The mirth-making wild man has a resemblance to Jesus Christ our saviour and probably calls the Bible "the holy booky-wook", yet he is far from saintly.
Rusty's sins – drug addiction in the past, currently fornicating to excess and ridiculing of fictional Spanish waiters – cannot be absolved via mystic mumbo-jumbo or sweaty yoga mats. So how will the horny humourist fair on sartorial judgement day?
First and worst is That Hair (1). Backcombed and bouffanted until the size of a bird's nest or a Horse Guard's busby, it also looks unwashed and distinctly like it would have a devilish deathly odour. Even Noel Fielding looks nauseous and he's a member of the Mighty Bush, I believe.
One thing your Fashion Priest always condemns is inappropriate footwear. An unholy alliance of flip-flops and loose linen separates (2) is simply unforgiveable, as are these tiny Gothic booties (3), pointy like the demonic horns of Satan himself. The cheeky chappy's most chic accessory was angelic popstrel Katy Perry but the feckless fool let her go – despite the fact that she tasted of cherry chapstick, according to a contemporary hymn.
Bad suiting (4) often lead the impure lothario into temptation, be it his birthday suit (despite those on-trend duck egg Y-fronts), unseemly seams or overkill on the metallic greys. The urban cowboy (5) look is less Django Unchained, more Dressing-Up Box Unlocked.
The dirty Dickensian raconteur is partial to a shirt shocker (6). They either flash a chasm of chest – "meavage", I believe the curates call it down the couture seminary – or come in barely-there sheer fabric, which has unfortunate nipple-centric side effects. Add a mini leather waistcoat and consider yourself one of the family.
Finally, there's the stand-up Samson's scarf collection (7), which lurches between those twin pillars of priapic perversity: foppish cravats or flouncy silk. I've attempted to stage a style intervention several times but the frisky funnyman is a stubborn fellow. Pray for him. Not you, Manuel. You're from Barcelona.