Few phrases more reliably set British teeth on edge than this one: “British teeth” — the disobliging characterisation of what our American friends imagine to be the grisly state of our nation’s gnashers. Like “British food”, another snobbish pejorative, it’s not only irritating it’s outdated. British food has been transformed in the past few decades, and so have the teeth with which we chew it.
Perhaps the children of my generation, raised in the 1970s and ’80s, were the last of the dentist dodgers. The elaborate oral hygiene routines of our transatlantic cousins, and the early-interventionist techniques of their healthcare professionals, had not been so widely adopted over here in my snaggle-toothed youth as they have today.
I have British teeth. They are uneven and off-off-white. (They’re yellow.) My mouth has never seen the inside of an orthodontist’s surgery and, as a result, no orthodontist has ever seen the inside of my mouth. Neither, until just the other day, had I suffered the attentions of a hygienist.
Full disclosure: it’s been 20 years since I visited a dentist. (You can save the “euww!” and the “gross!” for further down the scroll.)
A connection between gum disease and neurodegenerative disorders can’t be ruled out
