When you put out a tender, you often get a bid that comes in 40% lower than the rest. The thing to do is to save yourself a lot of trouble and bin it …
They say the only thing worse than paying too much for a piece of building work is not paying enough. The temptation always to accept the lowest tender is great – and we have all been there and seen what can happen if you do.
Your client hopes that his building is going to cost £200,000 but as you get closer to finishing the documents you realise that it is going to land on the wrong side of three. So you seek quotations and get five prices back: £390,000, £360,000, £330,000, £325,000 and, dangling like the luminous lure over the jaws of an angler fish, is one from Messrs Lashup and Chancer for £250,000.
The highest tenderers are only moderately interested. The next two are seriously keen and, by the time you have scrutinised the documents, the lowest may not be the most competitive. But it is the price everybody wants. Now what everybody knows – especially the people who submitted the lowest tender – is that the work cannot be done for £250,000. But those involved somehow manage to forget this. Instead of wholeheartedly rejecting the bid they say “well, it is not THAT much higher than £200,000” or, more ominously, “obviously it’s going to go up a BIT… but surely not by 40% – so it SHOULD end up cheaper than the others”.
And what happens? Instead of spending several rewarding months on site making something out of nothing – which is what architects are supposed to do – we all endure months of misery during which the architects involved have to reinvent themselves as lawyers, which is what architects are supposed not to do.
Matters proceed from bad to terrible and eventually the project fills up with real lawyers and the whole mess becomes even more dispiriting than it is already.
What the architect should have done, of course, was to discount the lowest tender altogether, but our architectural firm’s undoing was its ridiculous optimism. It readily assumed an interest in the project – its baby – and that interest went far beyond the sound, realistic judgment it was being paid for. It should have told its client that it was clear that the job would cost £330,000 and if they can’t afford it, don’t do it.
They say the only thing worse than paying too much for building work is not paying enough
But what is the client‘s response when his architect tells him “this tender is a try–on. The work simply cannot be done for the money”? It might well be: “Well, I have had a long conversation with Mr Lashup and he assures me that it can.”
Here, the architect should either just sit back and take the fee on the inevitable claims for extras or leave the two of them to get on with it.
But instead of walking away and concentrating on their better clients, these architectural boy scouts with a power complex soon find themselves immersed in a claims quagmire. Instead of helping the construction process, they find all their waking hours committed to checking dates on drawing issue sheets, counting men on site, and ringing the Met Office … as well as answering 10 letters a day listing 50 reasons why the work can’t be done.
For some architects, no doubt, this is all part of the exciting cut and thrust of the commercial world. For me it is anathema. It is everything that makes being an architect five times as difficult and a thousand times less enjoyable than it should be. The main reason I negotiate contracts for building work is that when a builder asks: “What are we going to do about that substation in the middle of the site?” he does so before my client has signed the contract.
Yet, we’ve all had good low-tender breaks, which is why we continue to fall for them. Fifteen years ago I received two quotations for cutting down a large tree in Hertfordshire. One was from a local firm charging £560 and the other was for £116 from a groundsman, who did odd jobs for the adjacent estate. I went to see him on his ancient Massey Ferguson, and in my most concerned tone of voice, I asked him if he was sure he had priced the work correctly. He watched as I perused his estimate. “Well …” he said thoughtfully, “I could knock off 25 quid if you didn’t want it chopped into logs.”
Postscript
Gus Alexander runs his own architecture practice in Clerkenwell in London
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