I can never work out Issey Miyake's marketing strategy: some of their best releases seem to get very limited distribution and disappear without trace. This, on the other hand, seems to be getting a sizeable push. Maybe it's because they have golden boy Quentin Bisch at the helm, or maybe they think they have a sure fire, mass-pleasing scent on their hands.

Which this assuredly is. It's clean and minimal, ozonic and oceanic, which means it has that salty, seaweedy odour at the outset, offset with a mild, astringent note of ginger. At times it almost seems powdery. This settles to oakmoss and wood, along with a hint of vetiver, accompanied by the trademark Bisch metallic tang.

A couple of things surprised me about this. One was its restraint, and the other was how successfully Bisch has managed to integrate his style into the Miyake DNA. A lot of the Miyake fragrances have a sharp, almost bluntly strident note that dominates, especially at the outset. This manages to avoid that, but at the same time, it's unmistakably a house creation. It's well-blended, and although there's nothing particularly original in the composition, it smells really pleasant. There's something very stark and sheer about it all, and you can easily imagine its wearer occupying one of those uncluttered converted warehouse New York lofts that at one time everyone seemed desperate to emulate.

It's resolutely mainstream and there's nothing here that pushes the boundaries, but those sorts of fragrances have their place too. I could see this fitting into almost any sort of setting, and at most times of the year: so in that respect its almost a textbook example of a dumb reach scent. I'm not sure I'd pay full price for this, but might be tempted if a bottle becomes available on the grey market.

A trip into outer space. Or maybe inner. Or maybe both. The overexcited description of the perfume's inspiration certainly implies as much, as does the 2001 inspired promo film accompanying its release. There is much talk of supernovas and infinity and reverberations of cosmic ambers. So far, so purple.

Ignore all of that: what does the perfume actually smell like? Kind of gorgeous, actually. It takes stock ingredients and combines them in unexpected ways. The opening, peppery blast of incense? It sparkles somehow. The juniper-wood undertow has unanticipated spaciousness and depth. The dirty, mineral, ambergris base is dark and a little bewildering. It really is suggestive of outer space, or the idea of outer space, the reality apparently being the much less palatable scent of burnt meat, gunpowder and piss.

Like all the Rubini perfumes, this reveals its secrets slowly. I’ve been wearing it a lot over the few months, and every time a new facet sneaks out. It also blooms in the open air, and especially in the cold, which allows the individual notes to really emerge. Both ambitious and deeply romantic, it's probably my favourite of the entire line, edging out the greasy overalls and petrol scent of Nuvolari. I'm a bit wowed by it, actually.

Powdery rose at the outset, I don't get the violet notes listed at all. There's a sly dig of raspberry, a fairly soft leather, and the merest hint of sweaty cumin. Initially it seems rather tame, but every so often the ingredients seem intensify in an almost aggressive manner, before receding again. In time, the leathery notes dominate, while at the same time it turns intensely powdery. Finally, there's a long drydown when a somewhat animalic amber pushes through.

Although the putain in the name almost certainly refer to a woman, this seems a pretty unisex perfume to me, so it could equally refer to a man and, indeed, a man could pull it off pretty easily (no pun intended). A pleasant, well-executed mainstream scent, it’s nowhere near as edgy as its name might connotate, and it suggests not so much carnality in a French boudoir as someone with somewhat questionable hygiene standards disguising the scent with overapplication of makeup

Someone has emptied a freshly filled baby's nappy and a few drops of vanilla essence into your rose garden. Nourished, the roses respond by blooming briefly and intensely before dying back to an airy, transparent scent that hangs in the still air.

Once past the shitty oud opening, this is very much a refined rose scent that clings close to the skin. Best suited to cooler weather, in the evening. You will need invest in a second mortgage before being able to purchase a full-sized bottle.

In the smoky, fetid dark room of The Anvil, in a fit of licentiousness, someone's sweaty leather jock strap has been discarded on the stained pine floorboards. You pick it up and sniff it.

Leather-heavy animalic, with an unexpected, slightly sweet undercurrent that breaks through on occasion. Dries down to a calm, post-coupling combination of myrrh and spices. Longevity is impressive, sillage moderate. This was a blind buy and is pretty glorious.

