George vs Dragon enter the jousting tournament

The trumpet blares, the banners flutter and the smell of roasted meat drifts across the lists. Somewhere between the herald's shout and the first splintering lance, a small knight in dented armour and a unimpressed dragon prepare to settle a silly score. This is the latest absurdity from Andy Fanton's cartoon universe, where medieval pageantry meets the comic timing that once filled The Dandy.

George is the kind of would-be hero who turns up to a sword fight armed with a carrot and a winning smile. The Dragon has read the script and refuses to be typecast as the monster. Together they have crashed another page of Fanton's archive as competitors in a jousting tournament that nobody officially invited them to enter.

Tournaments in the Fantonverse tend to look like school fetes run by over-caffeinated squires, complete with bunting, a dodgy PA and a tea urn that has seen better centuries. If you have queued for a sausage sizzle outside Bunnings on a Saturday, you already understand the queue etiquette of a medieval melee.

Australian readers have a soft spot for the battler and the blowhard, which is exactly the chemistry George and the Dragon bring to the tilt yard. Whether the setting feels like a country show in Bendigo or a winter festival in Hobart, the dynamic works. George believes in the romance of the lance; the Dragon believes George is a complete dropkick.

The tournament at Castle Keep

The lists have been set up on the south paddock of Castle Keep, which in the strip looks suspiciously like a regional agricultural show. The Royal Herald, a thin man with a megaphone and a recurring cold, struggles to be heard over a kelpie that has wandered onto the field and refuses to leave.

Fanton loves these details. The humour sits in the gaps between grand medieval ceremony and very ordinary modern frustrations. You can browse his medieval comedy writing, which dissects why jousting jokes still land after all these centuries.

The crowd is half knights in borrowed plastic armour and half villagers who brought folding chairs and thermos flasks. They cheer politely when a rider tumbles, the way Australians clap at a cricket dismissal — appreciative, but waiting for something more spectacular.

George's trusty steed

George rides Dobbin, a horse so old he remembers when jousting had a reasonable dress code. Dobbin's knees click, his tail is half missing, and he looks like every retired campdraft horse at a Queensland country meet.

George has polished his armour with Brasso, his shield with optimism and his lance with confidence that only comes from never jousting. He waves to the crowd like a politician at a school assembly, then whispers a quick pep talk to Dobbin. The Dragon watches from his horsebox with the weary patience of a pub landlord on a quiet Tuesday arvo, sighing smoke rings and muttering about the premise.

The Dragon refuses to play fair

Fair play, the Dragon announces, is for people with opposable thumbs and a sensible weight limit. He refuses to wear a visor because it fogs up his nostrils, and he refuses a lance because he finds the concept ridiculous. When the steward asks him to mount, the Dragon simply asks why.

The judges look at one another, then at the King, then at his program, then at the carparking situation. The Dragon is allowed to compete on condition he does not set fire to anything above ankle height, a compromise that would not survive five minutes at any strata committee in Sydney. The Dragon agrees, mostly because he is curious what George will do.

The herald's announcement

The Herald announces the first bout in a voice like a tram conductor on the St Kilda line calling out the next stop. George vs Dragon, he bellows, then pauses, then admits the paperwork was never filed.

George hears his name and stands a little taller. The Dragon hears his name and lies down. Dobbin hears the word charge and considers a nap. It is, in every measurable way, a complete shemozzle, which in Australia is practically a competitive sport of its own. A Carrotty Kid lookalike in the back wonders if he wandered into the wrong strip, a thought explored in Carrotty Kid at supermarket, a strip that swaps medieval pageantry for trolley chaos.

Mid-tournament mishaps

The first charge never really happens. George kicks his heels, Dobbin refuses to move, and the Dragon yawns so dramatically that a small piece of parchment on the judging table curls up from the heat. The Herald blows his whistle. Nothing.

Then Dobbin wakes up, startled by a fly, and bolts sideways. George shoots past the Dragon like a lawn dart, helmet falling off near the VIP section. The Dragon applauds slowly, smoke curling like a satisfied cricket commentator.

The judges award George zero for technique, half a point for enthusiasm and a mention for best tumble. The Dragon is deducted three for general arson. Everyone agrees the system needs work, but nobody fixes it before lunch.

The final bout

By the final bout the Dragon has decided to take the whole thing seriously, which is bad news for everyone. He trots to the barrier with the focus of a player at the MCG on Grand Final morning. George, still missing half his armour, just wonders where it all went wrong.

The Dragon charges first, which breaks every rule, but the judges have had three pies each and look the other way. George leans the correct way at the correct moment. His lance taps the Dragon's chestplate. The Dragon's lance taps George on the head. Both riders fall off.

The crowd erupts. The Herald awards a draw. The Dragon mutters about never being invited back and wanders off to find a sunbeam. George, helmet dented and pride dented further, raises a fist. Dobbin has already gone home.

If you want to see what George, the Dragon and the rest of the Fanton stable get up to next, head over to andyfanton.com and explore the comics, mini-strips and full archive of nonsense. New pages drop regularly, the social links are in the footer, and if you have an idea daft enough to pitch to Andy, the contact details are right there waiting.