There was fear and loathing in Wigan yesterday, at the world pie-eating contest. Feuds about the provenance of the pastry mixed with resentment at newfangled rules, which time the swallowing of a single pie rather than count how many are shovelled down. That change represents an improvement of sorts, although the whole idea of speed-scoffing remains an affront to a food both practical and sublime. The utilitarian aspect is evident in the origins of the old English pye. The pastry provided the means to make portable moist forms of nutrition that were previously the preserve of well-equipped kitchens; the tin miner's Cornish pasty – which made stew as easy to cart around as a handbag – is the archetype here. The sublimity emerges through a little Socratic reflection on exactly what constitutes a pie. The countless varieties obscure the matter – the fully encased article must compete with pot pies, in which the crust merely floats on the top; the filling, of course, can be literally anything – from meat to mushroom to the fabled two dozen blackbirds; and while properly regarded as a savoury affair by most of the planet, English-speaking peoples have no scruples about labelling sweet tarts as pies. There is, however, an essence of pie; it dwells in the borderland where pastry meets with filling to create a third taste, and complete the pie-makers' holy trinity. But such thoughts were probably lost on Barry Rigby when he clinched Wigan's crown by shoving down his last crumbs of crust within just 45 seconds.