Went, Saw, Conquered: Taming English Irregular Verbs

In the kingdom of English grammar, verbs are the knights—charged with action, ever at the heart of every sentence. Most are disciplined, predictable soldiers, following the rules with obedient precision: add an –ed and voilà, the past tense is formed. “Walk” becomes “walked.” “Play” becomes “played.” There is comfort in this neat arithmetic. But then there is the other lot—the rebels, the unruly band of irregular verbs who refuse to obey such conventions. They are the rock stars of the verb world: unpredictable, anarchic, and often leaving learners muttering under their breath. Yet, it is precisely their irregularity that makes them fascinating and, dare we say, oddly charming.

Let us start with an honest confession: irregular verbs are difficult not because they are inherently complicated, but because they refuse to be tidied into a single, sensible category. If you are learning English, you cannot simply apply a neat formula; you must memorise, absorb, and live with them. Consider the trio “go, went, gone.” A perfectly good verb suddenly morphs into an entirely unrelated form in the past tense: “went.” Where did it come from? Not from “go,” that’s for sure. The truth is it migrated over centuries from another verb entirely, but try explaining that in the middle of an English lesson without your students looking at you as though you’ve gone, well, slightly mad.

It is tempting to shake one’s fist at the linguistic heavens and demand: “Why irregular verbs?” But English, that grand magpie of a language, has a history written in irregularities. Many of these verbs are ancient relics from Old English and other Germanic tongues, where strong verbs changed their vowels instead of adding tidy endings. So “sing” becomes “sang,” and “sang” becomes “sung.” Elegant, isn’t it? A kind of vowel ballet, with sound doing the work of the –ed. The trouble is, English did not keep the pattern entirely tidy. Some verbs stuck to it; others mutated beyond recognition. Thus, we are left with a patchwork quilt of oddities, at once frustrating and poetic.

The irregulars, however, are not merely curiosities for grammarians—they are alive and essential. They are, in fact, some of the most frequently used verbs in the entire language. Think of “be,” “have,” “do,” “go,” “say,” “see,” “take,” “come,” “get.” Irregular verbs are the oxygen of everyday English. It is rather cruel, really, that the words most necessary for survival in the language are also the most irregular. Imagine trying to buy a coffee abroad and fumbling: “Yesterday I… goed?” You will not be misunderstood—people are generous—but you may get a smile that reminds you how far you still have to go.

And yet, irregular verbs can be delightful, even playful. Consider the mischievous “catch–caught” and “teach–taught.” With that little –aught ending, they sound as though they are sneering at the regular verbs who meekly settled for –ed. Or “drink–drank–drunk,” a progression that has provided countless headlines for tabloids reporting on celebrities who have, perhaps, overindulged. Irregular verbs carry with them a sense of story, of drama. To learn them is not simply to memorise forms but to enter into the long, peculiar history of English itself.

For the student of English, however, romance with irregular verbs often feels like a bad date: fascinating but exasperating. There is no shortcut but practice. Teachers know this well. Some rely on lists and chants: “Begin, began, begun; ring, rang, rung.” Others slip them into games, rhymes, or absurd sentences. One teacher I knew had her students compete to invent the most ridiculous past tense sentences using irregular verbs: “Yesterday, a penguin flew into my kitchen, sang Beyoncé songs, and stole my sandwich.” Odd as it sounds, it worked. The students remembered the forms, not because they memorised them like sterile facts, but because they lived them in ridiculous, unforgettable stories.

Indeed, stories are the secret to mastering irregular verbs. Lists are useful, but lists without context soon wither. Our brains, it seems, prefer verbs wrapped in narrative. “I went to the shop” is all very well, but “I went to the shop, bought a pineapple, and accidentally dropped it on my teacher’s foot” is infinitely more memorable. The verbs shine when embedded in action, when they are doing what verbs do best—carrying life forward.

This is perhaps the paradox of irregular verbs: they are irregular, yes, but they are not arbitrary. Patterns lurk within the apparent chaos. Many learners find comfort in grouping them: “sing–sang–sung,” “ring–rang–rung,” “swim–swam–swum.” It is as though English gives us little families of verbs, rebellious clans that nonetheless keep their kinship ties. And then, of course, there are the true mavericks like “go–went–gone,” reminding us that complete predictability is a myth in English. For teachers, pointing out these families is an act of kindness, a way of offering the learner a foothold in the mountain of irregularity.

It would be unfair to pretend that irregular verbs are solely the burden of students. Native speakers, too, make their peace with them in strange ways. Children famously invent their own “regularised” versions: “I goed,” “I runned,” “I eated.” These are, in fact, entirely logical creations. The child has absorbed the rule of –ed and simply applies it across the board. The so-called mistake is evidence of a budding linguistic genius at work. That these forms are then corrected and the irregulars reinstated is proof that even native speakers must wrestle with the oddities of their mother tongue.

So what is to be done? For learners, perseverance and play. For teachers, patience and imagination. Irregular verbs will not vanish, nor will they miraculously align themselves to the rule of –ed. They are here to stay, carrying their history and quirks with them. But perhaps we should be grateful. Without irregular verbs, English would be poorer, flatter, more predictable. Imagine if Shakespeare had written: “To be or to be-ed.” Not quite the same resonance, is it?

The intriguing world of irregular verbs is less about conquering a list than about embracing a cast of characters. Each verb has its own story, its own personality. “Swim” is adventurous, “sleep” is dreamy, “fight” is combative, “break” is dramatic. To master their past tenses is to make peace with their quirks, to respect their long journey through the corridors of history, and to enjoy their role in the vivid theatre of language.

So let us not curse irregular verbs but celebrate them. They are the spice in the stew of English, the jazz notes in an otherwise predictable tune. Difficult, yes. Capricious, certainly. But without them, the language would lose some of its charm, its depth, its character. The irregular verb is the eccentric uncle at the family dinner: embarrassing at times, but secretly the most interesting guest at the table. And when you finally master their ways, you do not merely speak English—you begin to inhabit it.

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