New Video for LIFT PERFORMANCE APPAREL Portraits feat. Harry Cloudfoot | Episode 1

At least 3 months of hard work, multiple site visits across the UK, and dropping a lot of verbiage in an intimate, #vanlife interview, led to this inspirational piece of footage.
Episode 1 of LIFT’s ‘Portraits’ series takes an in-depth look into why LIFT’s athletes do what they do. You can check the episode below.
Read on and find out more about how we created the video and why I’m so stoked with my involvement with LIFT.

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Don’t ever become a rich housewife | The Cloudfoot Diaries #45

Who doesn’t love a good rant to oppose the lifestyles of the bourgeoisie? Given our primal state is that of a ‘for or against’ attitude, and not one I recommend delving in to too often given its closed-mindedness, I’m going to break the rules and succumb to my instincts for the following few lines, entertaining you with excerpts of my observations of the upper class detritus known as the rich housewife.


Second on the list of Ghandi’s 7 social sins is ‘Wealth without Work’. Who embodies this principle better than the rich housewife, I ask you? Over the last four months, I have been apprenticing in a niche form of carpentry, primarily learning how to build bespoke wardrobes for rich, bored, unambitious women.

Sitting at her granite kitchen island, apple products plugged in, mainstream radio bubbling certain shit pop in the background, the smell of filter coffee lingering, the rich housewife begins her day. Nothing will really change within her environment for the next 7 hours or so. The husband, never seen. Up at the most unholy of hours, commuting into London’s financial sector, he is her piggy bank. Armed with his debit card and a list of house improvements to be made to a house that needs no improving, her day begins. If a man’s frustration from having no sex can be channeled into lifting weights, breaking the law or punching someone in the face, then the rich housewife can release her tension with spending. Because she’s definitely getting no sex.


We get the call. She’s not quite sure on the design, colouring or measurements of her new clothes coffin. And she daren’t get it wrong incase husband returns with a ‘What the F*** is that?’ look on his face, removing said spending privileges in an instant. Fortunately for her, we offer a service, one that includes a design we can adapt to any wag’s abode, removing the stress of thinking from her shoulders. We don’t paint it, we build it from carcinogenic, compressed sawdust, and we add a styled edge to each of the pieces to ensure we can whack on an extra zero to the quote.

The stupid questions are inevitable. ‘Will you leave that gap there?’ is the most common, usually asked with 3 or 4 days of building still to go. Followed by ‘When will you be finished so I can call in the decorator?’.

I have often thought of bringing along an empty sports duffel bag to fill with upper class goodies. A swift swipe of her dresser table would enable me 4 figures of freedom, in principle. Except her neighbour has the same jewellery, the same handbags, the same kitchen just in eggshell and not white, and even the same patio doors. Suddenly the array of goods I could pawn are worth nothing, as everyone has one.

Let me dispel a couple of jewels for you. I live in an area with the highest concentration of millionaires per square foot than anywhere in the UK. I can also tell you, from visiting a wide selection of houses priced at 7 figures, that these people struggle in taste, originality and not copying their neighbour. If you’re familiar with the principal of ‘keeping up appearances’ then these are the racing rats on the treadmill of keeping up.
Housewives are very much a thriving breed. This idea that in the 21 century, both parties earn the cash is a lie. In the upper classes are split in two, the earners and the cash burners, and believe me, there are plenty of women around that aspire to dig for gold and secure their place on the platform of kept-ness. Oh, and they can’t cook or clean because the maid does that.

Don’t ever aspire to be a rich housewife. They have no ambition. Their day consists of sweet f*** all. A highlight would be deciding which handle to put on which new, MDF drawer. Being a kept woman is not an ideal. It is boring, comfortable and deadly.
The depressing application of smudged make-up, to mask the ever-decaying skin of a soul deadened by the clutches of gold-fingered apathy is not something to look up to. And if you’re a male of the species reading this, and think that you would like to be the breadwinner and sponsor the slow death of your housewife, you’re equally to blame.

