Old Tom, the parish's retired gamekeeper, has for the last three weeks dreamt the correct Wolverhampton Wanderers scores.
They come to him in almost Biblical visions as he's about to drop-off on Thursday nights. If Tom eats blue cheese just before bedtime, he also gets the Partick Thistle result, for some reason.
He gets other stuff, like the year the world's going to end, but nothing as important as football scores.
At a time when nuns are queuing to see Jesus' face on a digestive biscuit or a talking Action Man whose hands bleed, we at last have a miracle to really shout about.
What's more, everyone in the parish can make a few bob out of it.
In Old Tom's trance-like state, he follows the players into the dressing room, watches them change, strides on to the pitch and is only feet away from every kick. He's even there during post-match recreational activities.
"That means you know which players get the goals," I babbled excitedly to the 82-year-old, realising the financial implications of placing a bet on the score and the scorers.
Problem is, Tom hasn't been to a football match since 1952. A couple of times, the rattle he uses in his dream wakes him up before full-time.
"Wolves play Crystal Palace on Saturday," I implored, with fellow parishioners gathered expectantly around the sage. "What did you see?"
"I see a young man with an expensive hairdo," recalled the misty-eyed OAP between sips of best mild in the Drum and Monkey's smoke-free snug, slowly easing back into a dreamy state. "He's stepping into an expensive sports car. I think it might be a BMW."
"Yeah! Right!," scoffed Colin. "That's narrowed it down a bit."
"The match," I pleaded. "What about the match?"
"There's a beautiful, semi-clad woman gyrating infront of him," he stuttered. "She's covered in baby oil."
"He's at the bloody lap-dance club afterwards," I hissed to my fellow gamblers. "Tom," I shouted, shaking the pensioner. "What about the game?"
Tom's eyes half-closed and dribble glinted on the corner of his mouth. "Leave him alone," petted landlady Marj. "He wants to stay at Spearmint Rhino."
"I've got a shiny new six pence to put into your stockings, my dear," moaned Tom, grinning but comatosed.
"He's used his hands," shrieked the pensioner in ghostly tones before his head lolled onto his chest.
"Is he still at the lap-dance club?" asked Colin.
"It's a penalty," shouted Tom, suddenly shaking. "He places the ball on the spot. He strides towards it. The noise is deafening. He slams the ball in the top right hand corner of the net."
"You don't save those," he muttered, suddenly sounding Scottish, before slumping into his seat, sparking back into life a second later to resume the spirited running commentary. "The players are going wild. They're jumping on him...she's wriggling on his lap."
"He's gone back to the piggin' lap-dance club," groaned Colin.
"Tom," I asked gently, trying to suppress mounting despair. "What colour's the kit?"
"Black," he mumbled, "looks like latex and in the style of a nurse's oufit."
He was definitely still at the lap-dance club.
"Just think," I implored the dozing pensioner. "What did the goal scorer look like?"
"Black," babbled Old Tom. "Big...very strong. Just what you need in a hard game..."
"He's on about Wolves new striker," murmured the throng.
"...you can't beat a cup of Bovril," grinned Tom, licking his lips.
"Shall I kick him or will you?" whispered an exasperated punter. "I don't want to be here when he queues for the toilet," whispered one worried young woman.
"The Crystal, the Crystal...," he mouthed.
"The Crystal what?" I barked.
"...chandelier lights up the pictures on the wall..."
"That's so sweet," cooed Maj, "he's singing country and western." With that, Old Tom submitted to slumber, snoring loudly in the snug.
"That was a total waste of time," huffed Colin after the hour grilling.
Not at all, I assured him. "We know it's going to be 1-0, the goal coming from a penalty."
"And do you really think someone called Tanya Whiplash scored it?"
No, but the odds would be huge if she did.
We gambled on a 1-0 win for Wolves, with a spicy side bet that the goal would come from a penalty awarded for handball.
"Ten quid down the spout," I shouted, dramatically slamming the front door to Chateau Lockley. "It was 2-0 - all goals coming from open play."
Really," gasped my smirking wife. "Funny that - I followed Old Tom's dream to the letter and did rather well for myself."
But Wolves won by two goals, I stammered.
"Did they?" she tutted. "Partick Thistle, however, scraped through on a late penalty."