After their first full week as national style influencers, some senior Labour women may be wondering what, if anything, could get them recognised as politicians. Will their only respite come when the Duchess of Sussex, the traditional target for instant media bitching, again wears something her UK adversaries find too costly, too “quasi-royal” or, if all else fails, too warm? Here’s an idea: could they not try to look more Boris Johnson? After some initial revulsion, his glutton-meets-vagrant outlandishness became so unremarkable that he was finally reduced, when starved of attention, to running about in a formal shirt, shorts and dress shoes. And even then no headlines chastised him, like the recent one illustrated with a full-length picture of Sue Gray, Keir Starmer’s chief of staff, in clothes the Mail disliked:“Sue, you work for the Labour party… not the pyjama party!” Nor, however disgraceful his appearance at significant events, was Johnson seriously reproached for not caring. But here’s a review of Bridget Phillipson’s dress and jacket, confirming that all we really want from an incoming education secretary is a directional statement piece: “This is becoming a go-to look which does women in the public eye a disservice, there are more modern, comfortable options out there.” Get back to us, Bridget, when you’ve smartened up. That some outfits have been approved – step forward Rachel Reeves, your trouser suits have impressed even Nadine Dorries – is merely a reminder, to all of them, never to get dressed without asking: would the Mail like this? There’s no reason to think, just because it’s a while since that paper compared Theresa May’s legs with Nicola Sturgeon’s, that it won’t repeat the exercise on Labour women with visible legs. Sturgeon’s (Sarah Vine wrote) “are altogether more flirty, tantalisingly crossed”. The alternative, a Johnson makeover, need not be costly. Explore charity shops for stained jackets and stupid hats, or – to channel his old rival in contemptuous chic, Dominic Cummings – for discarded gilets and tracksuit bottoms. If the clothes look dirty, so much the better: this, like mad hair, signals effortless superiority over risk-averse, neatly dressed drones. Or go vintage: David Cameron, when prime minister, hired a pretend genius who wore socks, shorts and T-shirts around Downing Street. (Sockman became a valued Trump supporter). A safer bet, since female politicians have yet to attempt similar extremes in dishevelment, may be for Labour women to imitate Ann Widdecombe or Thérèse Coffey: women whose appearance somehow escaped the diligent pricing and lightly disguised fat-shaming with which the right-leaning press is currently encouraging readers to pile on new female ministers. After Angela Rayner wore outfits from Me+Em, the Telegraph had the inspired idea, one it seems never to have applied to Suella Braverman or Liz Truss, of comparing pictures of the deputy prime minister with catalogue photographs of models in the same clothes, with price tags. The resulting below-the-line abuse, if not a security risk, would probably be just as effective in discouraging any woman already doubtful about a political career. “Revolting woman”; “God, she is absolutely horrendous”; “She looks bloody awful”. She desperately needed a stylist, readers suggested, but also to spend less in the name of proletarian unity. “What message does it send to the country,” one subscriber asked, “when our socialist leaders wear clothes that many of their constituents can only dream of affording?” Good question. Ask the queen? Social media discussion of Rayner’s outfits confirms, to be fair, that the misogynistic specialism of reducing female politicians to the sum, sometimes literally, of their clothing remains something everyone can enjoy. On a Gransnet discussion, “Angela Rayner ghastly trouser suit”, that reached the community’s 1,000-message limit, the original poster contributed, among other insults: “She looks like she either has no bra on or a badly fitted one.” What about Lisa Nandy’s suit, another said, “far too tight, you could see the outline of her pants”. Another gran said the deputy prime minister looked like “a tart”. Compared with these massed attacks, the penalties for breaking medieval sumptuary laws – regulating dress according to class – were, you may think, mild. Yes, you could be fined or put in the stocks for overspending, but at least a GB News personality wouldn’t pillory you nationally on X (“Angela Rayner is a working-class hero. Also Rayner: ‘Yeah 550 quid on that, I’ll look mint”) for disrupting the feudal order. The old rules on who was allowed to wear, say, fur, velvet or decorative buttons, dependent on rank, had the further advantage of clarity. As demeaning as it may be for politicians from disadvantaged backgrounds to know they are considered too common by eminences from GB News to wear a label also bought (like Me+Em) by royalty, some intelligible codification – featuring brand, price, colour, style, adornment – would reduce ongoing confusion over how female politicians should dress in order not to be trolled by, say, Mail style icon Andrew Pierce: “If she’d looked in a mirror she could not possibly have gone down Downing Street looking like that.” Without going so far as to propose a uniform, Britain’s style police could usefully, if their criticism is to become a fixture, share guidelines that, if followed, give female politicians a chance to be judged on their work. What shades of green, assuming this does not depend on the wearer’s class, would experts averse to Me+Em’s “topaz” consider appropriate for a deputy prime minister? How much, Daily Telegraph, should she weigh? On spending: if Rayner’s recent outlay was extravagant, could critics assist with price recommendations, per item and season? Finally, do we conclude from recent coverage that senior Conservative women are, in respect of all sumptuary guidance, exempt? Likewise all royals? Not including, obviously, Meghan, for whom the arrival of Labour’s female targets, given the number of shared enemies, must be the best UK news in years. Catherine Bennett is an Observer columnist