The Paul Dias Best Man's Speech

Jeremy Bradley. We all know him, we've all seen him, we've all looked up to him, we've marvelled at his shiny boots, we've envied his knitware, we've laughed at his jokes, we've even tried to get him drunk. But most importantly, ladies and gentlemen, we all love him, very much indeed, and with great sincerity.

If, and it's a big if, I were to ask you yourselves sitting here how you would describe the man, I think I would get an almost infinite number of different answers, some insightful, some witty, most pure nonsense.

For example, to many of us he will always be remembered as the pre-eminent long-legged throaty drama queen of the English stage, to others simply he's the man who comes to fix the central heating. He is, in a very real way, something special to us all.

If you will indulge me, and I do beg you, I have compiled a short list of, well words really, that my life long professional interest in the man has generated, and I offer them by way of a summary, a literary vignette of a remarkable life, if you will. Or even if you won't. If you listen carefully you may hear one or two things that you might recognise.

So then, Jeremy Bradley:

Homo sapiens male
Brown hair
Hazel eyes
Five feet eleven and a half inches tall
A mathematician and computer scientist, with a long and varied body
A thick and exciting beard

Part-time dentist
Amateur steeplechaser
Semi-professional gardener and golfer

Lock picker
Shelf stacker
Whelk farmer

International body builder
World class wrestler
Tap dancer
Lap dancer

Cryptographer
Stenographer
Steganographer
Typographer
Lithographer
Phonographer
Hornographer (coughed)

Wine maker
Cocktail shaker
Master brewer
Master baker
Trumpet racer

Cider drinker
Mathematical thinker
Snappy dresser
Trouser presser

Itinerant disc jockey
Fairly good at hockey
Avid schoolboy joker
Enjoys strip poker

Pet of the smart set
Actor
Preacher
Style dragoon
An authority on 18th Century Swiss enamelware

Incomparable logician
World famous musician
Intercontinental ballistic missile
Daughter, mother, farmer, lover.

Writer and broadcaster.

So there it is. I don't claim it to be an accurate list, it's just my list, a personal view of a multi-faceted man.

But this post-prandial jocundity has to end, I'm afraid ladies and gentlemen, and we must get down to the serious business for which we have all gathered here today. The light hearted and possibly even occasionally amusing form of my address has, I'm sorry to say, been a sham, a farce, a deception.

For, as many of you have already suspected, my interest in the good Doctor is somewhat more than just that of a schoolboy friend and mentor. I am, in fact, a member of the, shall we say, "security services" and I have been actively working on the "Bradley case" for the last fifteen long, hard, miserable years. For, you will be no doubt interested to learn, Jeremy Bradley is one of the most, if not the most, dangerous men in this room. He is, in fact, a master computer criminal, a code breaker, an information warlord, a menace to us all. But, my good Doctor, your reign of digital terror ends today - and soon we will all be able to sleep at night again!

But let us start at the beginning of my assignment. It was 1986, and Bradley was transferred under suspicious circumstances from one Bristol boys' school to another, ending up at Queen Elizabeth's Hospital. Erm, school. It was a school, really, not a hospital. Although I think either would have been appropriate. I first encountered him in the place where he felt most at home, the school computer room, of course. Here he ruled with the iron fist of a cruel dictator, and all the boys lived in moral fear of him - well at least those who weren't taller then him.

But as the years passed I gained the confidence of Bradley, and by 1989 I was a key member of his shadowy organisation. One day he approached me to become part of what he called operation "fiddle factor", a daring attempt to hack into the school's network of highly sophisticated computers running Windows 2.0. I won't bore you with the details, but after months of planning, swearing and late-night badminton, we accomplished the impossible and gained control of the system. For months afterwards Bradley tormented the First Year boys by randomly disabling their favourite painting program. It was his first successful score, as we say in the trade, but certainly not his last.

