the folly of this rash inclusion), some English Breakfast teabags (another unwise selection, given the wide availability of English tea in Sweden) and of course, a lovely pot of Marmite.

I lasted a good three days without the black stuff before I realised I was teetering on the brink of insanity, and was forced to visit a shop devoted to providing for British expatriates in Malmo.  Purchasing the smallest pot I could, my Marmite hit was satisfied, though my wallet was left bloodied and bruised by the encounter.  I knew this was not a long term solution. Not if I still harboured hopes of keeping the wolves from the door every month.

My plan had been to head back to the UK in June and, on my return, stow as much Marmite in my luggage as physically possible, in the hope of lasting until my next return home.  I’ll admit to patting myself on the back for conceiving what seemed such a watertight system. As far as spanners in the works go, the Danish government have well and truly reset the bar.  They’ve swatted aside my childish solution with a scornful sneer. “Nice try, son.”

In light of Denmark announcing, as recently as last week, that they are set to renew border control measures to Sweden, this leaves me with few, if any, options… It appears that I am going to have to take a leaf out of Howard Marks’ book, Mr. Nice.  In order to satisfy my Marmite lust, I am either going to have to become perhaps the world’s first Marmite smuggler, or I am going to have to, on finishing my last pot, section myself for fear of harming those around me in a kind of maniacal rage that would frighten the horrific zombies of 28 Days Later into sitting down and having a glass of milk.

Denmark, I loved you like no other, but you have broken the heart of a man with only the most modest of needs.  If you have a rethink any time soon, you’ll find me sat in my room, blinds drawn, hoping for a cloudy day. Need I suggest the perfect reconciliation gift?

Suck It And See (2011)

Suck It And See is the Arctic Monkeys' follow-up to 2009's Humbug

With 2009’s Humbug, Arctic Monkeys flaunted a versatility that few could’ve anticipated from the pimply scallywags who gave us Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not. With their new album, Suck It And See, they’ve once again thrown caution to the wind by whomping out some riffs that’d make Dave Grohl choke on his Cheerios.

If Humbug was an eerie, often melancholic reminder of Alex Turner’s lyrical prowess and sardonic wit, then Suck It And See is a timely affirmation of Arctic Monkeys’ status as one of the world’s most exciting bands.

That said, their fourth offering begins at somewhat pedestrian pace, especially when compared with ‘My Propeller’ and ‘Brianstorm’, the explosive curtain-raisers from their previous two albums.

Opener ‘She’s Thunderstorms’ meanders predictably, while second track ‘Black Treacle’ also fails to lurch into second gear.  ‘She’s Thunderstorms’ is particularly reminiscent of wistful Arctic Monkeys’ classics ‘Mardy Bum’ and, more recently, ‘Cornerstone’. You fear you’re in for twelve tracks of tired themes and rehashed sentiment.

The pulsating ‘Brick By Brick’ puts paid to this momentary malaise, however, and from there Suck It And See never looks back.

Had you been wondering where your festival anthems will be coming from this summer, then look no further than the bass-laden romp that is ‘The Hellcat Spangled Shalala’, a track that could well be Arctic Monkeys at their most effusive; a pop song that evokes the sort of 60’s feel good factor that Pete Townshend and Ray Davies would be proud of.

The prickly intro to ‘Don’t Sit Down Cause I’ve Moved Your Chair’ is Turner once again showcasing his beguilingly creative eye; at one moment warning you not to run with scissors, and the next imploring you to go into business with a grizzly bear.  Essentially an aide memoire to the accident prone, the track could easily become the most palatable health & safety guidelines ever conceived.

By now you are jostling for the chance to press your face against the steamy window of Turner’s imagination, and are once again coaxed into a fantastical bear-trap with the curious, and yet beautiful, Library Pictures; a song not diminished in the slightest by it’s familiar quiet-loud-quiet formula, patented by a Mr. K. Cobain.  Biting and snapping it’s way into the hall of Arctic Monkeys’ classics, this is the track you’ll be air-riffing in the lift on Monday morning.

