Elizabeth Joyce: Retro? Ironic? Old-school? No, I just like what I like

Obviously I tuned in ironically, tweeting self-deprecating smartarse comments along the way.

I just needed some downtime, you see: a break from all those novels, reports and episodes of Newsnight and University Challenge.

I watched it while wearing my retro onesie, drinking a kitsch glass of Lambrini and eating my way through a cult box of Ferrero Rocher.

I know what you're thinking: Oh, Elizabeth with all this coolness you're really spoiling us.

True, I am.

I'm also lying. Lying through my little higgledy-piggledy teeth.

I did indeed watch two-and-a-half hours of The Real Housewives Of Beverley Hills, but not in some cool, tongue-in-cheek, guilty-pleasure kind of way. I watched it because I like it. I think it's awesome.

Yep, I don't care who knows it, I genuinely care about the feud between Lisa Vanderpump and Adrienne Maloof (great names) and whether or not Brandi Glanville will put her (often broken) foot in it again.

Mainly though, I watch it see if Kyle Richards has finally cut off that awful hair. You're 44 years old woman! Too old for that brunette Barbie look!

Anyways, what I'm trying and probably failing to say is that, in my book, there's no such thing as a guilty pleasure. You likes what you likes, folks. Deal with it.

All the adorning adjectives in the world won't make my love for the Beverley Hills ladies cool.

And I can try and repackpage Lambrini as the kooky girl's drink of choice – complete with the patented "I know, what am I like, eh?" eyeroll – but truth is, it's sweet and cheap so I'm drinking it. Besides, I just want to have fun.

Same goes for the Ferrero Rocher, my Britney Spears back catalogue, love of jigsaws and obsession with Birds Eye Potato Waffles.

Hey! They're delicious, alright? Not to mention waffley versatile.

I just think this whole 'guilty pleasure' thing is exhausting. I haven't got the time to pretend to love to hate something I love. See? Even that sentence is confusing.

Just embrace your likes, loves and passions and be honest about them. Life's too short not to.

You want to buy the Sam Bailey album? Do it.

Fancy eating a Findus Crispy Pancake for your tea? Go for it.

Still love you flared, indigo mum jeans? Wear them.

What are we all so scared of? The cool kids? Well, sod them, they're not even cool deep down. Sure, they're tweeting witty putdowns about anything mainstream and instagramming pictures of their achingly-hip homemade Malaysian rendang curry but inside they're desperate to watch an entire night of ITV2 and scoff a Pot Noodle.

Besides, you can spot a faker a mile off. I'd much rather talk to a genuine and knowledgeable trainspotter than a phoney-baloney hipster pretending to be an avid fan of The Ramones or New Order. A T-shirt does not a fan make, sunshine, just you remember that.

The real deals, the old guard who were there back in the day, would eat you up for breakfast. They know you're pretending, they can smell it on you, now run along and listen to a 1D album.

Basically, it's time we all stopped keeping up appearances. It's time we were happy in our own skin. It's time to do away with words like kitsch, retro and old-school and embrace guilty pleasures for what they really are: pleasures.