Brut 33 as Motivational Discourse

brut

Good for nightclub chafing

 

Surely Liam Messam, and any guy in this country, knows of the Brut 33 curse?

Worn only by year 12 students to the school formal in 1986—because a few droplets, only, remained in dad’s glass bottle on the glass shelf in the bathroom—Liam has taken a massive leap of faith to make the scent equivalent of Jamaican rum and coke a winner.

Think Longspew Lounge (horrible nightclub “Longview” in Eastern suburbs town of Howick), where Brut wearers of yore would invariably land for the night on a Thursday with a stack of Dunhill Reds to share with unsuspecting ladies, and a skinful of some God-forsaken spirit mixed with 13 teaspoons of sugar.

Loosen the work neck-tie, dance like you are planting the new-season potatoes, score then and there, because your musk-scent of spiced vanilla mixed with fresh apple and tennis-player sweaty crevice residue won two girls over at once.

Later you’d evolve and end up in town rather than the suburbs; Changes—and further on into your important university career, The Box, Cause Celebre, The Manhattan … the latter famed for landline phones on tables so you could ring up the smouldering women on any table and sexually harass them, fully legal and everything.

Set above United Video on Dominion Road, no stairs were shonkier and no greater amount of handbags were tripped over than this outfit. It is said that Russ Le Roq and the Romantics played there as did our own answer to everything, Tom Sharplin.

Your Brut 33 was welcome here.

But some of the BCom grads could afford classier splash-ons like Kouros, Jazz, Paco Rabanne, and Drakkar Noir, which roughly translates to “Grope in the Dark”.

If you’d stuck to your Brut, you’d never have the luck some of these guys got, they all ended up with Minnie Crozier lookalikes, and you, well you still lived at home in Vim City and your bathroom was peach on peach, the glassy shelves filled with sex repellents, but still, you stayed close to your mum and didn’t develop cirrhosis of the liver from years of tanking up on incendiary piss in bad bars wearing overpriced vinaigrette.

With your grey zip-up shoes and shiny trousers, your sheeny purple short-sleeved shirts from Hugh Wrights and your Robert Miles ‘Children’ CD in your BMW 316, you, at least, were a good human.

And Messam shows this to be true. Back Yourself, he says after pummeling the Christ out of rugby equipment.

Back Yourself.

Brut 33. The scent of New Zealand, the scent of success.

 

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