Very green, somewhat milky scent in the opening. It reminds me of the milky sap you get in some plants when the stems are broken. I get red berries too, and there's something almost like liquorice hidden deep down in the mixture. As it progresses, the green remains but the texture turns airy then powdery and there's the slightest suggestion of pepper. It still somehow gives that impression of something creamy white yet green at the same time.

I struggled to identify precisely what the green scent was until I saw bamboo in the notes listing, and that made concrete that very particular scent memory, one of being abroad, in the bamboo groves, on a hot, humid day, one that made the scent hang almost densely in the air.

Light and delicate, this fade quickly unless oversprayed, at which point it remains present for a reasonable length of time. It is very zen, very calming and rather beautiful.

This was the very first perfume I bought many years ago, in the mid 90s. It seemed both unbelievably expensive (a bottle then cost much the same as a bottle now), and totally unique. It reminded me of the Issey Miyake clothing line, which featured heavily in magazines like The Face, clipped and minimal, yet playful in the way it experimented with form. I wore it daily for years.

Recently, in a fit of nostalgia, I bought a bottle again. And it still smells good. There's the initial burst of sherberty citrus, which at the time I thought was lemon but now know to be yazu. The floral notes are more obvious as well, white floral, something that escaped me in all those years when it was my daily wear. When it settles down, the yazu is still there, but it's less dominating and the spices - nutmeg and sandalwood in particular are allowed to come through.

It still seems very clean and stipped down and there's still nothing that is quite like it. Longevity is poorer than I remember, but it doesn't seem to have wandered far from its original formulation.

A bit of a classic designer frag this, one that has worn the passage of time very well.

Or: why do I keep on blind buying these middle-eastern clones?

There's a massive blast of musty mango and saffron in the opening..subtlety is not the order of the day here. Despite the force of the scent, it still manages to be both insipid and sickly.

Then, one extreme to the other, it dries down to a powdery ozonic suede, mixed with sweet citrus, at which point it more or less becomes a skin scent.

This phase isn't unpleasant, but this is lacking something, something sharper and harder to contast with or emphasise the dominant notes. As it is, it's rather anonymous and, worst of all sins, ultimately rather boring.

And to answer the question as to why I keep on buying these? Because a) they're cheap and b) occasionally I'll encounter the occasionally absolute banger of a scent. Masa, alas, is not one of these. Pass.

In the corner of the garden, an underground pipe has sprung a leak and green and bitter gabalnum grows there in the cente of a permanent pool of rusty water. Someone stands close by, chain smoking. He is wearing leather chaps and little else. On seeing you watching, he sprawls on a nearby wooden bench and winks at you in a "come and get me" kind of way. You notice he is wearing a heavy gold medallion, which hangs midway down his noticeably hirsute chest.

A supposed clone of Thom Ford's Noir Anthracite, which in turn was a distinct nod to 70s barbershop fragrances, this really occupies 'inspired by' territory, as opposed to being an out and out clone. It very green, brash in its opening, but its really that ash-like metallic note that elevates it.

Inexpensive, long lasting and, ultimately, a really good scent. An overlooked gem in amongst the multitudes of overhyped middle eastern perfumes, most of which seldom match the level of attention given to them.

You are in Hawksmoor's Spitalfields church, the one with the austere, looming architecture and souce of sometimes intriguing and sometimes downright silly occult conspiracy theories.

Inside, it's smoky, dark and cold because someone has turned out the lights. Perhaps it's the priest, who has nipped outside for a quick fag. You are dressed in leather, sucking on an aniseed drop and for some reason are clutching a sheaf of old, yellowed newspapers. The smell of burnt incense has impregnated the stone walls. There is no-one else in the building but, ominously, there is sound of movement from the vauts below.

This is rather gorgeous. Tamer in intensity than some of the others in the Beaufort range, this is, a bit like the church that inspired it, at first cold and forbidding, but gains in wamth as it dries down, before the stone coldness rushes back. One of my favourites in the Beaufort range, and one of the very few I would consider wearing in a work environment.