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POLES APART Thanks to the influx of Poles in our town recently Atkins Down The Road and I have a new daft game. It’s called Pretending To Be Polish and we played it for the first time today during the half hour journey on the train from New Mills to Manchester. During the off peak hours the trains are emptier than an MP’s promise so as usual we had the whole coach to ourselves.     The game started when the conductor came round shortly after we’d boarded the train. “Tickets please,” the conductor announced cheerily. He didn’t stay cheery for long.      “Warsaw,” I said, taking out my wallet.      “Pardon?”      “Warsaw. Come back Englands.”      “Return,” said Atkins. “He mean Warsaw return.”      “We don’t go to Warsaw. Manchester, that’s where we go”      “Warsaw,” I repeated, a bit more firmly, taking a fiver from my wallet.      “We don’t go to Warsaw. We only go to Piccadilly.”      “Piccalilli?”      “Piccadilly! It’s the terminus.”      Atkins came to the rescue again. He pointed to me. “Pole.” Then he pointed at himself. “Pole.” Then he held up two fingers. “Three Poles. No spik English very gut. No understand.”      “Warsaw,” I said, pushing the fiver into the conductor’s hand.      “For the last time we don’t go to fucking Warsaw,” said the no longer cheery Conductor.      Atkins’s face lit up. “Understand fucking,” he said. “Fucking awful weather. Fucking Scouse bastards.”      “Warsaw,” I said. “No Piccalilli.”      The conductor spelled it out slowly. We…do…not…go…to…Warsaw! Go….Manchester!”      The conductor’s slowly enunciated words obviously made sense to my fellow Pole because Atkins now gave a huge beam. “Go Manchester!” he said. The conductor smiled. Atkins continued. “Go Manchester United! Manchester United go! Wayne Rooney, Cristiano Ronaldo,Go! Please don’t take out Socks Jar away.”      “Red Navy!” I said.      “Army,” said Atkins.      “Army Navy!” I said.      “Army Navy Store,” said Atkins.      “Oh bollocks to this,” said the conductor, and went on his way.