the clues are...

a trail of dead women
bouncing on the edge of a slightly raised eyebrow,
a chair shaped man,
a bed shaped man,
a walking shapeless man that bends
with cloths for hands,
a bond between a compulsive liar
and a sweet clumsy giant messiah,
a series of unfortunate accidental rhymes,
a woman's moral if moral was a woman,
a two years dance with the queen to the sound of castanets,
two hands turned on their back,
a social hand grenade exploding on that hungry fucker's hands,
a love twenty-five years late,
a room full of mirrors, where the smoothest of stones sees itself rough.
a series of unfortunate good fucking people.

you know
"fish,
chips,
cup of tea,
bad food,
bad weather,
Mary fucking Poppins

you know, London"

left index on the nose
right index pointing forward.