Of all the post-mortem examinations performed on Newcastle United's still warm corpse, it was Alan Shearer's that caused our ears to prick up highest. “It's what's in the dressing room that's got us relegated,” the manager argued. “It's been a problem all season.” Alas, the furrow-browed Geordie legend was no more specific. What can he have been referring to? And could it be that within those unadorned words lies the key to unlocking the mystery of Newcastle's abysmal and saddening slump in 2008-09?

Any sensible investigation, on the basis of this lead, is going to be looking for answers to three critical questions. What, exactly, was in the Newcastle dressing room, with such ultimately catastrophic effect? Why was it in there “all season”? And - perhaps most importantly - in what sense was it “a problem”?

Naturally, our immediate instinct is to wonder whether it was a smell. Was there some lingering odour down there among the kitbags and the massage tables that could not be got rid of - an olfactory disturbance that fundamentally undermined the concentration of the players with terminal consequences for Newcastle's life in the Barclays Premier League?

You know what dressing rooms are like. They are subject to the kinds of fug that can build up when anything up to 20 sportsmen, in various states of agitation, get together in a room with no windows. Socks, too, and other used items of apparel are bound to be involved. And that's before you even begin to factor in the vagaries of air conditioning and plumbing. It's certainly possible to imagine something building up over the course of a season and proving impossible to trace - to the point where it didn't matter how liberally Obafemi Martins applied the Paco Rabanne after matches, the place still whiffed.

(Explanatory note for confused readers: Paco Rabanne is a brand of aftershave and not some hopeless winger drafted by Newcastle on the recommendation of Dennis Wise.)

So let's assume, for now, that the problem actually was a disastrous stink. The encouraging thing for Newcastle fans is that this is easily sorted - at least, now that the close season is here. It's one phone call to the builders, frankly. You have the whole lot out: take up the tiling, chase the plumbing back to source. Then you replace everything - lockers, taps, showerheads, fittings, the works. It's not cheap. But it's cheaper than buying a player - and, most likely, buying the wrong one.

Let's consider an alternative solution, though - and a far more troubling one. Perhaps the “something in the dressing room” bemoaned by Shearer was a ghost or, more spectacularly, a poltergeist, randomly flinging the tea cups around (normally the manager's job) and tipping out the contents of Damien Duff's sponge bag.

Or perhaps the team would be seated, awaiting half-time instructions, and the lights would suddenly glow intensely white and a cold wind would hurtle through the room, accompanied by cackling. It doesn't take much to upset the rhythm of a highly tuned football club. An extended sequence of paranormal apparitions would probably do it.

Of course, in the case of either of these scenarios (the smell or the haunting), a simple solution presented itself. You switch the dressing rooms - give the one that smelt or had a poltergeist in it to the visiting team and take the opposition's dressing room (stench and ghost-free, by all accounts) for the home side. Sure, it would have been smaller. But it would have meant that “what was in the dressing room” wouldn't have been the home team's problem any more.

It seems incredible to think that Newcastle had three full-time managers this season, and not one of them thought of that. Which in itself seems to reinforce the finally unignorable point that, no matter how you come at that sorry situation at St James' Park, and no matter what excuses you find, the finger still points at mismanagement.

Batting will never be the same again

Good use of the Mongoose by Stuart Law, of Derbyshire, this week. You don't know about the Mongoose? It's a new (and perfectly legal) cricket bat with a longer handle and a fatter, stubbier blade, allowing for bigger hitting. You take to the pitch with a conventional bat, to see off the pace bowling. Then you bring out your Mongoose to blast the slower stuff around. Against Durham, Law helped himself to ten runs with the Mongoose, in a total of 42 from 25 balls - decent work.

Many believe this bat could change cricket. But what other job-specific blades are set to take their place in the batsman's hitherto limited armoury?

The Rhinoceros Wake them up in the pavilion with this withering insult to medium-pace bowlers everywhere. The Rhino's unique wipe-clean surface and pump-action “load and lock” mechanism mean “humpty” on tap, especially if you catch it properly, full on the horn. Programmed to emit pre-recorded blood-chilling scream on impact.

The Hippo Stay all day with the bat they're calling “the anchorman's friend”. Sweet-spot free, the specially developed, riot shield-style, laminated panelling stops anything that doesn't contain actual explosives, making it the ideal tool for blocking and prodding to a draw. Turns even the loosest freelance glory-hunter with a wasp under his helmet into Geoffrey Boycott. Expected retail price: £477.99, not including straps and truncheon.

The Tapeworm Show the Australian spin-monkeys exactly where you intend to stick it, sunshine-wise, by reaching for this medically precise bat-technology breakthrough. Developed in conjunction with leading surgeons, special knurls on the Tapeworm's skinny but highly tensile blade impart a burrowing action to the ball, enabling you to return spin with interest. Howzat feel, Warney?

Why not combine Europe's two finest competitions?

It was set to be the mother and father of all fixture clashes. Next season, confirming its status as one of the great forces of contemporary light entertainment, the Champions League final moves to Saturday night. No problem with that: it's the slot of legends.

Except that, as the schedules stood, the game at the Bernabéu, Madrid (2010's appointed venue), was on course for a shuddering collision with the Eurovision Song Contest, due to take place on the same night in Norway.

Now, though, the Song Contest has moved aside to the following weekend. We say it's a massive opportunity missed. They could have brought the events together, folding them into one all-action, ring-a-ding dinging, totally pageant-tastic, pan-European celebration of cultural togetherness.

Imagine the sensation. Just watching Barcelona obliterate Manchester United was enough to make many of us think we had died and gone to TV heaven. Think of the queues for the water cooler the following morning if the evening's viewing had offered that and Inga and Anush from Armenia singing Jan Jan - all in the one, confetti-drenched, can't-miss package.

On Wednesday, the moment when the trophy was ceremonially brought on to the pitch by a woman in a dress that made both her and the fabled silverware appear to be emerging from a complimentary serving of prawn crackers gave just a tantalising hint of what this synergy could mean for the growth of both these broadcasting mega-brands.

Is it too late to go back? Or can Michel Platini and the Song people get round a table soonest to thrash out the details?