The Terrible Privacy of Maxwell Sim, By Jonathan Coe

Watford's answer to Kim Novak is possessed by the spirit of mad yachtsman Donald Crowhurst

When Penguin brought out a box set of book-jacket postcards last Christmas, it sold out almost immediately, such is the esteem in which its designs are held. In fact, on the day of writing, the set remains "temporarily out of stock" on Amazon. And Viking, a Penguin imprint, is carrying on the good work.

The artwork for Jonathan Coe's latest novel is just that: a work of art. Harking back in style to Saul Bass's iconic film poster for Vertigo and more recently to the opening credits of the TV phenomenon Mad Men, it brilliantly foreshadows this cracker-jack piece of writing about a man who, like Mad Men's Don Draper, finds his life dissolving around him as we discover more about his past, and, like the Kim Novak character in Vertigo, Madeleine Elster, appears to be going suicidally insane while "possessed" – in Elster's case, by her great-grandmother; in the case of Coe's Maxwell Sim, by the spirit of the tragic British yachtsman Donald Crowhurst.

On 31 October 1968, Crowhurst set out in the Teignmouth Electron to compete in the non-stop, single-handed round-the-world Sunday Times Golden Globe Race. His vessel soon developed problems, and Crowhurst decided to loiter in the South Atlantic while his competitors sailed the dangerous Southern Ocean. He then planned to rejoin the race during the final leg. To keep the deception going, he maintained two logs: one false, meticulously plotting points that were along his supposed route; the other, revelatory. Effectively a diary, it betrayed a mind driven to breaking point by unremitting loneliness.

In a world built to cut down on real-life interaction (from internet forums to motorway services), Sim is just as lonely; and also on a round-the-world trip, of sorts. We first meet him in Australia, where he is visiting a father who has never shown him any affection – a relationship that resounds through the rest of his life.

On a flight home to Watford, Sim takes the opportunity to explain to the man stuck next to him why it is that he ended up in this nowhere town. And it is here that Coe lets rip with a magnificent monologue: "I mean it's not as if Watford is the sort of place where the very fact that you're living there gives you a reason to go on living ... Watford just isn't that sort of place, but it does have an excellent public library, for instance, and it does have The Harlequin, which is a big new shopping centre with some... terrific retail outlets, actually, really terrific, and it does also – now I come to think of it, this will amuse you actually – well... it might amuse you, anyway, it does also have Walkabout, which is a big, sort of themed bar, which has a big sign outside it offering to give you 'The Awesome Spirit of Australia', although, thinking about it, when you're in there, it never really feels as though you're in Australia, you never really forget that you're in Watford, to be perfectly honest, but then if you're like me, and you like living in Watford anyway, what's wrong with that?"

Coe has been accused of being lit-lite, but it takes real panache to write with such flowing comedic ease; his pacing throughout is superb and delivers realistic dialogue and, hence, believable characters.

Sim's onward journey, as a rep for a toothbrush company, takes him from London to the Shetland Isles in a promotional "race" to the four corners of the country (cue yet more Crowhurst comparisons).

At his various stopping points, he learns more about himself and his past; for a man who now counts his sat-nav as his best friend, it's not too surprising that he doesn't particularly like what he finds. The modern curse – that it has never been easier to feel lonely, despite never being "out of touch" – is implicitly critiqued, and with this, Coe's sympathy for his creation is contagious.

A seriously misjudged meta-fictional ending apart, the author has delivered another hypnotic read. And it is one eminently worthy of the dust jacket that envelops it.