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The mother of a lawyer who says her daughter’s best-selling “misery memoir” is fiction broke down in court yesterday as she told a jury how she had struggled to raise her family. Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell is suing barrister Constance Briscoe for libel. Briscoe alleged she had suffered abuse and neglect during her south London childhood in Ugly, the first part of her autobiography published in 2006.

Briscoe-Mitchell began crying as she described her relationship with George Briscoe, father of seven of her 11 children, on the second day of the hearing at the high court in London at which she is also suing the book’s publishers Hodder and Stoughton over her daughter’s claims. Her counsel, William Panton, said Briscoe was “spinning a yarn”. Her mother had worked as a dressmaker to keep her children, often without their father, and had provided for them equally to the best of her ability, an assertion supported by Briscoe’s siblings, he said. Briscoe painted a picture of being regularly punched, kicked and beaten with a stick by her mother, said Panton, yet had not complained to police, social services or teachers.

Briscoe’s lawyer, Andrew Caldecott QC, said the jury must remember when they heard witnesses that they were dealing with events between 1964 and 1975 when Briscoe-Mitchell, 74, was in her prime, not a vulnerable old lady, and Briscoe was a child. “Constance Briscoe says she was the victim of sustained cruelty and serious neglect when she was a child. She chose to say it. She has to prove it.”

The trial was not of the accuracy of every word or paragraph in the book but of whether or not it was true that Briscoe was physically and emotionally abused by her mother over a lengthy period, said Caldecott. “We say this is a book that has its share of errors but it was properly put in the biography section of a bookshop, not in the fiction section.”

Briscoe-Mitchell was asked about her relationship with George Briscoe. “My husband wasn’t there to help me along with his children. I’ve had a very hard time with my husband. He wouldn’t maintain them, he wasn’t there. It was rough, it wasn’t easy but I managed.

“He was in and out. He’d just come and make a baby and go back to his girlfriend and that was my life. It was too much. He’d come and kick the door off.” Briscoe-Mitchell said she had four times taken him to court for maintenance. The only time she received any payment was when he was arrested and police gave her the £15 in his pocket. “He didn’t want to know about his children, he got no interest there at all.”

The case continues.

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Read the full article (James Meikle)

Ian McEwan: The only one who can unite humanity for this life-or-death struggle against climate change is Barack Obama

Read the full article (Ian McEwan)

If your first thought was that this year’s Costa shortlist for best novel looks rather white, male and middle-aged, then your second should perhaps be that this is itself a novelty these days. Literary prize juries have given so much attention to the first novel in the last few years that one has to be grateful to the Costa for its quaint habit of separating them off into a category of their own, thus clearing a path to more experienced novelists.

The fact that they’re experienced doesn’t mean that they’re no longer at the cutting edge. One of this year’s big themes, for instance, has been psychotherapy, and Patrick McGrath, described by one critic as “our foremost exponent of the neurogothic”, is in the forefront with Trauma, his novel of a New York shrink struggling to deal with his own and history’s demons.

Likewise, Louis de Bernières’s chamber novel, A Partisan’s Daughter, may be confined to a London housing co-op in the late 70s, but it packs into it a moving account of the background to Yugoslavia’s breakdown, as revealed through a series of conversations between a bored travelling salesman and a Serbian former prostitute. It’s a reminder that, whatever form he chooses, De Bernières is one of the least parochial novelists writing in English today.

Sebastian Barry — best known as a playwright before this year — is now familiar as the man who, according to at least two judges, should have won the Booker for The Secret Scripture.

But perhaps the most exciting inclusion on this list is Chris Cleave, whose first novel, Incendiary, paid the price of being just too on-the-button (framed as a letter from a North London mother to Osama bin Laden after her husband and son have been killed in a suicide bombing at Arsenal football stadium, it was published on 7/7). What looked then like a tricksy coincidence appears, in the context of his second novel, as a refreshing willingness to confront big stories head on. The Other Hand sweeps from Nigeria to Kingston-upon-Thames, unpacking a load of liberal guilt as it goes. A second novel in line for one of the major prizes of the year — now there’s a story!

