Acqua di Parma (Acqua di Parma, 1916)

Often have I idly wondered: what, exactly, did an 18th century German smell like? I can hazard a guess: a combination of Liverwurst, Lebkuchen, Lederhosen and elaborately-greased whiskers. For some reason, the Italian Giovanni Maria Farina found himself in the German city of Köln in 1709, and apparently found the odour of the inhabitants so noxious that he had to invent Eau de Cologne to cover it up. The resulting light citrussy-herbal concoction turned out to be one of the most influential scents in the whole history of perfume.

Farina's Eau de Cologne was not original. Hungarians had hogged the market in the Middle Ages with their Eau d'Hongrie, a similar herbal fragrance with citric elements. Most Italian states had a profumeria churning out bottles of the same sort of thing, notably the Farmacia di Santa Maria Novella in Florence, which is still going strong today. Farina's genius, then, was principally in bringing sensory civilisation to soothe the savage Hun, and in turning the unlikely town of Köln into a world-famous producer of nice smells.

Farina's invention was widely imitated, but not perfected for more than two centuries. In the middle of the First World War, an unknown group of Parmense noses created the fragrance that would henceforth define the highpoint of Eaux de Cologne. With excellent chutzpah, they renamed it: Acqua di Parma. Both the Germans and the French could consider themselves to have been flicked the Vs.

Many great colognes are still available - among them, the S. Maria Novella one, and the authentic Kölnischwasser 4711. But Acqua di Parma bests the lot of them. Something about its minutely perfected combination of notes is more cosmopolitan and more seductive than anything comparable. And, crucially, it lasts much longer. A burst of fresh lemon to start is followed by a clever blend which manages to capture a sexy, laid-back, interwar complexity. The fresh middle notes of rose, lavender, rosemary and verbena don't dip too far into femininity to put off the men. And the woody base notes of vetiver, cedar and sandalwood don't veer too far into masculinity to put off the women.

Lots of the most sexy and stylish people of the twentieth century noticed how very, very good this was. Among the wearers of Acqua di Parma were Cary Grant and David Niven, Ava Gardner and Lana Turner; also Audrey Hepburn, but I don't like her so we'll draw a veil over that. The specific genius of AdP resides in the fact that it is equally sexy on a man or a woman (and, no doubt, on an intersexual). It makes everyone who wears it seem more sophisticated, richer, better-read, more widely travelled and better in bed.

I buy a bottle of this stuff every summer, and every time I spray it on I feel like I'm in a fast car being driven by a tall, dark, chiselled-featured young novelist around the Mediterreanean in the 1930s, on our way to get married in Monte Carlo just before he goes off to volunteer for the International Brigade in the Spanish Civil War, in which he will have a hero's death when he leads Ernest Hemingway, George Orwell and a group of wild-eyed socialist peasants to stop a Nazi division from burning down an orphanage by wrestling them to the ground with his bare hands... mmm... yeah.

Be wary of the perils on your journey. The shop assistant will probably try to persuade you to buy one of AdP's alternative smells: the dodgy Lavanda, the nose-itching Iris Nobile, or one of the horrific Blu Mediterraneo collection, all of which smell like over-iced cake that has been left out in the Tuscan sun for too long. Don't be diverted. You can have the Colonia Assoluta if you really must, but you will regret any attempt to improve on the original. Because it has now been three hundred years since Farina's marketing coup, and nobody's done it better. Acqua di Parma is perfect.

Green Irish Tweed (Creed, 1985, Olivier Creed)

Lemon, verbena, iris, violet leaves, mysore sandalwood and ambergris

In many ways 1985 was a bleak year. The Rainbow Warrior was mined by French secret service agents, André Kertész, Orson Welles, Marc Chagall and Dian Fossey all died and Brothers in Arms by Dire Straits and Level 42's World Machine were both unleashed upon an unsuspecting public. Another modern menace, the mobile telephone also debuted in this benighted year whilst button-down collars and skinny ties ran rampant. It seems like a year that would best be beaten to death, buried and forgotten, never to be disinterred, even by the most culturally curious anthropologist.

