When I think about Paul Brown, words like loss and absence feel too small; they certainly feel too soon. At just 66 years old, he has passed on, and the world – the UK demolition world – feels diminished; like a particularly bright light has gone out.
In an industry that has become homogenised and sanitised in the pursuit of corporate acceptance, Paul stood apart; a character and a personality in an age in which such valuable traits are now viewed negatively.
To know Paul was to understand the definition of a presence. He didn’t just walk into a room; he took possession of it. When he spoke, it wasn’t just loud; it was the sound of conviction and passion given voice. He was magnetic in the truest sense of the word.
Sometimes, that magnet would repel; his force was too strong. But when the poles aligned, he had the ability to attract, and to unite.
When some leave us, the empty chair they leave behind often serves as a poignant, physical mark of their passing. Paul’s passing leaves not just an empty chair; it leaves a void where a monumental life force once stood; a void that will never be filled.
Grief is inevitable today. But the thought of lowering my voice or bowing my head feels like an inappropriate way to mark the passing of a man who was seldom quiet and who would bow his head for no-one.
So instead, I shall say farewell to Paul in the same way that he always said farewell to me on the phone: Bye. Bye. Bye. Bye. Bye. Bye.
