I discovered the postwar British novel back in the 60s. There were a lot of very interesting books, many of them made into movies. But the books are always better than the movies.
With Burgess, there's A Clockwork Orange, The Doctor is Sick, Enderby Inside, and a host of other good books.
Then there's Kingsley Amis, Lucky Jim.
John Wain, Hurry on Down.
John Braine, Room at the Top.
Allan Sillitoe, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.
Iris Murdoch, also a host of good novels, notably A Severed Head.
L. P. Hartley, The Go-Between.
Evelyn Waugh, A Handful of Dust and Brideshead Revisited.
There's actually quite a few more.
Sir Kingsley's son Martin, also a prominent novelist, got off a good line (which, of course, didn't go over well in literary circes) last fall:
"When I come back to Britain I see a pretty good multicultural society. The only element that is not fitting in is Islam." -- Martin Amis