While procrastinating the other day, I came across a particularly thought-provoking article about immigration, cultural assimilation, and difficulties around learning English.Â
It began by challenging the classic adage that âIf you come to this country, you should learn the languageâ: a sentiment long echoed across the lands of English-speaking countries as a chauvnistic rallying call for the dim. And in doing so it raised a number of important questions. Not least about the practicalities of thoroughly, or at least functionally, learning English or any other language.
English is widely considered quite an easy language to learn, and in many respects it is.
Its grammar system is very simple.
Its verbs have only three forms (the infinitive, past simple, and participle); four if you count adding an âsâ to the end of third persons (âheâ, âsheâ, âitâ). The language doesnât assign gender, unlike its close neighbour German, for example. Nor does it demand word agreement, like French, Spanish or other romance languages.
English is also universal. The lingua franca. The go-to language should people from France, China, Mexico, and Italy come together and have to find a common tongue.

Difficult to learn? I don’t think so, especially given the amount of resources (literature, music, film etc.) out there.
Difficult to master? Absolutely.
The depth and breadth of the English language renders it a seemingly limitless void of cultural and national differences articulated through a bastard mix of Germanic, Anglo-Frisian, French, and Latin.
English is a language many of us speak but whose mechanics few of us really understand. At least, that is, until we embark upon learning another.
For me, it was learning Italian that opened my eyes to the idiosyncracies of the English language, and it was while subsequently training for a language teaching qualification that my awareness of its madness began to crystalise.
That’s what inspired me to write this piece – to showcase the idiosynracies of the English language at their most barmy and brilliant.
English has a tense that’s neither past nor present, yet claims to be perfect
If someone asked you to explain the difference between the statements âI went to Parisâ and âIâve been to Parisâ, what would you say?
If youâre anything like me during the interview for my first ESL teaching job, youâd stumble for a moment, fluff your words, and ultimately give an answer that fails to convince even the most generous of interviewers that you are in fact a mothertongue.
The difference, I now know, is that the first tense is what we call âpast simpleâ and the second is what we call âpresent perfectâ â formed by adding the auxiliary âhaveâ followed by the participle of the verb (in this case “been”).
The past simple tense is friendly.
We mainly use it to talk about completed past events, and it often comes with a specific time referenced in the sentence. For example:
âI went to Paris in 2014 and consumed my body weight in cheese and wine.â
The present perfect, on the other hand, is far from friendly.
And far from perfect. Not quite a past tense and not quite present, itâs used to articulate a variety of situations. The first is when we talk about a past event for which the time it took place is unimportant. For example:
âYes, Iâve been to Paris before. Fantastic city, but shame about the Parisians.â
In this sentence, when I went to Paris is unimportant (if it were, I would use the past simple “I went two years ago”). Whatâs important is the action – that Paris is a city I have visited. Therefore, we use the present perfect.
But the present perfect is also used to describe events that started in the past and continue now.
And this is where it gets confusing.
To read this article, youâve opened this page (present perfect). And the fact that you are still on this page justifies the tense. BUT if we wanted to make a sequential order, weâd instead use the past simple:
Before reading this article, you made a coffee, turned on the computer and then opened this page.
Confused? Just wait – this is one of the kindest idiosyncracies of the English language.
Even its simple tenses are far from simple
In general, we use a tense called the present simple to talk about routines and things we do regularly:
âEvery weekday, I set my alarm for 8 a.m.
We also use it to sequentially layer a series of events:
âEvery weekday, I snooze my 8 a.m. alarm, go back to sleep for an hour, and wake up wracked with a consuming sense of guilt.
We use the present continuous (formed with the verb âbeâ followed by another verb ending in â-ingâ) to talk about things we are doing right now:
âAt the moment youâre reading the most insightful article you’ve ever read about the English languageâ
… and to describe several actions happening simultaneously:
âYouâre reading this post while your friend is trying to get you to look at cat memes on Instagram.â
(Thanks for not clicking; I appreciate your perseverance).
But as always, there are exceptions. When we talk about a habit that annoys us, even if it’s regular and routine, we use the present continuous to emphasize our irritation:
My client is always sending me briefs via voice messages.â
or
âHe’s always posting Instagram stories of his dinner, even when it’s just a f*cking salad.”
