A comedy for our times” ( The Guardian) , Middle England is a piercing and provocative novel about a country in crisis. From the frenzy of the 2012 Olympics to the aftermath of the Brexit referendum, here Jonathan Coe chronicles the story of modern Britain by way of a cast of characters whose world is being upended. There are newlyweds who disagree about the country’s future and, possibly, their relationship; a political commentator who writes impassioned columns about austerity from his lavish town house while his radical teenage daughter undertakes a relentless quest for universal justice; and Benjamin Trotter, who embarks on an apparently doomed new career in middle age, and his father, whose last wish is to vote to leave the European Union. A sequel to The Rotters’ Club and The Closed Circle that stands entirely alone, Middle England is a darkly comic look at our strange new world. Winner of the Costa Novel Award “The book everyone is talking about.” — The Times (London) “Funny, compassionate and completely clearsighted. Sometimes you want to thank an author for writing a certain book, and this is one of those times.” —Nina Stibbe, The New York Times Book Review “[A] wild jaunt. . . . An incisive and often scabrously funny satire and a compelling portrait of the way we live now.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune “Attuned to absurdity and suffused with compassion.” — USA Today “Humorous and humane. . . .  Middle England  contains great charms.” —John Williams,  The New York Times Book Review   “Brilliantly funny. . . . A compelling state-of-the-nation novel, full of light and shade, which vividly charts modern Britain’s tragicomic slide.”— The Economist   “[Coe’s] affectionately witty attitude to our human foibles is always uplifting.” — The Times  (London)   “Timely and timeless. . . . This plaintive, clarion call is an acerbic, keenly observed satire peppered with the penetrating wit for which Coe is so justly admired.”  —Booklist  (starred review)   “A sweeping and very funny state-of-the-nation novel . . . Coe—a writer of uncommon decency—reminds us that the way out of this mess is through moderation, through compromise.” — The   Observer     “[A] witty and knowing satire.” — People   “Brilliant. Read it too fast, finished it too soon.” —Nigella Lawson   “Coe astutely blends political insight with assured storytelling.” — Library Journal   “Coe’s writing is as smoothly accomplished as ever. His comic set pieces—funerals, dinners, clown fights—are very funny.” — The Guardian “A pertinent, entertaining study of a nation in crisis.” — Financial Times   “Sharply observed, bitingly witty yet emotionally generous. . . . With his usual acuity, Coe tells the story of a collective meltdown through its impact on individuals.” — Kirkus Reviews  (starred review)   “[Coe] far outranks many Booker winners in his talent for characterization and captivating narrative.” — The Literary Review   “Excellent. . . . A remarkable portrait of a country at an inflection point.” — Publishers Weekly   Jonathan Coe’s awards include the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize, the Prix Médicis Étranger, the Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize and, for  Middle England , the Costa Novel Award and the Prix du Livre Européen. He lives in London. www.jonathancoewriter.com Chapter 1 April 2010 The funeral was over. The reception was starting to fizzle out. Benjamin decided it was time to go. “Dad?” he said. “I think I’m going to make a move.” “Good,” said Colin. “I’ll come with you.” They headed for the door and managed to escape without saying any goodbyes. The village street was deserted, silent in the late sunshine. “We shouldn’t really just leave like this,” said Benjamin, glancing back towards the pub doubtfully. “Why not? I’ve spoken to everyone I want to. Come on, take me to the car.” Benjamin allowed his father to hold him by the arm in a faltering grip. He was steadier on his feet that way. With indescribable slowness, they began to shuffle along the street towards the pub car park. “I don’t want to go home,” said Colin. “I can’t face it, without her. Take me to your place.” “Sure,” said Benjamin, even as his heart plummeted. The vision he had been promising himself—solitude, meditation, a cold glass of cider at the old wrought-iron table, the murmur of the river as it rippled by on its timeless course—disappeared, spiralled away into the afternoon sky. Never mind. His duty today was to his father. “Would you like to stay the night?” “Yes, I would,” said Colin, but he didn’t say thank you. He rarely did, these days. * The traffic was heavy, and the drive to Benjamin’s house took almost an hour and a half. They drove through the heart of Middle England, more or less following the course of the River Severn, through the towns of Bridgnorth, Alveley, Quatt, Much Wenlock and Cressage, a placid, unmemorable journey where the only punctuation marks were petrol stations, pubs and garden centres, while brown h