The man wearing the button down collar and the skinny tie in 1985 is now approaching 50 and a respected banker with a golf club membership, a suit from M and S's Autograph range and drives a 2005 BMW 525i. He wears Davidoff's Cool Water as he sees it as a classic masculine fragrance that won't get commented upon by his golfing chums but will appease his family whose complaints about the infrequent splashing of Fabergé's Brut about his person have led him to go up market. As he screams down this dual carriageway of my imagination cursing the other motorists in their smaller, cheaper cars who don't yield the road to him as quickly as they ought he is suddenly aware of a vehicle serenely motoring down a small country road that runs parallel to the newer, more concrete bypass he favours. Well hell and damnation if it isn't Cary Grant. Cary Grant in a Bristol 411. Cary Grant in a Bristol 411 driving from the highlands of Scotland to Monte Carlo - pressing on, but not in a hurry.

And that is what defines Green Irish Tweed. It has effortless class. It has panache. It does for those who delight in perfume what seeing a Huntsman suit in the midst of a sea of Topman does for connoisseurs of fine tailoring. It is a perfume for people who appreciate detailing and quality in all things. Those who complain that it is no different from Davidoff's Cool Water are akin to those who do not notice silk linings, 4 button cuffs that are actually functioning cuffs, the delicate flare at the sleeve or the sculptural waisting of a jacket to improve its silhouette. These are subtle differences to be sure, but they are all important and separate the sublime from the merely acceptable.

Green Irish Tweed, along with so many Creed fragrances, has distinct notes of sandalwood and oakmoss. There is a definite scent of actual oak, a green sappy oak, that remains throughout the day. The sandalwood becomes more muted as the day wears on. The lemon, verbena and the floral ingredients combine to produce an almost incense like atmosphere under the oak whilst the ambergris provides a deep earthy scent that lasts throughout. The sensation of wearing Green Irish Tweed is that of wandering through a fir forest after a deluge. There is a sense of freshness to it, but it is not the astringent cleanliness that many more synthetic fragrances offer. One is still profoundly aware of nature's involvement in this smell, it is not some modernist, ersatz simulacrum of her. As the day wears on the foliage dries and, to continue the arboreal analogy, the forest reverts to a faintly dusty, fertile soil, leaf mulch and earthy scent that is calming, promotes quiet contemplation and yet makes one want to plunge one's fingers into the rich top soil and run it between ones fingers just for the sensation of rich fecundity and pure sensual pleasure. Perhaps 1985 wasn't a complete write-off after all?

As our banker returns to his detached mock Tudor house with its garden decking and carport, Cary has rounded the Mirabeau, pulled up in front of the Grand Hotel, emerged to the popping of the cooling Chrysler V8, smoothed his suit, taken a seat at the bar, ordered a very dry martini with a twist, and given the spiv in the dinner jacket with the suspicious bulge at the armpit to his left, who has just ordered a martini made with, God forbid, vodka "shaken, not stirred", a deservedly withering look.

Musc Ravageur (Frédéric Malle Editions de Parfums, 2000, Maurice Roucel)

Musk, cinnamon, tangerine, bergamot.

Musk Ravageur is a gloriously complex frangrance: all day long it evolves and matures through different, fascinating stages. I can't possibly put into words how interesting and multi-layered it is. What I can put into words, though, are the two notes that keep coming back and back and back, which are:

• one of those oranges with cloves stuck in it; and
• sweaty animal.

If that sounds disgusting, this perfume probably isn't for you, but I think it's wonderful. I'm going to stop wearing it in summer, though, since I keep reminding myself of Christmas.

Angel (Thierry Mugler, 1992, Olivier Cresp & Yves de Chiris)

Chocolate, patchouli, vanilla, caramel.

We've all been talking about some of our favourite fragrances: I think it's high time one of us wrote about our least favourite.

There's no denying that Angel has had a huge effect on the perfume industry: it effectively created the market for comestibles and has been imitated time and time again. I respect that creativity. However, the smell makes me want to puke.

If one were to melt down a whole load of cheapo advent-calendar chocolates, and then stir in a bottle of patchouli room-fragrance oil, and then drink the resulting curdled substance, I'd imagine that would be quite a bit like the experience of sniffing Angel. People say Angel is sexy, but since the image it conjures up for me is of a dozen toddlers vomiting after overdosing on Hershey's, sex is approximately the furthest thing from my mind. It is a rancid, ghastly smell, that flatly refuses to die down or mix with human body smell at all. It's so strong that my throat starts to burn if I share a tube carriage with an Angel wearer and it smells of identical choco-patcho-vomit on everybody.

(Fun true story: my first encounter with Angel was shortly after its release, in the duty free at Heathrow. The shop assistant lady squirted some on to my arm. My stomach turned; I ran to the loos to try and wash it off, but no luck. On the following eight-hour flight to New York, I took trips to the lavatory every hour to try another feeble attempt at scrubbing it off my wrists with the free British Airways toothbrush. Result: red, raw, bleeding wrists, that still stank of Angel. When we finally reached the hotel, I leaped into the shower before I'd even sat down.)

