Iggy Pop: Romanian Caesar

When I was younger I went to several concerts to see the man they dubbed The American Caesar. I loved this guy, his raw energy thrilled me beyond belief and, I know it's corny, but I felt he was speaking just to me. Once I even turned up at Brixton Academy from work in my suit and with a briefcase – one of precious few memories that I recall with any degree of pride. The point is, brothers, I’m now washed up a long way from home and from anything that affirms my own individual identity. Rather pathetically, I’ve decided that to survive in this alien culture I must prove that Iggy exists for me here just as he existed for me then. So..... oh, good grief..... here’s why he’s Romanian:

Pop is a very common surname here: we have a neighbour called Mr Pop. Romanian boys are named after Caesars: Iulius, Claudiu, Traian (Trajan), Tiberiu.... and you can even be called Cezar, as my nephew is. (You can also be christened Romulus or Remus - yeah, even the most Slavic-looking parents imagine that they’re direct descendants of Rhea Silvia and the god Mars, but that’s another story.)

The only other “American” man to look genuinely fantastic with his top off (and I’m speaking objectively, as a heterosexual) was Hollywood Tarzan and 5-gold-medal Olympic swimmer Johnny Weissmuller. He came from near Timişoara - which is now part of Romania, thanks very much - though he tried to forget this.

The lank hair is a strong indication. Indeed, many women from Moldova might wish to ask him which shampoo he uses. The wild eyes and sunken cheeks bespeak a life-time of either recreational drugs use or herding sheep around in crap weather. He could have done either, really, it’s hard to tell.

So there you go, pretty conclusive I think you'll agree. I feel much better now, thanks.

Marmite Marmite Marmite

(Ok, here goes my first proper blog post. I don't know if I'll be able to do this very regularly, and it may take a while for me to get into the swing, but here goes a little one:)

Famously, you either love it or you hate it. (Though I’ve now found that there’s A Third Way, vis., you’ve never heard of it.) It’s a sticky, salty, brown substance in a jar that you spread on toast. (That's warmed up bread). It’s also famously (ok, not that famously in some benighted regions) quintessentially English. I like it, not that that proves anything, and as I live a long way from The Muvverland I have amassed a collection of it to give me solace at breakfast-time. Not only this, in my more manic and desperate moments of homesickness, I’ve found my mind fixated on the stuff - frankly, to the exclusion of much else that might actually rescue me from this madness. Anyway, I hereby invent a new parlour game for all Englishmen living abroad; it’s called “Marmite News”. Basically, all you have to do is to think of articles, features, stories, etc, that could fill a weekly publication (yes, weekly) devoted entirely to Marmite. You don’t have to actually like the stuff; all you have to do is humour me and help me get through a few more days here. I’m going to kick off with some headlines:

Would you still like it if your country had a proper gastronomic tradition? Yes.
The 1957 revision of the Marmite label: was it really all bad?
People who don't eat Marmite die, eventually.

And here are some clues for the Marmite News crossword:

1 across: Brown, sticky, salty stuff that you buy in a jar and spread on toast, but not Bovril (7).
2 across: Sticky and yeasty – sailor, I’m confused within me! (7).
1 down: Mother’s worth a try, we hear (7).
2 down: Rim team (anag.) (7).