I GET a lot of junk in the post. I'm sure you do too. From promises of free holidays through to tenancy agreements on eastern European orphanages (yes, I know, I shouldn't have signed up in the first place but they were all so cute), my Mighty Mouse doormat is eternally cluttered with rubbish.

Luckily, in the long term I haven't succumbed to their seductions. It's a good job, really. The allure of working from home quickly dissipates when you're sticking the eyes on to free frogs that will eventually end up in a bag of second-rate cereal.

But yesterday something fluttered through the letterbox and into my life that I simply couldn't ignore. It was a campaign leaflet (and God knows these pages aren't strangers to a campaign or two) to save the Barbican, left.

However bad my experiences of the Odeon, I can understand why people might want to save it. A stolen kiss (or box of popcorn) in the back of 2 Fast 2 Furious can mean a lot to an impressionable spotty young thing. Those are the dreams that keep us going as adults without dissolving into a tired little puddle of apathy.

So with good cause some romantic sorts want the home of their first flirtation with the opposite sex to continue and good luck to them.

But the Barbican? Ah, those memories. The early morning romantic swim, the words we would have uttered to each other had we not dared open our mouths for fear of swallowing a rogue plaster.

Evenings spent in the gym, staring into each other's eyes, while noticing in the background some brutal Neanderthal trying to pump so much iron that his whole head is shaking like a space shuttle breaking up.

But I'm forgetting the concerts! Oh, the times we had. Bumping and grinding to Louise, trying not to knee an 11 year old in the head. I tell you, it's lucky we couldn't get enough of Queen tribute bands.

And have you heard what they plan to do to the Barbican? Turn it into an entertainment complex. I suppose they'll be getting all those popular bands now, and God forbid we'd be able to watch the snooker in comfort.

People of York, I beg you, don't save the Barbican. Please! Some people wanted to save Genghis Khan, you know.

WHO won the Brown's kissing competition? I demand an answer.

This fiercely fought contest was battled out over the weekend, with championship snoggers travelling from far and wide to claim their crown.

I have heard talk of some foul play; practising through the winter at high altitudes, putting lemons into the opponent's meals...

Whoever walked off with the beauty vouchers can now plough that into next year's epic battle, to come back and defend their crown. Well done to them.

Noteworthy is the prize should an under 16 have won: a trip to Blackpool pleasure beach.

Call me a cynic, but this smacks of the old guard kissers protecting their seats. Nothing could ruin a potential pair of winning smackers more than a heady cocktail of candy-floss, pop and illuminations.

Perhaps I am being unfair: what is an under-16 to do with beauty products?

From my memory as an early teenager, nothing less than full reconstructive surgery could have saved the face from a plague of acne, surprise hairs and frowning.

On reflection a trip to the seaside seems far less patronising than toning cream, even for a conquering snog monster.

Updated: 11:18 Wednesday, February 18, 2004