Longing for the past
The demolition and construction industry is safer and more efficient than ever before. Yet, somewhere along the line, it has lost something.
When you reach a certain age, it dawns upon you that you have more life behind you than you do ahead. So perhaps it is natural to long for the past and to mourn its passing.
I look back at those I have lost personally. Family and friends. I look back at those we have lost professionally. People we worked with, people we admired and looked up to. Colleagues and co-workers; industry pioneers and industry leaders.
Even though most would agree that modern demolition and construction equipment is better in every conceivable way than the machines of yesteryear, we still long for those names from the past: Aveling Barford, Benford, Broyt, Drott, Hymac, O&K, Poclain, Priestman, Smalley. All those great names either swallowed up or gone forever.
Yet there is something I miss almost as much as the people we have lost; and perhaps more than the machines. It is hard to describe; impossible to define; intangible. It is not so much a thing as a feeling. But this industry used to feel different. Better.
It’s strange. Working conditions are better today than at any time in the sector’s history. Aside from a few glitches in the past few years, it is significantly safer too. The machines are cleaner, more comfortable, and more productive. Yet for all those improvements, it feels like we lost something on our evolutionary journey.
The industry feels more cut-throat; more dog-eat-dog. There was once a sense of mutual respect, even among competitors. You’d bid for a job and win or lose on the merits of your reputation, your workmanship, your word. These days, it’s a race to the bottom. Lowest price wins, no matter how unsustainable or irresponsible the bid. Contractors undercut each other with suicidal pricing, knowing they’ll claw it back with variations, delays, or corner-cutting. And let’s not kid ourselves. Some of them claw it back by turning a blind eye to safety or environmental standards. We've gone from handshakes and trust to loopholes and litigation.
The work ethic that once set the industry apart seems to have been eroded with the passage of time. There was a time when pride in your craft meant something. When men would turn up early, stay late, and carry their responsibilities like a badge of honour. I’ve known lads to shed a tear when their machine was sold, or when a job wrapped up after years on site. That level of attachment, of care, of investment in the work; that’s becoming rare. Today, it's just a paycheck. Too many float in and out with no desire to build a career, no sense of legacy. Maybe that’s not their fault. Maybe we stopped making the industry feel like something worth committing to.
The industry feels less honest. We used to look each other in the eye and say, “You have my word.” And that meant something. Now it means very little. Contracts are dissected for escape clauses; promises come with footnotes and caveats. Trust is no longer assumed. I've seen more betrayals in the last decade than in the 20 years before it. Backhanders, kickbacks, hush-hush agreements, and cash-in-hand extras. People used to be proud of their integrity; now they’re proud of getting away with things.
The collaborative industry of old has given way to an “every man for himself” attitude. There was a time when you could ring a rival company for help - borrow a part, a man, a machine - and they’d help you out because they knew you'd do the same. Today, ask a favour and you’ll get an invoice. We used to be one industry; now we’re islands. Knowledge isn’t passed down; it’s hoarded. Relationships aren’t built; they’re leveraged. You walk onto a site now and it’s silence; earbuds in, heads down. Where’s the camaraderie? Where’s the mentorship? Where’s the sense of being part of something bigger than yourself?
The rules and regulations that dragged the industry out of the dark ages are now seen not as important guard rails but as obstacles to avoid and bypass. We fought hard to make this industry safer; too many men died to get us to where we are. And yet we see it all the time: corners cut, risk assessments fudged, toolbox talks treated as box-ticking exercises. Health and safety is now just a legal requirement; something we do just in case someone else is watching; a burden we must bear so we don’t get caught. Environmental laws, mental health initiatives, gender equality policies; they're all seen as paperwork rather than progress. We’re so busy complying that we’ve forgotten why the rules were written in the first place.
In our pursuit of the next project and the next pound note, we have allowed many of our most important standards to slip away.
Some will say this is just nostalgia talking. That every generation thinks the one that came after it is lazy, dishonest, or lacking in grit. Maybe there’s some truth in that. Maybe I am just another old man shouting at clouds.
But I don’t think so. Because when I talk to others who’ve been in the game as long as I have, they feel it too; that sense that something has shifted beneath our feet. That the soul of the industry has changed. That we traded something priceless for something profitable.
We used to build things - not just with bricks and concrete - but with loyalty, character, and pride. We used to demolish things - not just with machines - but with respect, honesty and integrity. We used to belong; to crews, to companies, to communities. Now we are individuals, contractors, freelancers, consultants. Drifters on a landscape we once helped shape.
I know we can’t go back. The past is not a place we can revisit, only a memory we can carry. But I do wonder. If we had known what we’d lose on this journey to modernity, would we still have taken the same path?
Would we still have sacrificed legacy for efficiency? Brotherhood for competition? Fun for ruthless efficiency?
I suppose the answer doesn’t really matter. The die is cast.
But on quiet mornings, I sometimes allow myself a moment. A moment to remember the men and women who shaped me. The machines that inspired me. The sites where I learned what it meant to care.
And in that moment, I mourn not only what we’ve lost, but who we used to be.