Editorial Reviews. Review. On Constance's trial: 'A small triumph for sanity' Observer Review Ugly - Kindle edition by Constance Briscoe. Download it once. IN CONSTANCE BRISCOE'S UGLY. A THESIS. Presented as Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements to Obtain Sarjana Pendidikan Degree in English Language . nef1books - Get book Beyond Ugly by Constance Briscoe. Full supports all version of your device, includes PDF, ePub and Kindle version. All books format.
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With the degree achieved, Constance takes up Michael Mansfield's Despite her mother's constant physical and psychological abuse, Constance Briscoe has gained a Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files. From the Number One Bestselling author of Ugly: Despite her mother's constant physical and psychological abuse, Constance Briscoe has gained a place at. What I'd Like The World To Read - Ugly by Constance Briscoe.
Shelves: women-authors , auto-biography , read , legalese Actually - 2 and one half stars. I liked this but not wholly so. The writing was very clear, straightforward and simple, just as one would expect a good lawyer would write. The story was interesting and, I suppose if I had read Ugly, I might not be left with so many questions; or perhaps, I still would. It seems that Constance Briscoe reveals quite a lot, but actually, she reveals very little. And there's no cohesion to the story I guess there's no cohesion in life. Particularly aggravating was Actually - 2 and one half stars.
Escaping to read law at Newcastle University, her parting words to her mother were: "I think that one day you will realise that good old Constance was not that bad after all.
Her feet have been reshaped to fit pretty shoes. Briscoe's lawyerly ambition was stoked by watching the TV series Crown Court while off sick from school recovering from an operation to remove fibroid growths in her breasts, growths she claimed were caused by her mother pinching them as punishment. On a school visit to Knightsbridge crown court, she met Michael Mansfield QC, who, she said, promised: "Stay in touch and when you qualify, I'll give you a pupillage.
Blaming envy and suspicion she claimed her detractors judged her for wearing too much makeup and straightening her hair, and accused her of losing her "black consciousness" and being "overfamiliar with white men".
Eventually, she found new chambers and rose to become one of the first black female barristers to become an assistant crown court recorder as well as sitting on mental health tribunals and undertaking criminal work in London and Sussex.
Throughout her career she has polarised opinion, even according to her friend and barrister Linda Strudwick, who gave evidence on her behalf. Strudwick admitted some found her "brash" and "dismissive".
Briscoe met Huhne and his then wife Pryce as neighbours in the private Clapham crescent in south London when she moved into her Georgian flat in with her son and daughter by a solicitor she met in her 20s. Arlidge, then 76, left her in for a year-old trainee barrister, and the same year Huhne walked out on Pryce for his PR adviser Carina Trimingham. In the witness box, Briscoe maintained Pryce had told her, back in , that Huhne had asked her to take three speeding points.
It was for this reason that she became a prosecution witness in their case. And what a witness. As a recorder and barrister, the CPS regarded her as "unimpeachable". Indeed, her arrest fundamentally changed the complexion of the case, leaving the prosecution without the independent and crucial witness they believed they had in her.
She told the jury she "counselled and supported" Pryce, but never offered her legal advice in dealing with the media. But, in evidence at Pryce's trial, which can only now be reported, the economist offered a very different picture.
Pryce had "no recollection" of that conversation. Somewhere on the bottom half, in subdued colours, is a photograph of a wan-looking tot, probably in a grimy jacket with a hood, possibly trailing a battered-looking teddy with one button eye, perhaps looking tearfully through a rain-spattered window. The titles don't mess about, either.
The Little Prisoner. The Step-Child. Ghost Girl. The Kid. Child C. No Way Home. Nobody's Child. Childhood Interrupted. My Name Is Angel. Broken Wings. Deliver Me From Evil.
Someone To Watch Over Me. Tears At Bedtime. Rock Me Gently. No-One Wants You. Don't Tell Mummy. Don't Ever Tell. Tell Me Why, Mummy. Please, Daddy, No. Dance For Your Daddy. Please Let It Stop. Please let it stop, indeed. It may be that the author Martha Long's childhood was horrible - but the sheer volume of misery memoirs, and the Identikit presentation, deadens our sympathy. When there are three memoirs in as many years called Our Little Secret, you can't help but feel a little jaded.
So why do we read them in such numbers? In the first place, there's straightforward prurience: the suffering of others holds a fascination. Is it an unhealthy, a shaming, fascination?
That's up for debate, but it's not a debate that readers of misery-lit are encouraged to consider. The issue is sidestepped, because the genre offers a fig leaf to prurience in the form of self-help.
This isn't entertainment, it's implied: it's therapy. The details of alleged physical and mental abuse are simply part of an inspiring and powerful "journey".
Childhoods are "stolen", demons are "conquered", the protagonists "survive" and testament is duly paid to their "courage" and "irrepressible spirit". The boilerplate narrative is always one of redemption.
It is an intensely conservative form - and therefore fundamentally reassuring, in that its world of "survivors" and "fighters" writes out those who don't survive and don't fight back. No gritty-but-uplifting memoir for Baby P, or for the junkies who don't recover, for the suicides and the incurably mentally unwell. There is an unappealing disjunction, too, between the vulnerable, damaged people whose stories the books tell, and the pound signs flashing up - ker-ching!
Just like the ratcheting cruelties of reality television, it is an inflationary economy. Beaten by nuns? Ten a penny. Addicted to crack? A bit last year, sorry.