Good god, I hate it so very much. If I could wipe every bottle off the planet in the interest of my own mental health, I would.

Virgin Island Water (Creed, 2006, Olivier & Erwin Creed)

Coconut, lime, musk, bergamot, mandarin, ylang ylang, jasmine.

I loved the initial citric zing that came out of the bottle. I loved the distinctly Caribbean pina colada smell when it was on my skin. I was delighted half an hour later when I felt surrounded by coconut, tropical woods and man-sweat. "This is amazing!" I thought. "I really do smell like the Virgin Islands!"

And yet, two hours later and I smell... not really so good. There's still pina colada, but it smells plasticky and cheap, like Superdrug hair gel. It isn't unpleasant, but somehow, it just doesn't smell real. In fact, it smells an awful lot like the coconut fragrance that they pipe into The Mirage casino in Las Vegas, except less sweet, more bitter. I don't hate it... but I don't like it much, either.

I won't be buying a bottle of this any time soon.

Dzing! (L'Artisan Parfumeur, 1999, Olivia Giacobetti)

I hope Ms Kolinsky, Ms Sutphin and Mr Atrocity aren't too peeved that I'm bagsying Dzing! as my debut fragrance. To my knowledge, they're all fans.

Back in the days of Roman imperial decline, the satirist Juvenal opined that the people had lost all interest in the serious matters of war and governance, distracted as they were by the pursuit of bread and circuses. But even Juvenal would not have been able to stop his grumpy mouth watering as he strode through the forum in the morning and the smell of hot stonebaked ciabatta briefly overpowered the stink of unwashed slave and regurgitated dormouse. So, too, may we admit that the smell of circuses is a powerful evocation.

As the plumed showgirl riding a tiger on the bottle implies, Dzing! is intended to smell of circuses. Mainly, this means sawdust and tiger armpit. The practised nose (or imagination) may also detect traces of toffee apple and greasepaint. It was concocted by the sublimely imaginative Olivia Giacobetti, whose various creations for L'Artisan - including Premier Figuier, Tea for Two and Safran Troublant - have all broken new ground. For me, though, Dzing! is her masterpiece. Spraying it on yourself is like putting on a motheaten but extremely lustrous fur coat made from something horribly endangered. It's bold, shocking and totally conspicuous. I won't wear it in the day unless I really want to fuck some mad shit up.

If you wear Dzing!, you can expect a variety of passionate responses. Certainly it will not pass muster with the Terrence Howard school, which regards women who do not rigorously disinfect their undercarriages as filthy sluts. Mr Howard is exactly the sort of freak that Dzing! will handily scare off at 100 paces. Other reactions are diverse. Dzing! is one of a few scents that has provoked a total stranger to come up to me and ask what I smelled of; I think she was being appreciative. More than once, a gentleman has sniffed my neck for rather too long trying to place its elements. And, just a couple of weeks ago, a friend greeted me with "What's that fabulous smell? It's gorgeous; really clean, somehow." I told her that I actually smelled of pies, leotard crotch and raggle-taggle gypsy child, but she didn't believe me.

It warms and mellows a bit, like everything else, but Dzing! is actually remarkably consistent: still hitting most of the same notes four hours after you first drench yourself in it. It's a unique, heavy and borderline-dangerous scent. As the victorious Roman gladiator staggered forth from the Colosseum, having shown a bunch of big cats the business end of his toasting fork, you can bet the back of his knees smelled like this. Grrrrrrr.

Cuir de Russie (Chanel, 1924, Ernest Beaux)

According to Susan Levine (The Perfume Guide, Haldane Mason, 2000) Edmond Roudnitska once described a certain perfume as 'a beautiful flower snapped into a new leather handbag'. Levine thinks this a good description of Chanel's Cuir de Russie, and so it is.
This is one of my all-time favourites. A deeply compelling blend of flowers and leather. I suspect that the sexy combination of flora and fauna lies at the heart of many unforgettable scents. The novelist Angela Carter has a wonderful passage in Wise Children where the narrator remembers the skeleton of a dessicated gardenia in the pocket of an old fur coat and reflects upon the slightly scandalous relationships by which she came by these. In the 1930s, women pinned orchids or gardenias to stoles of silver fox or coats of Russian sable. No need to labour the symbolism, here.
Perfumer Ernest Beaux composed Cuir de Russie in 1924. It makes me think of the Ballet Russes, or Iris Storm, the doomed heroine of Michael Arlen's cult romance, The Green Hat, of that year. Iris is a symbol of modernity, who collides with tradition: she drives her yellow Hispano-Suiza smack into an old oak tree.

