THIS is a fast-moving story, involving the country's top politicians.

I have instructed senior staff on the paper to keep an eye on it in case there are developments after I have filed this explosive essay and returned to my comatose state.

The reason for this is that the decision by Mr Gregg the baker to remove macaroni pies from his shops clearly cannot stand. I expect it to be rescinded, possibly after appeals from President Barack Obama and the Pope, and perhaps a Pie-Aid concert featuring the nation's top bands.

As it stands, Deputy Dug - Labour's deputy Scottish branch manager, Kezia Dugdale - has urged her oppressed "sisters" who control Scottish politics to join a campaign to save the macaroni pie.

Other countries have save the whale. We have save the pie. A fever suppurates on Twitter, where First Minister Nicola Sturgeon is a leading cybernat (anyone who has a computer and disagrees with the union) and where even leading political fiction writer JK Rowling might be expected to drop her traditional online resentment and back something dear to Scotland. No, not freedom, madam. Pies.

Pies being devolved to Scotlandshire, the subject came up during First Minister's Questions at Holyrood yesterday, with an emotional Ms Sturgeon holding an onion under her eyes as she revealed that her father was no stranger to the pie's delights, though she herself demurred.

While we await an announcement from Buckingham Palace, which takes 10 per cent of the profits on every macaroni pie sold around the coastline in Scotland, let me fill your crusty heads with background here. Scientific analysis has shown the comestible under advisement consists of a cheesy pasta-style substance contained in pastry baked by the Lord himself.

Culturally speaking, we have here a comfort food that has been proven, anecdotally, to cure sadness and the heebies. And, while university studies show little effect on the jeebies, the related Scotch pie is recommended by many experts for these.

Before proceeding further, let me upchuck some shocking information: I have never eaten a macaroni pie. Don't judge me. Until now, my fear of macaroni has almost matched my terror of cauliflower (raw, cooked, curried or liquidised). But I've been won over by the publicity for this case, which unsurprisingly - or unsurpiesingly - made headline news in the nation's newspapers. And I accept that newspiepers would be pushing my luck here.

I was shocked and arguably amazed at how few calories were in the repast: just 262. All these diet-conscious divas going to posh sandwich shops for their hummus and goat-poo wraps will be consuming more than that. However, working on commission from The Samaritans, nutritionists will doubtless warn that the short way to the grave is paved with macaroni pies.

Well, we are Scots. We don't go to hell in jessie hand-baskets. We skid into hell on a river of piping hot grease.

Far from hell, meanwhile, in the normally serene and fragrant township of Falkirk, graphic designer Paul Tonner has started an online petition to have the macaroni pie reinstated. This has been backed by thousands of decent ratepayers, distraught that their culinary equivalent of methadone has been withdrawn from sale.

Many are particularly angry that its place has been taken by such effete poltrooneries as Mediterranean pork rolls and green Thai chicken lattice. Fears have also been growing that, in future, customers at Greggs will not be served unless they're wearing a cravat.

Consider also this: the decision discriminates against vegetarians, who turn up their noses at steak bakes, never mind poultry from Thailand, lattice or no lattice.

Let us agree that we have on our hands here a popular uprising. Calls for a referendum are already growing, with support expected from other countries. I was flabbergasted to read that similar pies were popular in the Caribbean, which I'd always understood to be a hot region with little need for carbohydrate consolation.

It should also be pointed out that other bakery groups produce macaroni pies and that these can be purchased in supermarkets. But busy executives will find they must cook these themselves, as if we were living in the 11th century.

No, Greggs must remain the focus of our discontent. Its cheery shops are where vegetarians, epicureans and prelapsarian proletarians expect to see the dish of their delight nestling in a golden glow beamed down from heaven itself. Get it sorted, Mr Gregg.