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Good Afternoon.

Soldiers wear uniforms, spend a lot of time away from home and often give each other nick-names - "Spike", "Tommy" and "Killer" are a selection from across the years.

Professional footballers wear uniforms (which they call "strips") , are away from home, on average every other weekend, and give each other nick-names such as "Oi, you", "Ronaldo" and "The Refrigerator" depending upon where they come from, how good they are and which code they play.

Could you define them as gang-members? In a way, yes: a platoon and a football team are "gangs" but not in the graffiti-daubing, gun-toting, fear-spreading, crime- infliciting way that we have come to fear. And yet, according to a new Government pamphlet, published today, these are among the Aristotelian essences of gang-membership. I fear for the fuzz if they use this as a hand-book for tracking down and dealing with this ghastly challenge to civil order - there will be appalling scenes at Aldershot, Chelsea Barracks, outside Buckingham Palace and at soccer stadiums across the capital - apart from the Den, where they already do quite well, thank-you.

We discuss this latest initiative and Glen, who wore a uniform as a child, was known by a nick-name "Cub" in his "Six" and promised to do his best and to do his duty, to God and the Queen, will do his best for you to make sense of it.

Where's the sense in a housing market rescue package which offers to "scrap" stamp-duty on house purchases up to a ceiling of £175,000 when, in London, you wouldn't get a doll's house for that sort of money? Liz explores the elusive answer to that question which flows from the Government's much heralded, last-ditch, Brown-relaunch package to drag home-ownership off its knees. It might not take her long and that has nothing to do with the fact that she is a brilliant reporter.

As is Harris - but even he looked dumbfounded when he discovered that a towering example of London's 2012 legacy looks like being a shopping centre that will make Bluewater and Lakeside look like the corner shop in Corrie. Stratford City is the name, conspicuous consumption on a gargantuan scale is the game. Harris met Boris there so, everything to play for!

As there was at last night's London Restaurant Awards; and for one Cookery King it was a bit of a Chinese take-away - you get one award and, minutes later, you want another. Was he successful, who is he and where does he do his fricasse and saute thing? Damian dons the tall white hat and raises a glass or more to The Master.

The Mistress of American comedy is, undeniably in my view, Joan Rivers : rude, clever, well-informed and ... well really rude. She graces the West End with a new production. If you like her, you'll love it. If you don't, you'll still find her encounter with Lucy delicious. By the way, Madonna DID turn up last night but after Lucy had left Guy Ritchie's "red-carpet" moment. I think Guy was disappointed but that's between me, Lucy, Guy, Madonna and the lawyers....

Robin faces the lawyers for inflicting such appalling weather upon us, recently: we give him one chance of mitigation tonight or it's off to the Tower with him.

Faye, who has spilt tea over her formerly light-wool frock, soldiers on. I suggested she might dispense with it and fall back on the black tee-shirt and black-trousers. My cheek is still smarting.

See you at six and thank heaven for make-up.

Alastair and the faultless Katie.