The rich housewife is desperate. But now she doesn’t know what for. Like the rat with a poison-loaded water feed, she will slowly drip herself to death of her own accord, leaving behind two shipping containers of wardrobe contents, an illusory kitchen, and that f****** radio.

Harry Cloudfoot is a backflipping chinchilla in the corner of his cage, just because it’s more fun that sitting still and getting fed.
You can follow his conquest to burn the rich for fuel on Twitter.

Cloudfoot applies for the Fire Brigade | The Cloudfoot Diaries #44

Torn between the rogue lifestyle of insecure unemployment,  and the desire to eat in clean clothes, I decided to send off an application for a job – gasp – with the London Fire Service as their Fitness Advisor.


For those of you following my own training militancy, you get no points for guessing how I would train those fuckers and what they would end up looking like in 36 weeks of being succumbed to my sadistic methodology.

I filled out the form half-knowing that an institution wouldn’t hire a man with no address and  a derivative of cummulo-nimbus for a second name. Hence the slightly passionate, yet tongue-in-cheek tone.

Here’s what I sent them:

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Next day soreness and thoughts on Specificity | The Cloudfoot Diaries #43

domsDelayed Onset Muscle Soreness, DOMS or Domåge Frais as it has been recently termed by myself, is that feeling you get the next day after training – when you sit down, it hurts. When you stand up, it hurts. Doing anything, hurts. That’s what you get when you haven’t trained for a while, at all, or you’ve tried a new method that has shocked your muscle into a sore mess.

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Cloudfoot’s foot on BBC 1 | The Cloudfoot Diaries #42

This will make you laugh.
Earlier this week I received a call from a BBC 1 producer regarding slacklining.
These calls come in every so often, usually; you’re lying in bed with company or driving at high speeds, or even parking yourself on the toilet. Due to the distractive nature of your task whilst taking the call, miscommunication is a given.

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Building your Will Power with the Daily Delay | The Cloudfoot Diaries #41

Today I had a day spare, rescued from the recent timely demand of having a job. I thought since I hadn’t written anything in a long time, I’d share with you a random thought and perhaps a more practical idea. if nothing else.

I have been thinking today about the process of delayed gratification, and what undergoing that process does to stimulate and build your sense of will power.
With everything becoming more available and more instant than this instance itself, my intuition declares that taking the opposite path is needed. One of control, one of slowness. One of aware, delayed gratification.

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Birthday in the Sky : White Spider Climbing Centre | The Cloudfoot Diaries #40

The Cloudfoot antics continue, from wearing a microphone walking over a crowd with cold sweats and man flu, to being the master of ceremonies for the SEND indoor bouldering competition at White Spider Climbing Centre’s 2nd Birthday Party.

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Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and the art of non-puking | The Cloudfoot Diaries #39


“Hang on a minute, Doug.”
Slumped in the passenger chair of his red Mazda, I pleaded to open the window, my overheated face now blending in with the car’s paint job.

“If I have to go mate, I’ll just lean out of the window and projectile into the hard shoulder, OK?” This was my contingency plan, just in case I couldn’t hold it down. You have to make these back-up plans when it’s not your vehicle.

The last time I had felt this nauseous was when I’d inhaled river water combined with taking a slam off of a slackline. This time, I’d just finished my second ever NoGi class at Andy Roberts’ Brazilian Jiu Jitsu Academy.

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SlackLondon 2014 is a MASSIVE SUCCESS


Amazing what can be achieved of 3 hours sleep. Turns out Clapham Common is quite the war zone at 2.30 in the morning. With 4 police cars, 6 coppers and some lacerated, drunk sapiens using my van as a landmark, it was far from the ideal resting conditions I had hoped for my night before SlackLondon 2014.

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Humbled through Humiliation | The Cloudfoot Diaries #38

Turning another year older this week leads me further towards my Socratean conclusion that I know nothing. Nothing, and that being humiliated in public is a stinging, humbling experience.

Last weekend I had the opportunity to put on some slackline demos for a crowd of punters at Somersault Festival in Devonshire, UK. A fortuitous turn of events meant I could rig a waterline right in one of the busiest parts of the festival. At a price.

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