And then, when weâre feeling particularly mean, we use the present simple to talk about the future. You wouldnât say, for example: âmy train will leave at 4:30 p.m. tomorrowâ Youâd say: âmy trains leaves at 4:30 p.m. tomorrowâ. That’s because the train is running on a schedule. And for schedules in English we use the present simple.
The “Royal Order of Adjectives” is one of the great idiosyncracies of the English language
When we use two or more adjectives to describe a noun, we must put them in a specific and rather rigid order.
This order is called the Royal Order of Adjectives, and nobody knows a) what on earth makes it royal and b) where on earth this rule comes from.
But, much like the Queen, the Royal Order of Adjectives is here to stay. And we should ultimately be thankful that we adhere to it instinctively and havenât had to sit down and study it for hours upon hours.
So hereâs the order:
Determiner â Observation or Opinion â Size â Shape â Age â Color â Origin â Material â Qualifier
Cast your mind back to Tarantinoâs classic âPulp Fictionâ and you might remember the scene where Christopher Walkenâs character hands the young Butch a wrist-watch. Or rather a “beautiful, small circular, early 20th-century, bronze Tennessean wrist-watch that had been passed down through his family since his great grandfather, and stored most recently up Walkenâs ass during his internment in a Japanese POW camp.
The scene would have played out somewhat differently had Walkenâs character instead waxed lyrical about a bronze circular Tennessean early 20th century small wrist beautiful watch.
Fortunately for language-learners, this is one of those idioyncracies of the English language that rarely manifests itself. Because attaching so many adjectives to a noun makes you sound both deranged and arrhythmic, we tend not to use more than three adjectives at a time.
Our idioms are the final straw
Every language has its own corpus of idiomatic expressions, where the meaning is not deducible from the individual words, but which convey a particular idea when taken as a whole.
In English we have between ten- to fourteen-thousand of them. And to provide a narrative example of the idiosyncracies of idiomatic English in use, here is the tale of Johnny Foreigner.
Who’s come over here to take your job.
Johnny hasnât been learning English for long and finds the language difficult. He sees no light at the end of the tunnel, and, adding insult to injury, has bitten off more than he can chew by accepting a job in sales.
He accepted the job at the drop of a hat so he could start earning and paying into the social purse. Contributing more, in fact, as an EU migrant than the average UK taxpayer.
There are no cutting corners in Johnnyâs new job though, and sometimes with his difficult boss and demanding customers he truly feels stuck between a rock and a hard place. No wonder poor Johnny feels out of his depth.
But every cloud has a silver lining. Fortunately, when not at work Johnnyâs also a bit of a couch potato and is on the ball when it comes to picking up the language by watching TV. In fact he finds this way of learning English a piece of cake. Eventually he wants to work as a professional translator, but, without wanting to beat around the bush, he hasnât acquired enough of the language yet.
Heâll have to cross that bridge when he comes to it; in the meantime, as all his friends keep telling him, he shouldnât give up the day job.
One of the idiosyncracies of the English language is that our verbs are in an absolute state
There are many English verbs that we almost always use in a simple rather than a continuous form ( “be” or “have” rather than “being” or “having”).
They relate to:
State (âbeâ, âfitâ, âmeanâ);
Possession (âhaveâ, âownâ);
Sense (âtasteâ, âfeelâ, âsmellâ);
Feeling (âloveâ, âhateâ, âpreferâ, âenjoyâ);
Cognition (âbelieveâ, âunderstandâ, âthinkâ)
These are called state verbs, and to students of English they’re fiendishly tough.
Let’s take an example. You’re tucking into your delicious daily bar of Dairy Milk when in an outburst of sensory ecstasy you scream out âThis chocolate tastes fantastic!â You use the simple form (“tastes”) because youâre describing the sensory quality – or state – of the chocolate.
You wouldnât say âthis chocolate is tasting fantasticâ as this would be an action. But you would say âthe chocolatier is tasting the chocolate to make sure itâs up to scratch.â
Let’s take another example. A mothertongue English speaker would say:
âWow! I never understood the complexity of English grammarâ not âWow! I was never understanding the complexity of English grammarâ. Why? Because theyâre talking about cognitive ability (state).
Likewise, theyâd say: âI have dark hairâ not âIâm having dark hairâ because weâre talking about possession (hair, by the way, is considered uncountable in English; an Italian, on the other hand, would say the plural: ho i capelli castani â âI have dark hairsâ).
