I was recently on the Tube merrily listening to my iPod and minding my own business. I like listening to music on the Tube especially, because there’s no danger of anyone overhearing. We’ve all been there before – on public transport or in the library – when we suddenly realise that our private full-blast party to Madonna’s back catalogue (strictly invite-only) might not be as private as we’d hoped. No danger of this underground, however: the background noise of the train-on-track means us music lovers are free to hold down the Volume Rocker to our heart’s content, and watch as the little white dots race along the screen with ear-splitting abandon.

Me being me, of course, I managed to cock this up. I had been lost in the land of my playlist for a couple of minutes when I became aware that a) the music wasn’t quite as loud as it should be and b) people were starting to look at me. Eye contact on the Tube is never a good sign, so I decided to investigate further. The volume, it transpired, was indeed whacked up to full – that wasn’t the problem. No, the problem was that my headphones weren’t plugged in.

As I looked down and the saw the loose male jack dangling between my legs (steady on), I realised that the whole carriage had been forced to listen as I had inadvertently attempted to fill the underground with the world’s smallest boombox, like a 21st-century remake of Say Anything, only set in London, and with an alarmingly red-faced protagonist.

This wouldn’t have been so bad, of course, were it not for my song choice. For the track my phone had shuffled up first was none other than ‘Saturday Night’ by Whigfield. You remember the one – that nineties Eurodance classic which begins with a strange buzzing sound not unlike the iPhone alarm, and continues in a heady trance of keyboard, clapping and what appears to be some sort of quacking sound. The immortal opening lines – “Saturday night, I feel the air is getting hot/Like you baby” – rank, in my opinion, as one of the finest similes ever put to music. I’m not joking – I genuinely love this song. Truly, the subtle lyrical beauty of the “Da ba da dan dee dee dee da/Nee na na na” segment speaks to me with the same passion as any of Keats’s poetry. More, probably, given I haven’t read any.

So why the embarrassment, Will? If you’re such a fan of this disco claptrap, why the shame at playing it aloud? Well, disconcertingly intolerant disembodied voice of the reader, that’s just the thing. See, while I will happily scoff a whole banquet of nineties electro floor-fillers in one sitting, it is very much a private passion. Not to be shared with other commuters, by now giggling to themselves as they imagined this increasingly-rubicund 20-year-old – all blue chinos and neat collared shirt – lost in a thumping, deluded Ibizan reverie, circa 1993.

To make matters worse, as I shamefacedly fumbled to fit the headphone jack back into my phone, I clicked next on my playlist and was greeted with an uninterrupted series of much cooler, more appropriate artists. Why did I have to lead my accidental musical sermon with Eurodance, when one swipe away was Bob Dylan, or Nina Simone, or Jeff Buckley? (To be fair, queued after those was ‘Tragedy’ by Steps, but still.)

This got me thinking – we are all guilty of classifying certain kinds of music as ‘cool’ and others as embarrassing. We all speak of ‘guilty pleasures’ or ‘admit’ to liking songs which don’t make the grade. David Cameron, when that book with that allegation about that farmyard animal was published, was asked by one journalist whether he was embarrassed about the rumours that were spreading. The ones about his student days. The ones about what he’d got up to at Oxford. The humiliating ones. You know: that he’d listened to Supertramp. (I happen to love Supertramp – although again, I confess, I’m probably not going to announce that publicly. Especially not in print).

Celebrities who are appear on the nation’s beloved Desert Island Discs are faced with the dilemma of whether to be honest about their playlists or not. Sue Lawley asked Simon Cowell: “Do you really like these records or have they been chosen to enhance your image?” (He eschewed his Pop Idol offspring, choosing instead standards by Sammy Davis Jr. and Frank Sinatra.) Ed kept the Milibrand in check by selecting as his if-you-could-only-choose-one record ‘Angels’ by Robbie Williams (after Kirsty had pointed out that sometimes listeners are “sceptical about politician’s choices” on the show). Often castaways will embarrassedly apologise for one of their eight, assuring the listener it’s been chosen ironically, or because it was their late great-aunt’s dog’s favourite song. That’s why. (Interestingly enough, Cameron didn’t choose any Supertramp when he was on, playing it safe instead with The Smiths.)

All of which affirms my view that there seems to be a hierarchy of cool in music. It’s not pretty, but we all subscribe to it. However, I think it’s high time we all stopped worrying about what people think about our music tastes. Surely, for every deep house remix, I’m allowed the odd S Club 7 relapse? Or, in between gulps of the soaring four-octave brilliance of Freddie Mercury, I can quickly imbibe a bit of Bieber? I certainly hope so. My iPod, and life, would doubtlessly be all the duller if not.

So go, ignore the haters. Turn up the volume. Listen to whatever the hell it is you want to, regardless of its place in the pecking order of cool. Just make sure you plug your headphones in first