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When I lived in Dallas, deep in the heart of Texas, I once went to production of Hamlet in which Hamlet’s father had far more than the ghost of a Texas accent, and of course, the rest of the cast were no different. Listening to them set me thinking about what a production of, say, Oklahoma would be like somewhere in the wilds of Norfolk. (an exercise that was far more enticing than the Bard-barism of the production.) Somehow, I did manage to not be the only member of the audience laughing or at least sniggering during more harrowing parts of the play but the thought has stayed with me this many years.
Just imagine it though:
[Sings, sort of]
Thaare's a dull grey mist on the marches
Thaare's a dull grey mist on the marches
The spearwort's as high as O-old Shuck's thigh
If that go any higher couh that dawg wont he cry
Couh thaa's a horrible mornin'
Couh thaa's a bludder wet dai
I gort a horrible feelin'
Nuttn good's cummin moi waai.
Nah! Probably better not to, but the quality (for want of a better word) of my rending—I mean rendering of the Norfolk accent there only hints at the horror of my Texan one which has caused grown men to wet themselves whilst hysterically giggling as I merely attempt to say "y'all".
The point of all this being that while some folks can successfully jump their accents across the Atlantic, others merely run amok (not to be confused with the Atlantic Meridian Ocean Current) and while I'm nowhere near the ineptitude of, say Dick Van Dyke's supposedly British accent in Mary Poppins, I am genuinely bad at the Americanisation of me.
There is actually an interesting moral question here, apart from the demonstration of my inadequacies. You see many suppose my idiolect to be prestigious—talkin' proper—RP, you know Received Pronunciation and I have had much, usually unintended, advantage from that supposition. An example that springs to mind is the tale of the hippy and the policeman. Back in the later sixties, when I looked like THAT¹ I was approached by a rather surly cop, presumably because of the connotations of looking like that back in the later sixties. Things looked decidedly bleak for hippy-me until I opened by mouth. On hearing me speak his attitude changed; he even called me 'Sir' and I got away with... I mean I was no longer required to assist in his enquiries.
But it was in America that this perceived poshness really paid off. I was seen by most of the inhabitants as far more intelligent than the blithering idiot I am, and even as sexy by some of them. Indeed one of my friends at work posted Dilbert cartoons outside my cubicle (when one could still admit to reading them, before their creator became persona non PC) in which a genius had been hired, who caused female characters to forget they were married or swoon when he merely said "I left my brolly in the lift" but was found to be only an ordinary guy with a fake British accent.
So I spent 42 years living off being a 'Stage Englishman', like a Stage Irishman only much much worse.
But the apex, the very pinnacle and zenith of the undeserved effect of my affect: Georgia and I were in a picture framing establishment in Frisco, waiting patiently to be served, when a well-dressed and extremely pushy woman barged in front of us, no doubt used to the success of this manoeuvre after a moment of surprise I very politely and quietly pointed out her 'mistake' and to my even greater surprise she nearly fell over herself apologising and rectifying her mis-positioning. According to Georgia I had used my Queen Voice, with a capital 'V' like something said by a Bene Gesserit, that instantly reduces the offending American to abject colonialism.
It is an awesome power, not to be exercised lightly...
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Notes:
1
 or just possibly that: 
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