Originally by: Chribba
The nordic answer to down-under's marmite. Both tastes crap
But yeah, OP's probably after the messmör.
Actually, Marmite is English, not Australian, in origin.
Whcih brings to mind that I used to drive trucks for a living and have driven tankers collecting waste brewers yeast from around the UK for the factory in Burton-on-Trent. You can see the vehicles rattling up and down the motorways of the UK; great big silver tanker trailers pulled by black units with the Marmite logo on them.
First time they sent me out in one, I went to Sam Smith's brewery in Tadcaster to collect some. Unfortunately, being what is known as "the agency prick" I had not been briefed on the proper operation of the loading system and the regular guy at the brewery was off sick.
One of the brewery guys and I hooked up a pipe from the waste yeast storage vat at the brewery to the truck, and he switched the pump on. The pipe shook alarminlgy, and then I figured out that it was from pressure build up as the valve into the truck had not been opened. I wasn't thinking straight, so I reached to open the valve rather than switch the pump off first.... just as I got to it to turn it, the pressure built up to the point where the pipe blew out from the ring mating it to the inlet on the truck.
It could have been worse; the pipe missed me as it scythed away from the truck, blasting everything in a large radius with a frothy, brown, yeasty death-ray. I got covered from head to foot in slimy waste yeast. It was like the slimer scene in Ghostbusters, only with ale by-products instead of ectoplasm. Actually, the smell wasn't too offensive, but it was very strong and didn't fade noticeably for days... good job that Mrs Kain liked Marmite.
After hosing myself off I ended up having to wear my spare t-shirt and trolleys from my drive bag, but alas... no spare trousers. I made do with the tartan blanket I always carried in my drive bag as a makeshift kilt while my wet trousers and shirt were placed on the passenger seat to dry.
Typical then that on the way to the next pick-up point I get pulled in by the man from the Ministry of Transport for a routine spot check. I ended up standing in my "kilt" in a lay-by by the side of the vehicle whilst giggling officials inspected it and several coppers tittered and made Braveheart jokes nearby. I got beathalysed too, as I literally did stink like a brewery despite not having touched a drop.