The hill I would die on is made of Vegemite. Marmite is a minuscule mound in comparison. A hapless hillock. A negligible knoll.

Vegemite is Australian penicillin. It cures everything from homesickness to heartbreak. From pleb to celeb and prime minister to prisoner, Vegemite is our culinary mainstay. Aussies are not that big on etiquette – our only breach of etiquette is to suggest that we adhere to any. But there is one cardinal sin: not to like Vegemite. It is a trait that, socially, places you just below leper and just above Maga supporter in our estimation.

When I moved to London in the late 1980s, it was to Barry Humphries’ neighbourhood. So many Aussies moved into the area that we nicknamed it Vegemite Valley. Barry’s house backed on to mine, so whenever he’d return from a trip he’d send me a message to say: “Kathy love, I’m poised at your rear entrance.” A totally Vegemite comment if ever there was one; no Marmite........

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