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Read the full article (Claire Armitstead)

Shortlists for the five categories of the Costa book awards avoid some of the bigger books of the year – and give others a second chance

Read the full article (Alison Flood)

The last thing you expect to have on your tail these days is a Morris Minor. But that looks like being my lot for years to come. Earlier this year, I couldn’t get enough of the little rounded cars, famously damned by their reluctant maker Viscount Nuffield as “poached eggs”. Everyone I met was quizzed: did they have one? Had their parents? What about their grannies, sisters, cousins, aunts?

I met people who’d raced them, scraped fungus off them for primary school nature tables, turned one into a mechanical lobster and applied to be buried with theirs when they (the person, not the engine) died. It was lovely and I learned that the two words “Morris” and “Minor” were a sure way of getting almost anyone to go all soft and say: “Aahhhh.”

It was necessary, too, because my task at the time was write the car’s biography to celebrate its 60th birthday, a worthy occupation because the Minor is a case study in sociology as well as a classic piece of design. It was the first British car to sell a million and in the process achieved an exceptional lovability, or more precisely, a knack of making people extraordinarily fond of it. Anyone in need of this – a politician, a suitor, a parent or a child – should study Morris Minorism from A-Z and see how it can be done.

A is for Alec Issigonis, the car’s inspirational Levantine creator (assisted by Reg Job and Vic Oak who were as village-blacksmithy Brit as their names). Z is for…, well, Z is difficult actually, unless you nerdishly include the Series Z Post Office van which the bright red Minor version replaced in 1953.

In between is everything else; but that’s all in the book. My purpose here is to warn other nascent biographers, who don’t already know, that a baby like this seems to be for life. Morris Minor, the Biography: 60 Years of Britain’s Favourite Car has been out for just two weeks, but already I have 14 new anecdotes, two phone messages and three promises from relations to tell me about theirs when we meet at the extended family party on Boxing Day.

“My Dad only got rid of his when he was overtaken by a pedestrian when he was 85 and driving to the pub,” starts one recollection. “Our neighbour kept hers even when it stopped going,” begins another, “because unlike modern cars it was strong enough for her stand on without the metal dimpling when she was cutting her hedge.”

Does this happen to mightier biographers? Was Morley beset with details he had omitted about Gladstone? Does Michael Holroyd ever escape from enthusiasts for Augustus John and George Bernard Shaw, or Claire Tomalin wriggle out from under the shadows of Hardy and Pepys?

The last two perhaps provide the answer: finish A and move on to B, which I am now about to do with a sequel on the Mini, which is 50 next year. That, and perhaps, in tune with modern interactive publishing, a couple of blank pages between the index and the back cover, for readers who aren’t included to write their own experiences down.

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Read the full article (Martin Wainwright)

A fantasy tale inspired by a stone dragon on a beach on Scotland’s west coast has been chosen by young Scottish readers as their favourite book for pre-teens.

DarkIsle by DA Nelson triumphed in the 8-11 category of the Royal Mail awards for Scottish children’s books, Scotland’s largest children’s book award. The fast-paced first novel describes the adventures of 10-year-old Morag who, aided by a talking rat and a resourceful dodo, must race against time to save their world from an evil warlock. The trio’s guide is a dragon who has been turned to stone, based on a huge sculpture by artist Roy Fitzsimmons that overlooks Irvine beach. The book is the first in a trilogy.

The Royal Mail award-winners are selected by Scottish children themselves, who vote for their favourite books from shortlists chosen by children together with a panel of experts in Scottish children’s literature and education. All of the shortlisted titles were published in 2007 by authors or illustrators born or resident in Scotland. This year, the third of the awards, 9,541 young Scottish readers took part in the competition and voted.

Most votes were cast in the early years category for a book in the 0-7 age group. It was won by Billy Monster’s Daymare by Alan Durant and Ross Collins. Set in a topsy-turvy world where monsters are scared of children, the picture book describes how little Billy Monster can’t sleep because he is suffering from horrible daymares about boys and girls.

The older readers prize (age 12-16) went to Bunker 10 by JA Henderson, a high-octane, action-packed adventure story set on a secret and remote military base peopled by super-smart teens.

Each author received £3,000 prize money at an award ceremony in Aberdeen hosted by the broadcaster Kirsty Wark and attended by hundreds of children from all over Scotland.

