In a development that has sent tremors through the crisps aisle of every corner shop from Penzance to Perth, Iran has run out of ink. Yes, you read that correctly. The Islamic Republic, a nation known for its rich literary history, Persian rugs, and a nuclear programme that has the West in a perpetual tizzy, has apparently forgotten how to make the stuff that goes in pens. Or printers. Or, more pressingly, the stuff that prints the garish, lip-puckering colours on bags of Cheetos and Doritos destined for the British palate.

A source deep inside the Tehran snack food division (yes, that is a real thing) confirmed that the shortage has forced the Persian branch of a major American crisp conglomerate to ditch their standard livery of sodium persuasion for a monochrome, minimalist look more befitting a Beckett play than a packet of processed corn. The new packaging, said the source, is 'elegant in its austerity' and 'really makes you think about the void of existence before you even open the bag'.

Now, you may be asking yourself: what does an Iranian ink shortage have to do with the price of a 250g bag of salt and vinegar in Manchester? The answer, my friends, is absolutely everything and absolutely nothing. You see, the British supply chain is a magnificent beast. A labyrinthine contraption held together by gaffer tape, good intentions, and the occasional bout of diplomatic immunity. If there is a single weak point, a single un-lubricated cog, we shall surely perish in a sea of un-colourful crisps and crushed expectations.

While the immediate impact on British shelves is, to be frank, negligible (we have more than one ink supplier, thank you very much), the psychological blow is immense. We have built an entire civilisation on the assumption that a Walkers cheese and onion packet will always be green. That a Monster Munch will always be in a shade of orange so violent it could be used as a hazard warning. The very fabric of our snack-based society is unravelling. What next? Will Our Lord and Saviour, the Pot Noodle, forsake its beigey-brown packaging for a stark, no-nonsense white box? The mind boggles.

I rang a government minister this morning, a man whose job title contains the word 'resilience'. He told me, between slurps of what I hoped was tea but suspected was something stronger, that the situation was 'under control' and that we had 'stockpiled enough ink to paint the entire M25 a cheerful shade of Marmite'. I pressed him on whether this crisis exposed a deeper fragility in our ability to put snacks into the hands of the British public. He laughed. It was not a reassuring laugh. It was the laugh of a man who has seen the spreadsheets and knows that our national snack security is one rogue trade war away from collapse.

This is not about crisps. This is about everything. The Iranian ink shortage is a metaphor for the hubris of modern civilisation. We stand on the shoulders of giants, but those giants are wearing paper hats and running out of colour. The British supply chain? It's not about resilience. It's about finding a way to make a profit out of chaos. And right now, someone, somewhere, is making a killing selling off-white packaging to a grateful nation.

I need a drink. A large one. Preferably with a slice of ice and a crinkle-cut crisp.