In a recent column I lamented the decline of the once-spectacular British Empire into ‘a minor island nation, comparable to Iceland or Trinidad... a land of belligerent soccer fans, bad teeth and even worse artists.’ My comparison of Britain to Iceland and Trinidad was, of course, facetious; good Queen Elizabeth’s kingdom certainly rivals Sweden and even Pakistan in terms of global political significance. 

True, the roast beef of old England isn’t what it used to be, thanks to a recent rash of madness among the bovine population, and Britain no longer seems to produce cultural eminentoes on the order of George Bernard Shaw or Benny Hill. Today’s British artists are an abominable lot, even by the already abominable standards of contemporary art. They display cut-up carcasses and dirty underwear with malignant glee, as if the publicity they generate somehow boosts them to the perfumed ranks of Titian or El Greco. But the truth is that British artists have always lagged well behind the Italians, French, Spaniards, Dutch and Flemish; it says enough that their two greatest painters, Holbein and Van Dyck, were imports from the Continent, as was Handel, their only world-class composer of serious music. (On the other hand, British writers must receive due credit, even from a cynic. They’ve concocted numerous works of lasting literary merit, only about half of which were penned by Shakespeare.) 

The much-publicized vehemence of British football fans remains a mystery to those of us Americans whose parents never drove us to soccer practice. The spectacle of our hometown team losing to a hated rival rarely moves us to indulge in mayhem or fisticuffs; we simply gnash our teeth and hope for a win next time. Gnash our teeth... TEETH. That’s right, I almost forgot about the teeth.

My recent wisecrack about Britain as a land of ‘belligerent soccer fans, bad teeth and even worse artists’ elicited an eloquent and impassioned response from one British reader, and I feel impelled to share it with you: 

‘How surprised I was... to come across your description of the English!... It was not your description of our status in the world that alarmed me... No, my eyebrows were raised at your description of our teeth... The activities of that SNLer and his yellowing prosthetics have done more damage to our image abroad than could a dozen agricultural scares or football riots. Not even an army of Jude Laws, Liz Hurleys and Kate Beckinsales could convince the world now that we are acquainted with the functions of dental floss; the cosmetic grin of our head of government cannot compete with the orange-tombstone incisors of a velour-sporting superhero. For the young and male and literate of our country, such a stereotype could be disastrous -- our plans to populate the world will come to nothing if ideas of our teeth remove our foot from the door. Recant your eloquent reinforcement of that accursed stereotype! In return, I will promise never again to mention late American entry into two world wars. Even when drunk. Can we call that a deal?’

Of course we can call it a deal, my fine English friend. I feel a sharp pang of remorse for having besmirched the dental reputation of your people. How easily and eagerly we embrace stereotypes, and I’m no exception. 

A stereotype helps us sort our fellow-humans into convenient cubbyholes for future reference. Instead of taking the trouble to evaluate an individual, we can fall back on our knowledge of the breed. The Irish are charming but drink too much. Germans probably need to drink a little more. The French are snobs, especially when it comes to their language and their cheeses; Italians are warm and emotional and inclined to shoot off their rivals’ kneecaps. Ancient Greeks ran after adolescent boys; modern Greeks run diners. Arabs are willing to kill and be killed for the glory of Allah. Jews are successful but unathletic, which is precisely the opposite of what we believe about blacks. 

Most stereotypes contain just enough truth -- a particle, a grain, a seed -- to perpetuate themselves among the multitudes. We simply need to read about a sozzled Irishman, a Japanese electronics wizard, an Arab fanatic -- and our minds go ‘Aha!’ 

Unfortunately, some stereotypes are true beyond argument: nobody who follows the game of basketball would dispute the sorry fact that black players can whup their white counterparts almost at will, at least in America. I’m sure we could round up a team of hopelessly maladroit African-American players if we searched hard enough. But a stereotype deals in averages, and the average white boy is no match on the court for his black brethren.

That brings me back to British teeth. I should point out that I’ve been to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland not once but twice; I roamed around that good green island nation for a total of three weeks in 1971 and 1979. And I must confess that I never observed anything bizarre or otherwise uncomely about British choppers. I don’t believe I noticed their teeth at all, distracted as I was by the abundance of historical sites and steaming steak-and-kidney pies. (Call me names if you must, but I actually LIKE British food.) 

You’d think I would have noticed those bad teeth if they had been anywhere as common as double-decker buses. You’d think I would have remembered the tea-stained incisors and rotting brown bicuspids of shopkeepers and sales clerks. But I observed no such shortcomings in the dental fitness of the British public. Why is it, then, that all it took to convince me were an impish skit on Saturday Night Live, a wickedly retouched cover photo of a snaggle-toothed Princess Diana in Spy Magazine, and the grotesque cinematic ivories of Austin Powers? 

It could be that we lacked a believable British stereotype and had to concoct one from scratch. Sure, we might poke fun at the Brits’ excessive politeness, but that’s essentially an upper-crust Hugh Grant-ish sort of trait, certainly not representative of all those demented soccer fans. We could feast on the defects of English cuisine, but Scottish cooking is decidedly more dismal. The empire-in-decline thing is old already, and the royal Windsors have had too hard a time of it lately to justify wanton lampoons. 

No, teeth seemed like the way to go. The dental offensive was quick, convenient and more fun than making an issue of British politeness or cooking.

So let me apologize in earnest to all those impeccably toothed Britons who have suffered as a result of unwarranted dental stereotyping. Let me assure you that we Americans want you to be fruitful and multiply; we'll feel guilty if you scare away potential mates every time you smile. Remember, we Yanks are almost craven in our admiration of your manners and manors. We actually pay to suffer through Merchant-Ivory films. Believe it or not, we still christen our housing developments with names like Eton Terrace and Olde Wembley Hollowe, though for some reason we never got into the habit of naming our sons Neville and Nigel. We envy your facility with the English language, and we respect you politically even though it’s all been pretty much downhill since you gave up India. We admire your queen and even tolerate Andrew Lloyd-Webber. Now we just need to show a little more respect for your teeth.

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