The "Baby Shark" song has lost all cuteness.

It has been known, for some times, that most sharks begin life, or even pre-life, as cannibals. Inspired, likely, by Satan himself, or possibly Anton LaVey, they smack their embryonic lips and feast upon one another, preparing for the day they can escape mother and feast on the feet of male surfers.

Disturbing, yes, and should hamper sympathy amongst the non-binary, but in a just released study, scientists discovered how much glee baby sharks derive from the taste of their brothers and sisters. The mini-apex predators, it was revealed, will swim from womb to womb, seeking and destroying.

While I am a trusted shark-cum-surf journalist we must head to the pages of Science Alert for the very latest here.

A novel kind of ultrasound device has provided biologists with a detailed view of this common act of cannibalism, and it revealed they don’t just nibble on their neighbour. Embryos will travel between wombs to feast.

No, that’s not a typo. Many species of shark mature their eggs or gestate embryos in a left and a right uterus.

For most animals, embryonic movement is rather limited to a bit of squirming and the occasional flip. Even for young that aren’t anchored to a placenta, gestation is thought to be a rather sedentary affair.

So researchers from Okinawa Churaumi Aquarium in Motobu, Japan, were surprised to find the unborn pups of captive tawny nurse sharks (Nebrius ferrugineus) not only moving around their own uterus, but moving house altogether.

“Our data shows frequent embryonic migration between the right and left uteri, which is contradictory to the “sedentary” mammalian fetus,” the team wrote in their report.

The discovery came courtesy of a fancy new piece of equipment that allows the kind of ultrasound device you’d use to scan a human pregnancy to be packed up and carried underwater.

Etc.

A moveable feast and very scary. Very much ahead of human dullness while in utero and if we have any hope in surviving the current apocalypse we should start our training as embryos. Maybe learning how to fashion little fishing poles or some such.

Any better ideas?

More as the story develops.

From, like, years ago.

How did today’s stock market plunge affect you? Or is it effect? Did your heart drop while your children’s futures were wiped clean out? Or is it whipped?

Did you smile, laugh and mumble “eat the rich?”

Unaware?

Well, maybe the stock market plunge into bear territory is a blessing in disguise for exciting new Australian men’s surfing World Championship Tour rookie Morgan Cibilic seeing as he still hasn’t received his prize money for a third place finish at the Pantin Classic Galicia Pro, a 10,000 level Qualifying Series event completed September 2, 2018 and worth…

…I have no idea.

$5,000?

$12,000?

Morgan speaks about the theoretical rip-off on a recent Lipped podcast and you can/should/must listen here while also subscribing for future episodes…

…but back to the matter at hand. However much he should have won, it might be a wonderful gift to have never received for the smart move would have been to drop that money into the markets which no longer exist.

It’s over.

A wrap.

Blue Monday.

People are eating each the rich’s faces off in Paris.

Or maybe that’s just touristy steak frites.

Chewy etc.

But, once again, back to the matter at hand. Is this how the World Surf League is paddling its bottom line? By allegedly not paying debts?

Very wise.

More as the story develops.

Locals only.

After reading yesterday’s news that toilet paper is selling out in America, that Europe is gripped in a panic so severe the entirety of northern Italy has been completely walled off all over a disease manufactured in a Chinese factory, working just as well as other things manufacturers in Chinese factories, I knew I had to take my seven-year-old daughter to Ye Olde World and at once.

There was no other option. We needed to shred this Coronavirus Zombie Apocalypse in a place actually fun as opposed to San Francisco or Washington D.C. or Wuhan.

The price for hand sanitizer may be through the roof. The price for direct flights to Paris decidedly not.

We drove to LAX too early, as the I feared mass flight cancelation. The Bradley International Terminal was save random Koreans in surgical masks and a smattering of Western Europeans also wearing surgical masks but extremely self-consciously.

Since I am a surfer, I booked us on Air Tahiti Nui. The pastel, sexually ambiguous carrier of our dreams

The flight itself was uneventful. Daughter slept. I wept rolling tears while watching the World War II film Midway starring Woody Harrelson, Ragnar Lodbrok’s eldest son and Joe Jonas who delivered the stirring line, “Who knows how we’re gonna die so might as well not care.”

Maybe it was Nick Jonas but, in any case, true. Except I know how I’m not going to die.

The Coronavirus.

Exactly like I know how a Huawei dishwasher will crap out in 1.5 years.

“Northern Italy has been completely walled off…” I tell my daughter after we clear customs at Charles de Gaulle, catch a cab then stroll the directly to The Louvre all jet-lagged while a cold grey sky begins to spit. “We used to be brave, damn it. When we got smacked by foreigners from the East we used to smack back.”

“Did you drink beer on the plane?” She asks.

“I drank inspiration.” I holler.

“Inspiration?”

“Never mind about that. I can’t imagine there are any Chinese left in Paris but we need to keep those northern Italians out. Them and their Coronaviruses. This is our chance to not lose our minds alongside the rest of the world but pretend we’re Paris locals. It’s the best thing surfers do, claim a strip of beach as theirs, however dubious the claim, and scare everyone else away. If you see a northern Italian you must find a rock and throw it while shouting whatever French you’ve got. ‘Oui merci beaucoup’ or some such.”

“How will I know northern Italians?”

“They wear Prada, Valentino, Miu Miu, Armani, Missoni and drive Fiats”

Localism really is a thing surfers understand and employ better than all comers. A gift I can give my daughter alongside anything she chooses to be in this life.

We walk up to the glass pyramid with only ten other confused people around but a sign reads: To prevent the spread of Covid-19 the Musée du Louvre is seeking to limit its attendance. Only visitors already in possession of an e-ticketwill be permitted to enter the Museum.

Well that’s lame.

A rock whizzes past my ear and spin around. My daughter is standing there wearing a new violet beret.

“You’re wearing Moncler…” she says, nonplussed.

She’s right. Fine form and a quick study.

More as the story develops.