Sunday lunch of champions

Amazingly, I'm not one for a traditional Sunday lunch. Not for lack of an appetite, obviously. But I'm often out walking and tend to not want a hefty chunk of roast bloating me out over the latter half of my yomp.

Which is why today I was at outside the pub in the cold with the smokers and dog walkers - an altogether better class of customers than the nesh diners inside - enjoying what for me is the finest Sunday lunch: a pint of properly brown bitter and a creamy Stilton cob

It's not about the interplay of flavours and textures. It's all about the fact that they're both bloody tasty.