No-one can hear you scream

"The good ship demolition and construction is sinking. There are no lifeboats. There is no rescue mission. And we are on our own."

I hate to be the bearer of bad news. I hate to be the one to break it to you. But, if you work in demolition and construction, no-one is coming to rescue you. No-one is coming to rescue you because no-one knows you’re in distress. Because no-one is listening.

When we speak about the mental health crisis that has gripped the sector, we are shouting into the void.

When we talk about the skills shortage that threatens the very survival of the industry as we know it, no-one is listening.

When we question the wisdom of working with asbestos and other known toxins, no-one cares.

When we raise concerns over the day-to-day hazards of working in demolition and construction, we are talking to ourselves.

When we call for job security and fair payments, our call is silent.

Our cries of anguish and pleas for help or respite are falling upon deaf ears.

To paraphrase the tagline from the original Alien movie: In demolition and construction. No-one can hear you scream.

Over the course of years and decades, a system has been engineered to ensure that our men and women have no voice; no outlet. It’s a system that keeps our issues, problems and concerns away from prying eyes and listening ears.

At the very top level, the demolition and construction industry used to speak to government. Accounting for around six percent of UK GDP, the sector could speak loudly. But it stopped speaking. Balfour Beatty quit the Build UK organisation because they had better links with government than the self-appointed conduit created to link the sector with those in power.

The National Federation of Demolition Contractors used to have a couple of pet MPs that they would wine and dine, invite to functions, and to whom they could express their concerns. That link is gone too.

Demolition and construction used to take place, largely, in the open. Residents, pedestrians and young people could see the activity taking place on site. Some might be inspired to join the industry themselves.

Today, demolition and construction takes place mostly in secret; a hoarding separating them from us; a veil of secrecy that has improved site safety and security but which has simultaneously killed passive inspiration.

There was a time when demolition and construction spoke to the media to spread a message of positivity, explanation and pride.

Today, the industry is too cowardly. Too self-absorbed. It has become timid. Afraid to speak and afraid to be seen. Even in the aftermath of a tragedy, the industry remains tight-lipped. Silent.

Instead, they host meetings, conferences, seminars, and exhibitions during which they speak to and congratulate themselves.

On the rare occasions they are in front of bodies like the Health and Safety Executive and the Environment Agency, they doff their collective caps in deference. They do likewise when they are face-to-face with clients and client organisations. Instead of calling them out on their unreasonable deadlines and even more unreasonable payment terms, they bow their heads and they say nothing.

As a result, no-one outside the industry is even remotely aware of the critical challenges we face as an industry.

They neither know nor care that the sector has a suicide rate that is roughly four times the national average.

They neither know nor care that asbestos has claimed the lives of tens of thousands of demolition and construction workers and is continuing to do so.

They neither know nor care that the number of site fatalities on demolition and construction sites has spiked since the COVID-19 pandemic.

They neither know nor care that we don’t have enough workers to build the required number of homes, schools, hospitals, roads and bridges we need.

Having cut ourselves off from the outside world, we have engineered a scenario in which the industry is in desperate need of rescue. But no-one can hear our distress call.

If you think the government or the CITB is going to solve the skills shortage, you’re wrong.

If you think that a bunch of tiny charity organisations and a collection of rapidly deployed mental health first aiders are going to cure our mental health crisis, you’re wrong.

If you think that someone is out there trying to ensure that demolition and construction retains human workers and does not just embrace AI and autonomous machines instead, you’re wrong.

If you think the banks are going to save your ailing company from insolvency, you’re wrong.

If the industry is to be saved - saved from itself - that salvation will have to come from within. Truly within.

The government is interested in construction purely as the lubricant that keeps the economic wheels turning.

Trade associations are interested only in the next fancy lunch venue.

Training bodies are focused entirely upon the amount of cash they can extract from the sector before the industry wakes up to the scam being perpetrated upon it.

The self-appointed industry leaders just want another medal around their neck; another set of letters after their name.

The good ship demolition and construction is sinking. There are no lifeboats. There is no rescue mission. And we are on our own.

You can scream all you like. No-one is listening.