Breathless and delirious though you will no doubt be by this stage in proceedings, there is still room for a couple of trademark pop references we can all appreciate.  Not least in ‘Love Is A Laserquest’, and especially in title track ‘Suck It And See’ where Turner ruminates: ‘You’re rarer that a can of Dandelion and Burdock’ - a lyric so sincere it acts as a reminder to a generation that Arctic Monkeys are just four sound lads from Sheffield, who have assumed the role of the country’s most ubiquitous rock & roll band almost apologetically.

Even the darkest emissaries of Humbug will be made to blush by the overtures of this record, with the sumptuous chorus of closer ‘That’s Where You’re Wrong’ ringing defiantly in their ears. If you’re yet to hear it, you simply must suck it and see for yourself.



Suck It And See will be released on the 6th of June and is available for pre-order now.

Happy Birthday TGI's!

As TGI Friday’s celebrates it’s 25th anniversary at the Trafford Centre, Tim Harvey encounters a PR marathon of free cocktails, bottle-twiddling and glitzy Americana.
  Accepting last minute invitations has become somewhat of a trademark of mine in recent years, and I was at it again last Friday when one of my more competent journalist friends invited me to a PR evening at the Trafford Centre branch of TGI Friday’s.
  “There’ll be free cocktails, mate” he assures me, knowing my weakness for brightly coloured liquids.
  “And there’s no need to worry about driving, my mum will pick us up” he continues, sensing my obvious distress at the thought of being stranded at the Trafford Centre, with only the foolhardiness the cocktails have instilled in me to rely on when trying to bluster home later in the evening.
  “Oh, and I think we get free food all night” he concludes, unwittingly illuminating the yellow brick road all the way to my heart; at once initiating the fervid production of saliva in my already not-too-badly-off-for-saliva mouth.
  I have never once been to TGI Friday’s but, in the way that a film takes on a certain mythical quality when you overhear older children discussing it in the playground at school, I have built up a picture of it in my mind more vivid than the neon signs that adorn the TGI’s restaurants I have so often traipsed hungrily past.
  This was the diner for kings, or at least the diner for people with the appetite of kings.  Or, greater still, of Americans.
  But would it stand up to the ravenous appetite of a TGI’s-deprived Mancunian? 
  My imagination says their food is as unashamedly self-indulgent as REM’s Best Of; great platters of heart-attack-inducing grub ready to whet the appetite of even the most stubborn vegan at a moment’s notice.
  In my mind, the food is so delicious that I could well be in for a life-changing evening.  The fact there would be free cocktails available all night is a mere afterthought for what I have pictured…
Freshly showered and dressed in my finest cocktail party apparel (the only shirt and tie I own) I feel ready for my evening of wonders.
  The event is in aid of TGI Friday’s 25th anniversary, and has come to the attention of my friend via a PR associate of his.
  As I contemplate the pros and cons of acting as a PR flannel all night, absorbing every soggy nuance of the meticulously planned soiree with the willingness and enthusiasm of a greyhound on race-day, I experience a familiar feeling.  
  The dreaded, this is too good to be true, feeling.
Something wicked is heading my way with indecent haste…
“Oh, one thing I should mention” my friend, Craig, announces casually.
I assume brace position for the caveat that is about to gallop down my throat.
“We’re going to have to fib a bit tonight.  I’ve told them you’re a journalist”
“Drat!” - a person less prone to profanity might have exclaimed.  “Drat and blast!”
