Fly like a Beatle, Synch like a Stone

I have at last been signed up for guitar lessons. With fingers my size, I may have to start on the Banjulele, and sing the song about what I can see when I'm licking windows.
Soon 21 school inspectors are coming to my alma mater to determine how good we are. The teachers are all in a flap as many of us are badly-behaved, they have to arrange a special school trip off the premises for the worst offenders and hide the canes.
Finally I have cornered Harvey. His mum is a hairdresser and has done him a groovy hairstyle that I want. It's shaved around Ye Olde Monk's Curve and left long on top, so you can do the Crested Grebe trick, with enough hairgel. Jof says I am not allowed it, even though I've been growing my hair for ages.
Ben nipped round to drop off muddy-puddle-resistant gear for tomorrow, I was vaguely aware that someone was at the door but Doofenschmirtz was just starting his big number so I didn't quite manage to get off the sofa.