After leaving school, Bradley moved on to Cambridge, a veritable hot bed of bright young talent for him to recruit. At this stage a new handler was assigned to work in close proximity to him and monitor his progress. But Bradley stayed dormant, biding his time, eating perhaps a bit too much cake, and waiting for a job that truly interested him.

It was curious then that he chose to go and work for ICL in Reading, but soon after arriving he attempted to undermine the company's computer security by arranging for illicit Internet access for himself through the use of a modem hidden in his desk drawer. A simple task for a man like Bradley, but sign if sign were needed of his potential for mischief.

A year later, and back in Bristol, we found Bradley posing as a Ph.D. student at the university. For his next gig, Bradley chose a more prominent target, Channel 4 television no less. Making use of off-shore websites and email-to-fax gateways, he orchestrated an unprecedented worldwide attack on the company, attempting to force them to screen a subversive comedy programme called "Brass Eye". Eventually after weeks of suffering his wrath, the head of Channel 4, Michael Grade, sought advice from my office. I reluctantly told him that by this time we sadly were powerless to stop Bradley, and it would best to give in to his demands, which they did.

Following this success, the creator of the banned programme, a highly suspect individual by the name of Chris Morris contacted Bradley and the pair met in London in a sleazy café off the Tottenham Court Road. Disguised as a waiter, I was able to listen in to some of their conversation. It seemed that Morris was trying to get Bradley to hack into various prominent politicians email accounts and web sites. Bradley did not take kindly to being treated as a hired gun, and he tipped over the table they were sitting at and stormed out of the café shouting "Look Morris, I'm nobody's whipping boy - I work alone, baby, and you'd better get used to it!!!!"

Well, at this point we realised that things were clearly getting out of hand. At Bristol University Bradley spent his time attempting to subvert undergraduates to his cause. After careful study of James Bond films, he realised that the best secret agents were almost always extraordinarily beautiful women. With this in mind, when running a tutorial he would always secure the attention of the most attractive girl in the room and sit with her for hours, leaving his unwitting colleagues to cope with the rest of the students.

This new interest of Bradley's was our lucky break. Knowing his predilection for the fairer sex, we decided to reactivate our operative in Cambridge, who of course you have surely already guessed was none other than your very own Miss Helen Wilson. She immediately communicated to Bradley that she was interested in meeting up to relive the old days, chew the fat and shoot the breeze. Within a record-breaking seven days they were an item. Bradley never wasted any time when it came to the ladies.

A four year romance followed, the pair trailing Bonnie and Clyde style across the globe, unleashing their own unique brand of havoc and mayhem on an unsuspecting world: the United States, Canada, France, the Czech Republic, Cornwall. For a while we were worried that Wilson had succumbed to the dark side, but keeping her wits about her she managed to bring the affair to a climax, skilfully manoeuvring Bradley into making a proposal of marriage.

And so, thankfully, ladies and gentlemen, we come to the final act of this tale. With the wedding planned, Bradley set about inviting his guests. Whilst attempting to track down a former accomplice from Bristol, one Anders Spilling, Bradley ended up trying to contact Ander's wife Anne. After putting all his hacking skills to use in the hunt, he found an email address and made. The reply was unexpected: "Hello! I'm sorry, but this is not the same girl you are looking for. I have never lived at 50 Alfred Hill, and my husband's name is Svein. I'm aged 51, I have four grandchildren, and I'm an assistant general at the Norwegian Ministry of Health and Social Affairs. Anyway, have a nice day!"

An unusual failure for Bradley, but we took it as a sign that he was starting to make mistakes, losing his grip on his international network of operatives. And so, today, ladies and gentleman, I am happy and delighted to put a stop to his reign of terror once and for all. It is with great pleasure that I am able to place him under arrest.

So I deliver him into the custody of Agent Wilson, who I am sure will keep an eye on him. And she has also assured me that he will be thoroughly strip searched before he's allowed to leave the hotel.

THE END