  As I ease back into my seat I wonder how troublesome I might find it assuming the role of a journalist for the evening.  On paper it shouldn’t be difficult at all. I am, after all, about to graduate from the University of Salford with a degree in Journalism & Broadcasting.
  Even the staunchest critic of university education would struggle to argue that three years of training would not endow even the most casual of academics with the wherewithal to pretend to be a journalist.  For one night.
  Indeed, having already submitted a few articles to online magazines, am I not, conceivably, already a journalist?
  These fair points cut no cloth in my suddenly hurried thought processes, however. And besides, it misses the point entirely.  I am absolutely rubbish at pretending to be anything.  
  Picture Hugh Grant bumbling his way into Julia Roberts’ dressing room in Notting Hill claiming to represent Horse & Hound.  I doubt I will be able to match even that most transparent of facades.
  “Oh well, I’ll just have to try and blag it”, I announce unconvincingly. 
 We near the Trafford Centre via the aptly-named, in light of my recent mood change, Death Valley, and I scold myself for agreeing to this ordeal.
  What do I know of TGI Friday’s? Well, as mentioned above, not a lot.
My imagination has filled in most of the gaps in my knowledge of what Craig informs me is not only one of the UK’s most popular American diners but also, in the absence of a city centre branch of TGI’s, one of Manchester’s hottest restaurants.
  Fortunately, as I soon realise upon walking into the hallowed establishment, my imagination  could well have written the TGI textbook.
  It is as illustriously American as anything you are ever likely to see.  It oozes American excess in the same way Ikea oozes Swedish efficiency.
  Gaudy pop-culture references plaster every wall and you would be hard-pressed to find a corner not already claimed by an effigy of Elvis or B.B. King.
  The staff, clad in striped referee-like regalia, patrol the gleaming gym-style floor with an attentiveness more often associated with fawning grandparents.
  I get the impression that to question America’s agenda in Afghanistan within these four walls would result in instant deportation to Guantanamo Bay.
  As Craig and I saunter towards the bar we are dazzled by the Cheshire Cat (read: welcoming hostess) who tonight is tasked with directing us to an appropriate ‘booth’ for our ‘party size‘.          She certainly looks the part, and it is to her credit that her Stockport drawl detracts only slightly from the performance.
 There is an awkward moment where our names don’t quite match those on the guest list (I am a last-minute replacement for a genuine journalist) but it is only a momentary hitch, and we are soon ushered into the VIP area.
  Our earliness, we surmise, will reflect our enthusiasm, and not just our ambition to neck as many free cocktails as our time will permit.  The former sentiment notwithstanding, we are immediately offered the chance to set the ball rolling on the latter aim.
  Just as a cocktail menu is thrust into my hands, another beaming, immaculately coiffed host bounds up to us and offers the kind of steadfast handshake only a PR man is capable of producing.
  I sense the first moment of deception is about to unfold.
  I’m not wrong, as we meet Mark, the brains behind TGI’s 25th anniversary celebrations, and the man whom I must convince I am a serious journalist with an unmatched desire to further the terrific brand of TGI Friday’s to the darkest corners of the Earth.
  As well as Manchester, the TGI’s 25th anniversary tour will take in London, Cardiff, Birmingham and Edinburgh in what Mark tells us is to be an epic celebration.
Miraculously, our initial pleasantries do not extend into a potentially guise-shattering conversation, and he invites us to order a cocktail from the bar.
This is where I realise that my imagination is not quite as splendid as I have first assumed.

