Modal Verbs and British Democracy: A Newcomer’s Guide to Permission, Power and Polite Uncertainty

Written by Shams Bhatti

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Author’s note

When I came to the UK, my knowledge of Britain mostly came from English literature, films, the Queen, and Monopoly. I could quote a line of poetry more confidently than I could explain who the Prime Minister was, and the phrase “Chancellor of the Exchequer” sounded less like a job title and more like a spell from a fantasy novel. I knew Britain was the mother of modern democracy – or at least that is how we were taught – but I mostly knew the monarch. In my imagination, Britain was an abode of nobility, tradition and polished manners, the sort of place where history wears a top hat and nothing ever looks rushed.

Then real life began. I discovered that British democracy is not only crowns and ceremony, but committees and constituencies, debates and deadlines, an “unwritten” constitution and a political culture that often prefers understatement to certainty. Coming from a South-East Asian background, I arrived with expectations that were almost poetic: rules visibly written, logic always transparent and civic spirit permanently switched on. Instead, I found something more British and, in its own way, more instructive: a democracy that works through tradition as much as text, through convention as much as law and through understatement as much as passion.

That discovery is the reason for this article. I wanted to explore British democracy without turning it into a lecture or a political argument, because the real aim is language. In particular, I want learners to hear how English expresses power, caution, permission and obligation through modal verbs. Once you notice may, might, should, must, can, could, will and would in the wild, you start to understand not only grammar, but the tone of public life.

Modal Verbs and British Democracy: A Newcomer’s Guide to Permission, Power and Polite Uncertainty

There is a moment, usually at a pedestrian crossing, when you realise Britain runs on invisible language. The light is red. Nobody moves. The road is empty. Yet the crowd waits as if the crossing itself has moral authority, like a headteacher in a reflective jacket.

You could cross. You may cross. You shouldn’t cross. Most importantly, you won’t cross, because this country is not built on chaos. It is built on modal verbs. Which is exactly why British democracy makes such a useful backdrop for learning them. Not because it is simple. Not because it is always tidy. But because the whole system feels like one long national sentence where meaning depends on tone, convention and whether someone is carrying an object that looks like it has its own pension plan.

Somewhere in a polling-station queue, someone new to the performance holds a voting card like a boarding pass and has the kind of thought that arrives uninvited: Back home, power speaks in full sentences. Here it arrives as “might”, wearing a suit.

The Modal Accent: How Systems Sound Before They Even Say Anything

Different political systems come with different grammatical “moods”. You can often hear the style of power before you understand the details.

A dictatorship tends to speak in must, will, shall and cannot. Short verbs, loud certainty, no edits. A presidential system often sounds like I will, I can, I intend to. Executive confidence with a signature at the bottom. Britain’s parliamentary constitutional monarchy leans on may, might, should and would. Not weak, just restrained. Authority in a low voice. This is not a judgement. It is a language lesson in disguise. Politics may claim to be about ideals, but it always reveals itself in modals.

The Constitution That Isn’t There, Yet Somehow Must Be Obeyed

In many places, you can hold up a constitution and say, “Look, this is the rulebook.” In Britain, you can hold up legislation, conventions, precedent, court decisions and a national instinct for doing things “properly”. The constitution is uncodified, which is a polite way of saying it exists in pieces, like a family recipe that nobody wrote down because everyone insists they already know it.

This is where modal verbs quietly become the real constitution.

• must for what feels non-negotiable

• should/ought to for norms, standards and “how we do things”

• may for permission and ceremonial authority

• might for uncertainty, which Britain has industrialised

A newcomer from a “written rulebook” culture often finds this both impressive and slightly alarming. It is as if the rules are not posted on the wall, but everyone expects you to behave as if they are. The system does not always tell you what you must do. It expects you to sense what you ought to do.

Somewhere in the queue, an inner voice whispers: The constitution may not be a book, but it is definitely a mood.

The Monarchy: Power That May Do Things and Mustn’t Be Seen Doing Them

Now, the part that makes many newcomers blink twice: a monarchy inside a democracy. How does a democracy accommodate a monarch? In some places, that question is answered with a revolution. In Britain, it is answered with choreography.

The monarch may open Parliament. The monarch may give Royal Assent. The monarch may meet the Prime Minister. It sounds powerful until you notice the deeper British meaning of may: this will happen as a constitutional formality, so clap politely and do not overthink it.

The restraint is the point:

• The monarch may perform constitutional functions

• The monarch mustn’t use them politically

• The monarch would not be expected to comment

That last one matters for learners. Would does not shout. It signals expectation without the bluntness of command. “The monarch would not be expected to comment” means: by convention, in normal circumstances, reasonable people do not anticipate that behaviour. It is authority expressed through calm.

Someone new to the system may quietly smile at the contrast: Some systems declare, “I must be obeyed.” Britain has a monarch who may do the ceremony, but mustn’t do the steering.

Parliament: Where Promises Will Happen Until They Won’t

If the monarchy is ceremonial permission, Parliament is practical obligation. And if you want to hear modal verbs in the wild, listen to an election campaign. You will hear will everywhere, strutting confidently like it has never met reality.

