Burns with a Squeaky Pop

The English are engaged in one of their traditional activities. For weeks the streets and cars have been an understated riot of colour with stiff upper lips and patriotic flags dangling from every tree. And early this morning legions of beer-soaked sulkers quietly took them all down again out of embarrassment.
While technically we didn't plummet out of the competition like a wet brick until Italy were beaten by Costa Rica, we all knew it was a hoover, sorry, it was all over.
School was a many-trousered thing today with Sports Day and Open Day.
My house (Warrior) was victorious even though our carefully-laid plans on the relay came to naught. Ben and Harry and Harvey and I planned our order of baton-holding and even practised but by the time we were told we were at the wrong end and had run to the right ends, we were too tired to win.
At home I inspected the building progress from the vantage point of the garage roof. I am the only one wearing personal protective equipment in a hard-hat zone but that's because I was going on my bike.
The plumber went to the bath shop and got quite angry at them for selling us the wrong bits, all because the part numbers look the same, a mistake any administrative Norbert could make.
I rode my new bike into town to invest in my house deposit and at last the 2 passports, mortgage statement, driving licence, firearms licence and footage from my BBC interview finally constituted enough identification to allow me to open my 4th account there.
In the street we met Sausage and Mash who are not a comedy duo but one of Bud's old work friends and his son.
After swimming I told Jof all my sporting results but she just can't listen at my pitch and speed of delivery (bibble, not babble). ps, Burns with a squeaky pop is the standard test for hydrogen or swiftly-lit farts.