 

Craig & I sandwiching a glutton. There's always one...

  We are introduced to Warren, a bar flair champion who has excelled not just in the art of bar flairing (something I had never associated with TGI’s) but also in creating new cocktails from scratch, to the extent where his own brainchild, The Skyy High Elderberry, has been added to the national cocktail menu.
  I am pleasantly surprised by this turn of events, and buoyed further at the thought of having a show to enjoy for the evening, as well as getting plied with free food and liqueur. What with the banning of alcohol at football games, and Sea World’s ongoing refusal to allow a few bevvies during their dolphin shows, I realise I am in for a rare treat.
Reasoning it would be plain rude to choose anything else on the menu but this man’s own cocktail, our order is placed: two Skyy High Elderberry’s.


  I have never been one for bottle-twiddling, but the show that the TGI bar flairers put on is a genuinely amazing spectacle.  Far from being smug, obnoxious show-offs, the flair team emit a warm glow as they twiddle, which makes for a fun and convivial vibe.
  Bottles are tossed and twirled at mind-boggling speed, and all the while the cocktail you have ordered is, albeit by the most flamboyant and circuitous route possible, coming into fruition.
  It is not long before Craig and I cast aside our pre-show nerves and are ordering all manner of exotic cocktails like it’s going out of fashion.
  One such cocktail, served up by a man so affable you suspect it might well be a criminal offence to dislike him, is called Paradise Punch, and comes with at least four liqueurs of which I quickly lose track.  Plus, perhaps as a way to balance their consciences for the food that is about to be served up, it resembles a government five-a-day advert.
  Perhaps as a result of the hastily necked drinks, or maybe because of the infectious friendliness with which the bar staff go about their business, I realise too late that I have let my guard down.
 The PR man, Mark, senses an imbalance in the force and swoops in for the next line of questioning.
“Where are you from then, mate?” He asks me, unscrupulously examining every facet of my expression, looking for weakness.
 I panic and, amidst gabbling the party line taught to me by Craig beforehand, fall off my stool.
 Though my embarrassment is excruciating, there is little reaction from our host and so I effortlessly breeze into my next faux pas, which is to lie that I am currently working for Stylist magazine.
  This does illicit a response, and I cringe to the bone as I realise his smile is one of recognition.
 “Oh great, who’s your contact at Stylist? I do some PR work for them.” 
During moments of crippling embarrassment like this, I would usually go through a routine in my head, which is of a Tie-Fighter, piloted by me, carelessly slipping into the crosshairs of the Millennium Falcon and being eviscerated in a spectacular laser blast.
I find it sums up nicely the sense of wanting to be anywhere else in the world at that moment.
  Sensing all is not lost, however, I plough on and, quite brilliantly in the eyes of Craig, navigate myself away from the jaws of oblivion by backtracking and saying I have merely applied for the role at Stylist.  
  My bacon is saved, and indeed served, moments later as the first installment of food arrives to return everyone’s thoughts to intake.
  And in this respect TGI’s scores a monster A+, as the vast plates of ribs and nachos and burgers and chips make me revise the scope of my imagination once again.
  Had the food been prepared by the House Elves of Hogwarts, and appeared magically through our tables, I could not have been more impressed.
  The feeling of invincibility that comes with quaffing endless free drinks, and wearing an ostentatious VIP necklace, quickly returns, and soon we are treated again - this time with a combined bar flair in which all the bar staff take part simultaneously.
  Like a proud father at sports day, Mark leans over our shoulders as we watch the latest dazzling display of bar flair trickery and tells us the team are world record holders.  They were involved in the biggest simultaneous bar flair in history, which had taken place in London a few weeks previously.
  Adi, Mr Likeable and the leader of the gang, is the UK champion, and his warm personality creeps into every toss, flick and spin of the glasses, ice cubes and bottles in his hands.
Though every branch of TGI’s has at least one Bar-Flairer, Manchester is unique in that it is home to four of the twinkle-fingered maestros.

Bar-Flairer Warren, struggling to hide his contempt
at Craig ordering a mineral water

And by now their heroics have gathered the attention of every diner in the place, which by now is buzzing with excitement and activity.  They look on in rapt amazement as each move is pulled off with élan by the four bar-flairing musketeers.
I feel as though my initial scepticism of TGI’s is as out of date as the Michael Jackson posters on the wall, but I am glad to be chastened in such a pleasant way.
As Craig and I polish off what could easily be our ninth or tenth cocktails of the night, we realise that the VIP area has long since filled up with a half-dozen grizzled hacks who, despite promise of free food and drink, look as world-weary as a Bassett hound on death row.
Perhaps sensing our time has come to scarper, Craig and I seek out our gregarious host, Mark, thank him for the evening and promise him glowing write-ups in the morning. 
I have certainly learned that TGI’s is more than just a glaring example of American excess, and is in fact a foreign foray that America can be proud of. 


As I stagger out into the cool Manchester night, the wicked aftertaste of the Paradise Punch still lingering in my throat, I feel like dropping to my knees and exalting to the heavens “Thank God for TGI Friday’s!”