• “We will fix the NHS.”

• “We will cut taxes.”

• “We will deliver change.”

Will is the modal of promise, prediction and momentum. It is also the modal of ambition, which means it sometimes behaves like a New Year’s resolution: sincere on day one, complicated by day four.

The interesting part, especially for learners, is the gap between modals:

• will = promise

• must = necessity

• should = advice or moral pressure

• might = cautious possibility (often wearing a committee badge)

Outside Westminster, the thought is universal: They will do it… but they might not.

Constituencies: One MP and a Lot of Hope

The constituency system is where British democracy becomes personal without becoming personal. Each area has an MP. To someone arriving from elsewhere, this sounds reassuring: a direct link between citizen and Parliament.

Then reality replies with an auto-email. Your MP can raise issues. Your MP can write letters. Your MP can campaign on local matters. Your MP could reply to you.

That shift is small but crucial:

• can = ability in principle

• could = possibility, politeness and, occasionally, fantasy

Still, there is something quietly noble here. You have someone. Even if that “someone” communicates mainly through glossy leaflets featuring a sincere expression and a suspiciously tidy street.

Party Leaflets: Modal Verbs Put on Their Best Clothes

Party leaflets are where modal verbs go to perform in public. The policy may be complex, but the language is simple: confidence, urgency, reassurance and the occasional moral lecture disguised as a slogan.

In broad shorthand:

The Conservatives (centre-right) often speak in will and should, with a fondness for enterprise and the sense that the state ought to step back so you can get on with it. Labour (centre-left) reaches for must and will too, but with an emphasis on fairness and public services, so government should do more when life is clearly not doing anyone any favours. The Liberal Democrats (centre/centre-left) arrive with would and could, politely suggesting we might like more rights, more local power and a fairer voting system, if it is not too much trouble. The Greens (left) use must with impressive confidence, because when the topic is the environment, “we might get round to it” starts to sound like a hobby. Reform UK (right) favours must and won’t, with a strong focus on immigration and sovereignty, which gives their sentences the brisk certainty of a door closing before you have finished the question. And just like that, your grammar lesson becomes a tour of political personality. Same language, different mood.

First Past the Post: You Can Win Without Most People Wanting You

Now comes the part newcomers study the way they study train maps: with determination, suspicion and a quiet sense that this should have been labelled.

First Past the Post means you win a constituency by getting more votes than anyone else. No second preferences. No proportional balancing. Just: first across the line. The result is fascinating and occasionally baffling. You can win with less than half the local vote, and a party can gain a strong parliamentary majority without a matching national vote share. This is the moment the outsider’s calculator appears, uninvited but emotionally necessary:

I may vote with my heart, but I might vote with maths.

To be fair, FPTP has strengths. It often produces decisive outcomes and keeps the link between MP and constituency clear. It also produces tactical voting, where citizens pick not who they love, but who feels least risky. It is democracy with a straight face and a hidden spreadsheet.

The Whips: “You Must” Wears a Suit

There is a romantic image of MPs as independent thinkers guided by conscience. That may be true sometimes. It might even be true often. But it cannot be relied upon when party discipline is at stake.

Enter the whips. No whips, just consequences.

• you must vote this way

• you mustn’t rebel today

• you may speak freely on minor matters

• you might keep your career if you behave

It is pressure delivered in formal shoes. Polite, administrative and perfectly understood. “You can vote differently,” the system seems to say. “You might enjoy what happens next.”

The House of Lords: The Chamber of “May” and “Should”

An unelected chamber inside a democracy is where many newcomers pause mid-sentence. And yet the Lords scrutinise, revise, amend and delay. If the Commons is ‘will’, the Lords is ‘may’.

• The Lords may amend

• The Lords might delay

• The Lords should scrutinise detail before it becomes a national surprise

To someone raised on the idea that legitimacy equals election, it can feel like a paradox. Britain’s answer is mostly pragmatic: it works, and conventions keep it from overreaching. Democracy, British-style, is less a single door and more a corridor with several people gently asking, “Are you sure?”

A Commonwealth Aside: History That May Appear and Manners That Would Prefer Calm

And then there is the Commonwealth, that politely complicated reminder that history does not always leave quietly. It is where the past may introduce itself, cooperation can happen, and everyone might agree to keep the conversation civil, because everyone would rather not turn dinner into a seminar. Even that is a modal lesson: relationships are rarely “must”. They are “may”, “can” and “would”, held together by choice, habit and careful phrasing.

Modal verbs teach you how English handles power. British democracy shows you how Britain handles uncertainty. Before we finish, here is the short modal map you can actually hear in everyday Britain.

• must = obligation

• have to = external necessity

• should/ought to = norms and expectations

• may/might = permission and uncertainty

• can/could = ability and possibility

• will/would = promises and polite hypotheticals

Somewhere outside, the crossing light turns green, and the crowd moves, as if released by grammar itself. The learner came to learn English but didn’t realise British life also comes with a free lesson in might. Once you notice it, you start hearing it everywhere.

Copyright © Shams Bhatti [2026]. All rights reserved.

Reproduction or distribution of this work in any form is prohibited without prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations with acknowledgement.