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Byline: Malcolm Beith
I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Or rather, I was born with a British accent in my mouth. Actually, to be honest, I wasn't born with the accent, I developed it while spending my formative years at a British boarding school. So I lied. But that's the point: here in America, it doesn't really matter whether I'm telling the truth. When I speak, most Americans believe me. And it's all thanks to my British accent.
Americans have always been suckers for an accent, none more so than a British one. If I had a dime for every time a Yank has told me that I should play mine up, because "chicks dig it," I'd have, well, quite a few pounds sterling. But it's the assumed wisdom of my words that never ceases to astound me. Once when I was in college, a friend actually pulled me out of a conversation I was having with some other students. "Malcolm," she whispered, "From now on, you really have to preface everything you say with 'I believe' or 'I think.' " Apparently, my peers took my wacky drunken theories as gospel, simply because of my accent.
This acceptance of all things said in British translates elsewhere. Why do Americans love Tony Blair, ask friends back home? Because he seems so smart--because he speaks proper. Brits also get away with murder--or at least adulterous solicitation--here. The fact that Hugh Grant was busted with an L.A. hooker didn't matter to a lot of people, says one friend of mine. He had that accent, so the Yanks still thought he was "cute."
This is all quite liberating for us Brits. I can sprinkle my conversation with relatively vulgar Anglicisms like "wanker," "bugger" or "tosser" and still get the same response from American women--"That is sooo cute!" (Who cares what it means?) If I tell a joke in British, ...
Source: HighBeam Research, Manipulating My Mother Tongue.