GRAVE DISCOVERY: How a teenage Macca's stroll through Liverpool cemetery led to his spookiest masterpiece (and you won't believe who's buried there!)

Paul McCartney's haunting ballad of loneliness might have deeper roots than even he remembered - and they're six feet under in Woolton.

• Eleanor Rigby's real gravestone stands in St Peter's churchyard, Liverpool, where young Paul McCartney and John Lennon used to skive off - but Macca swears blind he made the name up

• The song's priest, Father McKenzie, shares his name with another headstone just yards away - making this either the spookiest coincidence in pop history or a serious case of teenage memory loss

• From Mean Mr Mustard to Sexy Sadie, the Fab Four had form for turning real people into musical legends - sometimes with explosive results

Right then, gather round Beatles buffs and conspiracy theorists - here's a tale that'll make your Sergeant Pepper's lonely hearts skip a beat.

Picture the scene: it's 1966, and Paul McCartney's just penned what many consider his masterpiece - a melancholic meditation on loneliness that would make even the stoniest of mop-tops weep. But here's where it gets properly weird, as we say in Liverpool.

Years after warbling about Eleanor Rigby "picking up rice in a church where a wedding has been," our Paul discovered something that would make his famous eyebrows shoot up faster than the chord change in "A Day in the Life." There, in the very cemetery where he and John Lennon used to bunk off and smoke tabs behind the headstones, stood a gravestone bearing the name - you've guessed it - Eleanor Rigby.

"Pull the other one," I hear you cry. But wait, as they say on those frightfully annoying YouTube videos, there's more.

Just a few yards away, like some cosmic joke played by the gods of rock 'n' roll, there's another headstone marked "McKenzie" - sharing the surname of the song's lonely priest. It's enough to make you wonder if young Paul wasn't channelling more than just his legendary songwriting chops when he wrote this one.

Now, Macca himself - who, let's remember, can barely recall what he had for breakfast these days, let alone what inspired him in 1966 - swears on his beloved Hofner bass that he nicked the name 'Eleanor' from Eleanor Bron, the frightfully posh actress who appeared in "Help!" (Not the worst film the lads made, but that's another story for another day.) The 'Rigby' bit apparently came from a Bristol wine merchant's shop - though one suspects young Paul might have been more interested in their wares than their name at the time.

But here's where our tale takes a rather touching turn, like one of those key changes George Martin was so fond of. The real inspiration, according to Sir Paul himself (and who are we to argue with a knight of the realm?), came from the old dears he used to help with their shopping on his childhood council estate. These lovely ladies would bend his ear with tales of the war, probably slipping him the odd threepenny bit for his troubles. Not quite the same as streaming royalties, but everyone has to start somewhere.

Speaking of real people in Beatles songs, it's worth noting that our fab foursome had previous form in this department. Take "Sexy Sadie," John's not-so-subtle dig at the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Originally titled "Maharishi," the song got a hasty rename after George Harrison pointed out that calling your former spiritual guru a sexy fraud might be asking for karmic trouble.

Then there's "Dear Prudence," written about Mia Farrow's sister who took meditation a bit too seriously in India. The poor girl wouldn't come out of her tent, leading to John penning perhaps the most beautiful "get your act together" song in history.

Let's not forget "The Ballad of John and Yoko," which managed to namecheck half of Europe and thoroughly cheesed off the BBC with its casual blasphemy. Though one suspects that was rather the point.

Even post-Beatles, the lads kept at it. Paul's "Let Em In" reads like a who's who of his address book, while John's "Steel and Glass" was such an obvious pop at former manager Allen Klein that he might as well have included his business card number in the lyrics.

But perhaps the most infamous real-person reference came with "Norwegian Wood," which caused poor Cynthia Lennon no end of grief when she twigged it was about one of John's extramarital adventures. Though in typical Lennon fashion, he claimed the song was "just about an affair," as if that made it any better.

The tradition continues to this day, with Sir Paul still dropping names into lyrics like a socialite at a dinner party. His 2012 track "Early Days" even manages to have a dig at Beatles biographers who weren't there, man. Though one suspects they'll keep writing regardless.

But back to our Eleanor. The real Eleanor Rigby, it turns out, was a scullery maid who died in 1939 at the age of 44. One imagines she'd be rather chuffed to know she'd achieve immortality via one of the greatest songs ever written - even if it was purely by coincidence. Or was it?

The headstone, now as much a tourist attraction as Strawberry Field or Penny Lane, stands as a testament to either the extraordinary power of the subconscious mind or proof that sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction. Even fiction written by a Beatle.

What's particularly delicious about this whole business is how it plays into the grand tradition of Beatles mythology. Like Paul's "death" in 1966 (he looked fine to me last time he played Glastonbury, though the ticket prices nearly finished me off), or the supposed messages you'd hear if you played "Revolution 9" backwards (mostly John making a shopping list, I suspect), the Eleanor Rigby grave adds another layer to the already rich tapestry of Beatles lore.

And what about Father McKenzie, "writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear"? Well, apart from his ghostly namesake in the cemetery, we'll never know if there was a real priest who inspired those lines. Though given the average church attendance in 1960s Liverpool, one suspects more than a few clergy could relate.

The song itself, of course, has gone on to inspire countless cover versions, analyses, and probably a few PhD theses. Not bad for a tune that started life as "Miss Daisy Hawkins" - the original name Paul had in mind before sense, or perhaps those subconscious cemetery memories, prevailed.

It's worth noting that Eleanor Rigby's grave has been restored in recent years, paid for by record company donations rather than rice-picking proceeds. The headstone now stands as a testament to both the real woman who bore the name and the fictional character who made it famous.

One can't help but wonder what the real Eleanor would make of it all. Would she appreciate being immortalised as the archetypal lonely person? Would she recognise herself in those haunting strings arranged by George Martin? Would she be asking for royalties?

We'll never know, of course. But next time you're in Liverpool, pop down to St Peter's Church in Woolton. Have a look at that famous headstone. And if you happen to see two teenagers smoking behind the graves, don't disturb them. They might be working on their next masterpiece.

Oh, and if you're wondering whatever happened to Mean Mr Mustard? He's probably still hiding his nose in a jar by the door. Some things are better left unexplained.