Being a pervert carries with it risks, the most acute of which is exposure. Deviating from the norm is fine, unless everyone finds out. The only way to face this challenge is to be open; to be out and proud about exactly who and what you are. That is what I intend to do, right here and right now. I found the strength to do so after a consultation with my family or, to be more exact, some mocking from my eldest son. He looked at what I was having for breakfast one day, shook his head and said: "If only people knew…" For a moment I was afraid. What if people did find out? What then? Would my reputation be in tatters? Which was when I concluded that I had to be myself, that if I was honest and open, nobody could hold anything over me.

So here it is: I adore burnt toast. I don't mean slightly darker than the way you like your toast. I mean black. Best of all is still hot black toast with a smear of butter (the cheap spreadable kind) that fizzes into the holes on contact and then a bit of Marmite to dance with the acrid carbon notes. Sure, I don't need toast to be burnt. I can enjoy other sorts of toast. But I very much like it that way. It makes me happy.

You don't think that's especially transgressive, do you? OK. How about this. I am a slut in the matter of spare ribs. I will eat any spare rib including – no, especially – those deep-red ones the colour of the makeup used for "red" Indians in racist Hollywood westerns. By which I mean the ones sold by cheap fried chicken shops. I like the massive hit of salt and sugar, the coating that goes so deep that you no longer have to worry about the provenance of the meat inside because it's been completely obliterated. It could be pork. It could be lamb. It could be Alsatian. Who the hell knows? Who cares? After a bucketful of cheap Hungarian Laški Rizling, not me.

Obviously I am a major fan of quality ice-creams. There is nothing like hand-churned buckets of the good stuff laced with ribbons of salt caramel or frozen fresh fruit coulis. But on a hot summer's afternoon in a London park, with the local dogs dancing in the litter, there is simply nothing to beat Mr Whippy. There is something utterly compelling about that mixture of minimal dairy fats, vegetable oil and air. I am happy to pay for air.

In cinemas I buy popcorn. Of course I do. That's what you're meant to do. But it's not what I want. I want those corn starch, fat and salt weapons of cardiovascular mass destruction sold as nachos alongside a bright orange "cheese" whip that has about as much in common with cheese as my cat. Yes, I know it's bad food, in the way that the regime in North Korea is bad government. But I like the pungency. I rarely buy it, for fear of being seen. The depths of my depravity would be understood. Well now I don't have to worry. It's all out there.

I once asked Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall what his guilty food secret was. He said: "A frothy pint of ale and a Snickers from the fridge." Really? Flavour aside, that is just so vanilla. Sure, I still adore the good stuff. Bring me the well aged ribs of Highland longhorns, the runny Brie de Meaux. But every now and then I have darker needs. I'm sure you do too. And they will be satisfied.