"Something is rotten in the state of Denmark."

Zero Ten saw seismic shocks rocket through the bedrock of Professional Surfing: a mid-year cut that carved off half the deadwood (there is more to be sure); the ascendancy of Reynolds who blitzkrieged heats with the most radical surfing ever seen and reduced grown men staring at computer screens to quivering teenage girls in the presence of popstars; the profligate talent of Jordy Smith which marched ahead of his mental toughness and desire to win a title and which was ruthlessly exploited by Slater on his march to destiny and a Tenth Title. Shading all, like a medieaval eclipse which portends an inexplicable evil, was the mysterious death of Andy Irons.

As if to fill the gaping hole of speculation around the mercurial and incandescent Irons, around whom rumours of drug use and emotional meltdowns had circulated for the last few years, surf publications rushed in with deserved eulogy and self-interested theories surrounding the death.

Public opinion became sharply divided over the Irons death. In the one camp were those who believed that the matter should be quickly laid to rest - swept under the carpet so to speak - and that only the otherwordly surfing performances of Irons should be remembered and celebrated. They considered any journalistic enquiry into the circumstances surrounding the 31-year-old dying alone in a Dallas Hotel Room to be tasteless and shameless voyeuristic vulturism.

Surfing mag editors rushed to print to defend their lack of investigation into the death, some even going so far as to claim that the concept of Surfing Journalism itself was an oxymoron. Perhaps they are right, sports fans? The Old Guard journos were as silent as church mice. Any real journalism over the death was confined to the mainstream mags, in particular Outside and The Australian.

In the opposing camp were those who believed that the death was worthy of investigation, and that if the rumours of drug use were true it could be used to honour the memory of Irons by instigating changes in the culture around professional surfing athletes. Perhaps a foundation could be set up, perhaps sponsored by Irons chief clothing sponsor. The ASP could instigate new drug testing measures.

At the time of writing forces dedicated to obscuring the meaning of Irons death, and by extension his life, were in the ascendancy. A move to suppress the toxicology report, ostensibly to protect the Irons 'brand' was successful. There have been no changes in the ASP drug policy. The cosmic dance continues.

Your correspondent dreamt of Andy last night, on a warm humid summers evening with a fat, golden moon floating through the trees. Andy was behind the lay-by counter in the fishing section of a large supermarket. His hair was immaculately combed and parted to the side and he had a clean, neat uniform on. I walked up to him and he said: "This is all I ever wanted brah. A real job. An honest living to provide for my wife and child. I didn't wanna be a trained seal anymore."

A single globular tear welled up in his eye and rolled down his cheek. We embraced and he slowly dissolved in my arms. I walked out of the supermarket, down an endless corridor lined with rising sun boardshorts and posters of AI on the floors, walls and ceiling. From the supermarket loudspeakers, which seemed to come from the bowels of the earth, I could hear the final bars of Joy Division's 'Dead Souls' "They keep calling me...they keep calling me..." The merchandise started to fall from the ceilings and form an avalanche, threatening to crush me as I ran, hindered and mouth agape in silent scream. Andy's voice came through the loudspeakers: "Don't panic brah, just relax, let St Andy protect you." I submitted to the warm embrace of an endless avalanche of merchandise.

There is more we must turn our unflinching gaze on, sports fans. Much more in fact. Can we be absolutely frank here? Yes? Good. Then let us say without hesitation that the tour shelters and survives under the twin citadels of Slater and Dane Reynolds. Both, in their own way, made a personal plaything and puppet of Professional Surfing in 2010. Slater through complete dominance and Reynolds through performances which have confounded judges and made a mockery of the concept of 'free' surfing. Both have made public utterances which demonstrate a weak sense of allegiance to the ASP. Without them there will be a credibility gap which could haunt the sport for years and into which all kinds of rebel tours and other concepts could spring up as luxuriant new growth does in a rainforest when the dominant trees come down, leaving sunlight flooding into the forest floor.

Meanwhile, the Dream Tour concept itself, which has, through much visionary activity from Rabbit, slowly built credibility into Pro Surfing, stands teetering on the abyss. The 2011 Tour, with massive new events slated for NYC and Brazil, has taken a decisive step away from the concept of the world's best surfers in the world's best waves as it attempts to recapture the 80's model of contests near population centres and crowds on beaches. Ironically, this shift away from powerful surf will prevent the rise of an Irons-type surfer (exhibit A: Jon Florence) and favour small wave surfers.

For a brief but significant period under the reign of Rabbit Bartholomew Pro Surfing followed the surf, allowing a once-in-a-generation surfer like Andy Irons to challenge Slater in the best and most challenging surf in the world. Now Pro Surfing (and it's 'athletes') have announced by deed, if not word, they are following the money. In this they are merely reflecting the rebalancing of the world economy as it favours up and coming nations like Brazil and old world power centres like New York.

Killing the goose that laid the golden egg? Screwing the pooch? Time will tell. Pro Surfing fans will turn off on two foot slop faster than a bucket of prawns starts to smell in the hot sun and a Jadson Andre World Title arrived at by air reversing a million times in the shorebreak will not fly in the traditional power centres of California and Australia.

Slater has publicly embraced these developments, despite being on the verge of starting a rebel tour less than two years ago due to dissatisfaction with the ASP. This startling about face may be due to his becoming a large stock holder in Quik (follow the money) or the fact that a weakened tour would fall into his hands as he develops a workable wave pool.

One more thing to digest: On the penultimate week before Snapper kicks off we've seen Teebs take out the Burleigh Breaka Pro. A sideline and footnote to the main story which was, unless you've been living under a rock, the coverage of the brawl involving the two most hated men in Pro Surfing and a Burleigh local.

For one glorious hour Pro Surfing kicked the Middle East off the headlines and made front page news.

I warned last March, when J-Flo spat the dummy over a judging decision and claimed a cultural bias, about the danger of wounded Gallic Pride. The scorned Frenchman will stop at nothing to restore national honour (especially when he has a 200 pound Hawaiian to back him up). Europe will rise yet again.

The well established nexus between thuggery and the surf industry, particularly in the Hawaiian Islands, has slowly become legitimised as professional thugs in the UFC caper become closely associated with Pro Surfing. In this age of Twitter feeds and Wikileaks the scrawling news feeds from Burleigh were focussed on gruesome and public violence committed by Pro Surfers who have become saturated with a culture of violence immune to censure.

Have we seen the future, sports fans? Will UFC and Pro Surfing merge in the age of ultra-crowds to become one gladiatorial blood sport? The spectre of thuggery and ultra-violence now hang over the sport like the sword of Damocles.

Fear not for this Clockwork Orange future surfing purists...when the image of surfing has once again been reduced to outlaws and misfits and the surf comps happen in octagon-shaped wavepools a new generation will crawl out of the bushes and embrace the new dawn...it will be the Morning of the Earth.

I swear Cormac McCarthy couldn't make this shit up.