We would, however, say: âIâm having a showerâ because â you guessed it â weâre talking about an action.
And in case youâre thinking, yes: McDonaldsâ âIâm loving itâ is 100 percent grammatically wrong. Not that I imagine they lose too much sleep over thatâŠ
But our verbs are in a complete state in another way too: their irregularity.
English verbs have three forms: infinitive (âplayâ), past simple (âplayedâ), and past participle (âplayedâ). Some, like âplayâ, are regular â you just add a â-dâ or an â-edâ to the end.
Others, like âeatâ, are irregular but just need some getting used to, like âeatâ, âateâ, âeatenâ. And then thereâs âreadâ: âreadâ, âreadâ, âreadâ; spelt the same but pronounced differently.
Cruel right? Oh yes.
English pronunciation has a propensity for being problematic
Ask any student of English the thing they find most difficult, and chances are theyâll say pronunciation.
Some languages are phonetic, meaning that the way in which theyâre written corresponds closely to the way theyâre pronounced. In Italian, when you see âchâ, you know itâs going to be pronounced hard, like âcarrotâ, while when you see âcâ followed by âiâ or âeâ you know itâs going to be pronounced soft, like âchickenâ.
Counterintuitive, I know, but at least itâs a stable rule.
Unfortunately thereâs nothing stable about English.
In 1922, the Dutch writer and linguist Gerard Nolst TrenitĂ© published what was arguably his magnum opus: âThe Chaosâ. Hereâs a short excerpt:
Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation
I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse
I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
Tear in eye, your dress youâll tear;
Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.
English seems to thrive on its repository of unpronounceable vocabulary. The standard advice given to learners is to check their pronunciation by talking to, or checking with, a mother tongue English speaker. But I, like many others Iâd imagine, hold my hands up to sometimes coming across a new word and feeling at sea when it comes to its pronunciation.
Try giving it a go yourself by reading the sentence below which contains no less than eight different ways of pronouncing the sound âoughâ. Then listen here to see how you got on:
A rough-coated, dough-faced, thoughtful ploughman strode through the streets of Scarborough; after falling into a slough, he coughed and hiccoughed.
You can’t count on anything
When we produce English, we subconsciously differentiate between countable and uncountable nouns ( that is objects we can count and nouns we cannot).
If we can count it, it can have a plural form; so thereâs âhouseâ â âhousesâ; âcarâ â âcarsâ. If we canât count it, itâs always singular: so âwaterâ but not âwatersâ, ânewsâ but not ânewsesâ (instead, youâd have âitems of newsâ, because we consider items something you can count).
Then we have modifiers that describe the quantity of a noun; words like âmuchâ, âmanyâ, âsomeâ, and âanyâ. We use these words hundreds of times a day, but every time we do so we have to make them agree with either a countable or uncountable object.
For native speakers this comes naturally.
For people who donât have English as their native language itâs very, very difficult.
And this isnât just a matter of agreement; in some languages, things we consider countable are uncountable (like news, for example) and vice-versa.
To illustrate, letâs assume youâre at a dinner party and someone offers to refill your glass of wine. You accept on the basis that you donât have much wine left in your glass. You wouldnât say that you donât have many wine left in your glass because wine, as a liquid form, is uncountable. However, a few hours later at this party the host has to make a run to the shops because heâs realized he doesnât have many bottles of wine left.
Yes, at our dinner parties we drink a lot.
You wouldnât say he doesnât have much bottles of wine left because a bottle, as an object, is countable. As has been drilled into us from infancy.
English has to put up with phrasal verbs
Phrasal verbs are verbs combined with particles (often directional words like âupâ, âdownâ âtowardsâ or âthroughâ). And theyâre a nightmare for English learners firstly because they completely change meaning with each particle and secondly because we have so many of them.
Letâs take the verb âbreakâ for example.
Easy right? You break a leg, you break your phone, you break a promise. No. To help illustrate the fact, hereâs the unfortunate tale of Johnny Robber.
Johnny Robber was an unlucky man. After breaking up with his girlfriend (it was her that broke it off), he broke away from society, broke into a bank, and ended up in prison. It was here, behind bars, that he had a breakdown.
