David Beckham planned to crack America. Two years after his triumphal arrival in Los Angeles, however, the suspicion is that it might be America that’s cracking him. In little more than a week England’s most famous sportsman has twice succumbed to angry confrontation with a small, but extremely vocal, group of Galaxy fans, aggrieved that the man who signed a £128 million, five-year contract to play football for them has been playing — with obvious and offensive relish — for AC Milan too.

Simon Middleton, a brand strategy expert says: “David Beckham getting booed by the LA supporters is about not understanding the American psyche. One of the things Americans value hugely is authenticity and commitment. I think what they saw in his return is that he is not absolutely committed and they are suspicious of him.”

Now, whatever the ins and outs of this particular beef (the fans’ banners call him a fraud and one columnist “a pretty boy exposed in a money grab”) none of it augurs well. It might be time to say enough, because barring a breathtaking reversal of fortune, Beckham seems poised to join the long list of those who failed to make themselves as beloved in America as in Britain. At least, thanks to his friendship with Tom Cruise and some underwear adverts, Americans do now know who he is.

The most humiliating fate of all for the big British fish who cross the pond is to find themselves not just unloved but unnoticed too — insignificant tiddlers. Take Robbie Williams, who recently returned to the UK after a move to Los Angeles that was supposed to set him up as a post-Take That superstar, and ended with him enjoying LA life untroubled by local fans (although he’s still very popular in Germany).

And it's not only Britain’s most-vaunted sports people, actors and musicians who have been bruised by American indifference: in 2007 Tesco set its sights on becoming as ubiquitous in America as Starbucks with a chain of convenience mini-markets called Fresh & Easy. Yet Britain’s most successful retailer’s formula of high-quality, low-priced foodstuff with self-service checkouts has stalled badly.

Middleton says: “It’s a cliché, but true, that Americans love service. They love people helping to put your groceries in a paper bag, it’s deep-rooted, part of their culture of service. It sounds as if Tesco might have taken away the very element that Americans value the most."

Midland Bank, Marconi, Stagecoach, and Emap are just a few of the British businesses that tried to expand into the US and foundered. Middleton says: “It is arrogant of British brands to mosey on over there and think that Americans will love them for it. My [advice] is either to really do your research and make it fit their culture or be so completely exotic, make no concessions at all and be utterly, utterly British so that in itself is attractive. That’s a high-risk strategy, though.”

It was a strategy that could have paid off for Oasis. By the time their debut US tour was due in 1996 the band’s second album (What’s the Story) Morning Glory had got to No 4 in the Billboard album charts and sold over 3 million copies. Unfortunately, Liam Gallagher was so utterly true to himself that he refused to get on the plane, and his brother Noel later said: “I still blame him for the fact that we never cracked the US.”

Sometimes Middleton’s be “utterly British” tack does bear spectacular fruit; see the Beatles, Benny Hill, Burberry and maybe even Russell Brand (although the jury’s still out on him).

Yet just as the Chariots of Fire screenwriter Colin Welland’s vaunted cinematic invasion — “The British are coming!” — faltered in the 1980s, Britpop stalled in the 1990s and Little Britain USA left America cold, the lesson often is that there is no guarantee British and Americans will love the same things just because we share the same language.

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