Construction's failure to heed past lessons

We live in an age where we’re constantly told to "learn from the past," yet history is crowded with crises that suggest otherwise. Take the COVID-19 pandemic, for example. When the virus began its relentless spread, national governments scrambled for answers, hastily explaining their lack of preparedness with a familiar refrain: “There was no playbook for this.” Four years on, how much has changed? Are we better prepared for the next pandemic, or are we still clinging to the belief that the last one was some kind of “once-in-a-century” anomaly?

The construction industry is no stranger to lessons that went unlearned. When Carillion collapsed, it shocked an entire sector. Here was one of the largest companies in the industry, managing hundreds of millions of pounds, trusted to carry out infrastructure projects that would shape our towns and cities. And yet, it all fell apart, leaving subcontractors in financial ruin and employees without a job. The leaders, politicians, and even rivals all swore we’d never let it happen again. “This is a watershed moment,” they said. “We’ll introduce safeguards, be more transparent, and take a closer look at the health of our supply chains.”

But what happened? ISG followed with a similarly catastrophic collapse. The promises made in the aftermath of Carillion turned out to be as hollow as the foundations of these fallen giants.

And if you don’t believe me, take a look at the news surrounding housebuilder Vistry at the moment. A billion pounds wiped off its value in a single day and two profit warnings in as many months? Would anyone be surprised to see them heading down the same path to the industry scrap heap in the near future?

It’s easy to blame these cycles on “unprecedented events,” to say that no one could have seen the signs. But history tells a different story. We’ve faced pandemics before; we’ve seen empires of industry collapse. And each time, there’s a call to remember the lessons, to ensure we’re better prepared. But preparedness isn’t just a word; it requires action, discipline, and often a willingness to spend a little extra in the short term to secure the future.

So, we have to ask ourselves: Why aren’t we learning? Why do we treat each new crisis as though it’s the first of its kind?

One answer might lie in the very nature of these crises. Pandemics and corporate collapses alike expose uncomfortable truths. COVID-19 revealed that despite all our technological advances, we are still vulnerable to nature. Carillion and ISG’s failures revealed that despite all our talk of economic growth, the foundations of our financial structures remain precarious, balancing risk upon risk. And the fact is, acknowledging these truths means we’d need to fundamentally change. That’s hard—much harder than simply claiming we’ll “do better next time” and hoping the next crisis won’t come.

We must ask ourselves whether we are willing to invest in real change or if we’re content with the illusion of progress. Are governments setting aside the resources for pandemic preparedness, or is it merely a line item that looks good on paper? Are construction companies creating robust financial models and prioritising ethical standards, or are they just waiting for the next crisis to unfold before they utter another set of empty promises?

Take a look at what happened after Carillion. How many companies and how many individuals were genuinely held accountable? How many meaningful regulations were passed? And most importantly, how many lessons were learned?

And while we’re thinking about the failed learning opportunities from Carillion, ISG and the COVID-19 pandemic, let’s not forget others like the disasters at Grenfell and Didcot.

Years after both those incidents cost lives, we are still waiting for the necessary changes to be made.

The sad truth is that we’re all too often bound to repeat the mistakes of the past because, frankly, it’s easier that way. Real change requires not just the willingness to look backward but also to take those insights and apply them in the here and now. It means accepting that preparedness has a cost—one that doesn’t show up on balance sheets or in quarterly profits but pays dividends in times of crisis. Yet, in our relentless drive for growth, the present always seems to overshadow the future.

So, if there’s one lesson we can draw from both the pandemic and these corporate collapses, it’s that declarations of change mean nothing without the courage to act. To prevent the next Carillion or the next COVID-level disaster, we must abandon the mindset that each crisis is unique, that each failure is somehow unforeseeable. Because while each of these events may be distinct, the patterns they reveal are as old as time.

We say we’re learning, but are we really? Or are we just rehearsing and rehashing the same excuses?