The Weasel: Love it or loathe it

Sadly, Mrs W was disappointed by her St Valentine's Day champagne. "Urgh. It's not at all nice. Sort of apple-y. Unpleasantly sweet." In case this sends shock waves through the grandes marques of Reims and Epernay, I should explain that her reaction was not prompted by a bottle of celebratory fizz but a champagne-flavoured version of a more quotidian pleasure.

For this "limited edition" aimed at the gooey St Valentine's market, the product name MARMITE has been replaced by a less-than-subtle I LOVE YOU, but it cut no ice with Mrs W.

"Well, I don't love it. It's horrible." This reaction was a little surprising since my wife is normally rather fond of the yeasty spread and extremely fond of champagne, which appears in large print on the front of the jar.

In a considerably smaller typeface on the back label, we are informed that it contains 0.3 per cent champagne. Three parts per thousand in a 250-gram jar amounts to 0.75 grams. The "limited edition" is not exactly effervescent. By my calculation, one bottle of champagne will suffice to provide minuscule nips for 1,000 jars of Marmite. Since the "special edition" costs £2.99 compared to £2.12 for the bog standard, this means a mark-up of 87p on each jar or £870 on a thousand jars. Unilever, the manufacturer of Marmite, could add Krug '95 at £150 a bottle and still make a handsome profit but I bet it doesn't. A press release for this unlikely aphrodisiac reveals: "With only 600,000 jars being created, Lovers' Marmite is set to fly off the shelves." Curiously, it omits to point out that those romantic soppies at Unilever will also benefit to the tune of £522,000.

A few molecules of bubbly are unlikely to add the "subtle champagne scent and flavour" claimed by Unilever. It seems much more probable that this is due to something called "wine flavouring". The suggestions in the press release of "spreading it on to heart-shaped toasts for an unforgettable breakfast in bed" or (brace yourself) "treat your lover to Marmite kisses and experience a new way to enjoy the unique taste of limited edition Lovers' Marmite" did not appeal to my Marmite lover. "I think it would show more taste to chuck it in the bin," huffed Mrs W. "Why do they have to muck around with it? They had Guinness-flavoured Marmite, then there was that revolting slimy version in the tube. I wish they would leave it alone." The reason that I do not entirely share her irritation at these exercises in brand extension is that I do not entirely share her fondness for the standard version. I'll eat it occasionally – contrary to the brand's marketing thrust, it is possible to be lukewarm about Marmite – but only if we have run out of Bovril, which also happens to be made by Unilever.

Along with male/female, young/old, driver/ pedestrian, Yorkshire/ Lancashire, the preference for Marmite or Bovril on toast is one of the great divisions of humanity. Personally, I cannot imagine why anyone would want the strange beery smell and sharp, one-dimensional, acrid taste of Marmite rather than the rich, satisfying beefiness of Bovril. Anyone in their right mind would prefer concentrated beef stock to treated sludge from the brewing industry. (That's why Marmite is made at Burton-on-Trent.) How often do you hear of people eating roast yeast for Sunday lunch? Bovril is a food for grown-ups with a distinguished advertising lineage: the pyjama-clad shipwreck survivor cheerfully bobbing on a giant jar at sea ("Prevents that sinking feeling"); the bull sadly regarding a jar ("Alas, my poor brother"). Marmite is essentially a food for immature palates. Look at the ads: "My mate Marmite." You wouldn't get Lover's Bovril or Bovril kisses.

Yet, the more I looked into Bovril, the more I realised that it wasn't all it appeared. By peering at the small print on the label, you learn that it is only 43 per cent beef stock with an extra 1.3 per cent dehydrated beef. No less than 24 per cent is yeast extract, as consumed by immature palates. Worse still, I discovered via a few taps at Google that during the BSE scare Bovril didn't contain any beef at all. From two years from 2004, Bovril was yeast extract bolstered, as it still is, by the delicious-sounding waxy maize starch and flavour enhancer (disodium 5'-ribonucleotides). Yet I'd eaten it spread on buttered toast throughout that period and hadn't noticed a thing.

A phone call to Unilever revealed that even my mode of consumption was mistaken. "There is a difference between the two products," a PR person loftily announced. "Marmite is a spread. Bovril is a drink."

"And a spread," I chipped in. She repeated the party line with emphasis.

"So did I do something illegal this morning by having it on toast?"

"Not many of our consumers put Bovril on toast."

For some unfathomable reason, possibly to do with brand differentiation, Unilever doesn't want people to regard Bovril as a spread. The label refers to it as "a great hearty drink". There is even a puff of steam coming from the logo. According to Unilever's website, it is much consumed at football matches, which explains the inane footballing facts also on the label. Since I've always been heartily bored by football and I've drunk maybe three mugs of hot Bovril in my entire life, I wonder if my devotion has been misplaced. People tell me that Vegemite is very good.