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Read the full article (Michelle Pauli)

The comedian talks to Lindesay Irvine about Spain, space aliens and why his novels don’t have much room for gags

Read the full article (Lindesay Irvine)

The Knife of Never Letting Go emerges from a strong field of contenders to take £2,500 prize

Read the full article (Alison Flood)

Chris Power: A classic guide to poaching brings country life within the reach of every jaded urbanite

Read the full article (Chris Power)

Henry Mancini’s theme for The Pink Panther films is a great, great tune. Hearing it should be a thing of joy, a moment of great comedic anticipation.

The opening bars should therefore NOT be cause for your heart to sink and for your stomach to curl up in a little ball to try and hide behind your small intestine. But when those opening notes happen to be attached to the beginning of this trailer, that is, sadly, exactly what happens.

Steve Martin is back to play Inspector Clouseau. What can we tell about this reprise from the trailer?

00.00-00.20: Well, for a start, they’re not letting two of the better-received gags from the first Pink Panther film with Martin go to waste. Here we have a handy summary for anyone who missed it. “THE ACCENT!” says the Voiceover, before Steve Martin gives a masterclass in how to mangle the word “hamburger”: “Ambudergrrrrr. Abundegurrg. Raundlegrundeerrrr“, he says, hilariously. “THE SKILLS!” We then see him falling down some stairs, another clip from his first Clouseau film. The only killer gag they’re missing is the one where he farts in a soundproof booth but, you know, that one was very complex and sophisticated and would no doubt have needed a lot more contextualisation. Ahem.

00.22: “The world’s greatest detective isn’t what he used to be,” says the voiceover, smugly. Yes, we think, that is almost certainly correct. Because he used to be funny.

That, sadly, is not what the voiceover meant. Inspector Clouseau is now a traffic warden. He puts a ticket on a car, the car drives off, he commands the car to stop, it does, and flings him about 700 yards across the Seine.

00.35: Miraculously - and somewhat disappointingly - he does not die. We see him at an airport, about to leave France. “Ah am now livving Frunce. Thees ees a bad idea,” he says. He steps over a line, and immediately, a newsflash on the airport screens announces that the world-famous Pink Panther diamond has been stolen, shock-horror.

“Whadeeed I tell you?” says Martin with an attempt at a grand Gallic shrug that ends up looking more like someone simultaneously tickling the testicles of two standing donkeys. It’s a shrug! How on earth do you mess up a shrug?

At 1.00, Steve Martin’s Clouseau falls down a chimney, but does not die.

Between 1.00 and 1.10, he falls down two more chimneys. He still does not die.

At 1.10: John Cleese, fellow comedy legend, beats his head against a wall. I’m not sure if he’s in the film or if this is just documentary footage of him being told about Steve Martin’s Clouseau sequel.

Oh, no, he is in the film.

1.30: Anyway. Instead of the traditional sparring partner/valet Cato, it now appears that the good inspector lives with two small boys he may or may not be related to, which is slightly odd; and with Jean Reno, which is simply very enviable.

1.40-1.50: The “Hemburgerer” joke in the first remake, summarised at the beginning of this trailer, was clearly such a phenomenal hit that they’ve used it again! HEMBRUGEDERGURRER!

Around the 2.00 mark, daring religious humour is promised, as Clouseau pretends to be the Pope, falls off a balcony and … oh I don’t know, hilarity ensues, I imagine.

What have we seen so far that might draw us into this trailer? “Lit me bring you up to spid,” says Clouseau, helpfully: “We knew nussing. You are now up to spid.” So there we have it!

So, what is this and why is it being released? My theory, based on this trailer alone, is this: Steve Martin, the comic genius, the inventor of so many great comedy characters, is here - again - reviving a dead one and grinding the mirth out of it until everyone believes it can’t have been that funny in the first place. Since he will never remake his own films, I believe he is planning to do this to every single comedy icon in the history of cinema AND television until the only characters left for people to remember fondly are his own. He may have to keep going until he is 290 years old to do it, but I believe he is THAT determined. It is truly evil genius at work.

2.20: “I’m haem!” shouts Martin before being attacked, in full-body fashion, by two killer children. We hold our collective trailer-lovin’ breath while the title flashes up, and then let it out as a long, sad sigh as he reappears, looking merely a little dishevelled. The killer children were not killer enough. Steve Martin’s Inspector Clouseau, it appears, Will Not Die.

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Read the full article (Anna Pickard)