Alamut (Lorenzo Villoresi, 2006)

Rose, incense, patchouli, amber, tuberose, ylang-ylang, neroli.

I find a lot of incense-based fragrances too sweet for my tastes; I've been looking for an exception for quite a while. I have found it in Alamut, which is such a wonderful smell that, in spite of the fact that I only discovered it two days ago, ranks among my favourite fragrances of all time.

On my skin, the initial neroli and tuberose give way quickly to incense, powdery lavender and sandalwood, which are the strongest notes I get from this scent. However, as with Cuir Ottoman (below), the quality that raises this one from good to extraordinary is that the impression I have is not that my skin is wearing an incense fragrance, but that my skin itself smells of incense. My assumption is that this wouldn't be the case with everybody, and that it's a quality of my own body chemistry, but the effect is subtle, sensual and remarkable. My skin smells of lavender talc and Nag Champa.

If I had to choose one 'desert island' perfume, one to wear every single day, Alamut would be a very strong contender. Unlike some of my other favourites, it is a gentle, warm, subtle smell - but no less stunning for it.

Cuir Ottoman (Parfums d'Empire, 2006, Marc-Antoine Corticchiato)

Leather, iris, Egyptian jasmine, styrax, tolu balsam, benzoin and incense.

I am very fond of earthy, natural animal smells. I am not that keen on scents which seem designed to disguise the scent of the body, especially those described as "fresh" or "invigorating". If I wish to be invigorated, I will take a cold shower. I certainly do not wish to smell of shower gel. And what better way to not smell of the bathroom than Parfum d'Empire's Cuir Ottoman, a fragrance created to bring the scents of the Ottoman controlled territories, from the very gates of Vienna to southern Europe and Persia into one rich mixture of decadent exoticism.

Initially the fragrance is a mixture of leather and tobacco, the tobacco being more redolent of Turkish oriental tobacco than Havana Ligero. Some say they get an impression of incense; I feel it is more tobacco but this only lasts for a few minutes. Thereafter the scent changes and the tobacco element becomes muted.

The second thing I notice about the fragrance is how well it mixes with the natural smell of skin that has seen a little sunlight. Even though the scent is quite strong, one truly wears this scent, it does not wear you. There is still an obvious leather base note to the fragrance throughout the day but this is tempered by a slightly floral, almost rose-like aroma combined with a talcum powder scent which manifests itself after a half hour or so. There is also perhaps a hint of sandalwood. The floral and the leather combine to describe the delicate eroticism of a westerner's impression of Persia with the stern authority of Ottoman imperial might. It is fragrence made for a West European impression of an alien culture and as such it manages mystery and strength: a heady combination.

This fragrance is listed in many places as being feminine. I really cannot understand how. It is deeply animalic, albeit in a debauched, decadent way, and is as unisex a fragrance as I can conceive of. If you favour a powerful but understated fragrance that combines with the skin's natural scent to produce a sensual, smoky but very natural perfume then this could be the scent for you.

Carnal Flower (Frédéric Malle Editions de Parfums, 2005, Dominique Ropion)

Tuberose, coconut, bergamot, jasmine, orange blossom, musk. Inspired by actor Candice Bergen. Contains the largest amount of tuberose absolute in any fragrance.

I've always had a love/hate relationship with tuberose. When I was a teenager I absolutely loved it and couldn't get enough of tuberose scented candles; a few years later I suddenly found it disgustingly sweet and couldn't go near the stuff. It's odd, then, that after a long fascination with the scent, yesterday I finally caved and bought a bottle of Carnal Flower.

Why would I buy a bottle of a smell I don't really like? I'm not sure. It's definitely sweet and heavily floral: two things that instantly put me off a perfume. And yet I like it, and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because it's a bit dirty and musky; maybe it's because the coconut and jasmine make me think of long, relaxed evenings in warm climates. I don't know, but tonight, after a day walking around in the heat, I smell quite extraordinary: like you'd imagine tuberose-scattered bedsheets to smell after a night of sin, when all the flowers are starting to rot.

Right now, I really, really love this fragrance. But I wouldn't be surprised if, a few months down the road, I'll sniff myself and suddenly feel a bit sick. And then I'll have to give the bottle to somebody who likes florals.