After a few months, Johnny resolved to break out. At first he had no idea how to do this, but then he had a breakthrough. Taking inspiration from the hit TV Show Breaking Bad, he broke into the role of the prisonâs most dangerous prisoner, eventually persuading his inmates to help break him out.
Johnny Robber just couldnât help himself though. On his way back home, he broke into the first shop he came across, breaking in through the shop door.
But again, luck wasnât on Johnnyâs side.
As well as unlucky, Johnny was also very allergic to domestic animals, and realizing heâd broken into a pet shop, Johnny broke out in rashes.
When the alarm went off, Johnny made a break for it. He hotwired a car outside. But the car broke down outside the first police station he passed. So, well and truly a broken man, Johnny Robber returned to prison.
English has to make do with ‘do’
Every language has its auxiliary verb of choice. Italian has either essere (âbeâ) or avere (âhaveâ). In English, although we use these words as well, the award for the auxiliary word of choice goes to âdoâ.
We use âdoâ to form questions. When you first meet someone you might as âwhat do you do?â, which sounds fantastically Teutonic when you think about it.
We also commonly use it before the main verb to make negatives: âI donât understand where the use of âdoâ comes from” and for emphasis – “but I do like how it sounds.â
We also use âdoâ to talk about things we⊠well, do. Often in terms of actions, obligations and repetitive tasks. You do your job, for example, you do the washing up, or you do your hair before going out. But we also use âmakeâ, and the difference between make and do is so subtle that itâs a constant stumbling block for English-language learners.
Put simply, we use âmakeâ when we talk about constructing, building, or creating something.
If you like, itâs the result of the action that we do:
âI did some DIY around the house: I made some repairs to the bathroomâ or âI was doing my math homework when I realized Iâd made several mistakes.â
And then there are those instances where you can use both but with different meanings: to make good a bad situation, for example, but to do good within society.
English has no future
Something that makes our language quite unique is that we donât have a future tense, only a present and a past.
This needs some clarification.
To be defined as a tense, the ending of the verb has to change. So if, as an example, we take the verb âplayâ, we can talk about the present (I play football every week) or the past (I played football when I was young).
To talk about the future, however, we need to add an auxiliary verb: I will play / Iâm going to play / I shall play.
The problem is, each of these auxiliaries express slightly different meaning.
Mothertongue speakers are used to using these forms correctly, but people learning the language often get caught out.
Most English learners believe that using âwillâ works perfectly well when talking about the future. But this isnât the case. If weâre talking about intentions we use the form âgoing toâ followed by the infinitive form of the verb. So instead of saying:
âThis summer I will visit my friend in Spainâ
You would say
âThis summer Iâm going to visit my friend in Spain.â
That is unless youâve already booked the tickets and made the arrangement, in which case youâd use the present continuous and say:
âThis summer Iâm visiting my friend in Spainâ.
Likewise, you wouldnât say to a friend: âwhat will you do tonight. Youâd ask: âwhat are you doing tonight.â
Again, itâs a present tense weâre using to talk about the future. And the reason for this is that weâre subconsciously assuming that theyâve made an arrangement involving other people.
We actually only use âwillâ to talk about future predictions (I think 2017 will be a turbulent year) and when we make future decisions at the present moment.
For example, when you hear the phone ring and say âIâll get it!â Want to check? Ring your own house phone if you live with someone else and listen out for the response.
Idiosyncracies of the English language
The English language has evolved, and indeed simplified, over thousands of years to become the beautiful mess that it is today. Itâs a global language, with as many as two billion speakers â making it the third most spoken language on the planet after Mandarin and Spanish. And itâs undoubtedly beautiful: whether in its archaic Chaucerian or Shakespearean incarnations or in the slang-filled spoken English that fills the streets of countries across the world.
The idiosyncracies of the English language also render it fiendishly difficult in its own way – its very richness being in many ways its downfall. Whether in terms of its formless future, its phrasal verbs, its infinite list of idioms or its painfully problematic pronunciation, itâs a tough customer among the multitude of languages spoken across the planet.
But it is here to stay as the lingua franca, and hopefully this has gone some way in highlighting some of the weird and wonderful idiosyncrasies of the English language.
Continue to learn, continue to read, and continue to produce it in whatever manner you choose. And when youâre speaking to someone for whom English isnât their native tongue, bear in mind the idiosyncracies of the English language, think about the difficulties inherent in learning any other language, and always remember to be patient.
It is, after all, a virtue