Top 5 Worst Tournament Mascots Ever

The 1966 World Cup is remembered for many things, from stroppy Argentinians being heckled by grannies to raising England's expectations to unrealistic levels for the best part of half a century. It is also a landmark tournament for one other reason.

World Cup Willy. The first ever FIFA endorsed marital aid... ha ha ha ha ha! But seriously, the first ever tournament mascot came into being, thus starting a tradition that has taken us from the very depths of corporate blandness to the edge of insanity.

I was initially going to concentrate on the World Cup and Euros, but after researching the Copa America, Africa CON and the Asia Cup, it's clear those tournaments are pure gold for strangeness!

Mascots are rarely well received, trying as they are to both appeal on a fun level while also trying to be culturally significant. The mostly negative reaction to Wenlock and Mandeville for the 2012 Olympics might explain why both England's mascots have taken the safer and rather predictable lion angle.

And so, I hereby present what I consider the five worst tournament mascots ever.

Guaso - Copa America 1991 (Chile)

The Official Line: ?

Seriously, that's all I could find by way of explanation. Apparently it's supposed to be some dude in a poncho and a hat. To me however it looks like the sort of thing you'd see sketched in a therapy session in a psychiatric ward full of serial killers... perversely, it would also be quite at home in a therapy session for the victim that got away.

"I tell ya, Doc. Every time I close my eyes I see him... clear as... ok not very clear... kind of blurry in fact. As if he'd been scribbled by a five-year-old child, but y'know... frightening and all that..."

Speaking of nightmares...

Pinoccio - Euro 1980 (Italy)

The Official Line: It's Pinoccio... what more do you need? Other than a good lawyer if Disney sees him!

This one may seem all very nice. Pinoccio, the little wooden boy. Lovely stuff. But wait... is it really so innocent?  Look at little Pinoccio there, all cute in his little paper hat. His paper hat. For the love of god, he's wearing a hat made of his own by-products! He's the Ed Gein of the mascot world.

Tell us Pinoccio, where's Gepetto? Asleep you say? Judging by his nose, that's clearly not true. And look at that smile and vacant stare. Now just picture that head turning ever so slowly towards you... that feeling? That's your blood running cold. Not long before it runs thick through his mahogany hands as that smile grows as fast his nose...

Agro-Hene - Africa Cup of Nations 2008 (Ghana)

The Official Line: Agro-Hene (King of the Game) the Eagle

There are a few explanations I can come up with for this one.

The CON organisers had just had Microsoft Word 1995 installed on their PCs and someone had found the clip art folder.

Someone posed the question "What would Nelson Mandela look like if he had an eagle's head, was playing football and had been drawn by a four-year-old?"

One point to note here... this was 2008. That's only four years ago. Was this really the best they could do? Mind you, if we're talking about not putting much effort in...

Rabbit - Euro 1992 (Sweden)

The Official Line: A football playing rabbit

Euro 88's mascot was called Berni and despite early suggestions he would be based on the then popular chain of steak restaurants, he was actually a footballing German grey rabbit... with a headband.

Four years later, Sweden, land of functional design, decided that the previous mascot was actually just fine and with typical minimalism, decided to change the bunny's shirt and... no, that was it.

The best part? His name was 'Rabbit'. Yes, from a land where even a shelf is called something elaborate like Ryksendokelporp, this thing got called Rabbit.

Just done some more research and it turns out, "Rabbit" is apparently Swedish for '3-door wardrobe with mirrored doors.'

Ato, Kaz & Nik - World Cup 2002 (Japan / South Korea)

The Official Line:  "Orange, purple and blue (respectively) futuristic, computer-generated creatures. Collectively members of a team of "Atmoball" (a fictional football-like sport), Ato is the coach while Kaz and Nik are players. The three individual names were selected from shortlists by users on the Internet and at McDonald's outlets in the host countries."

There are those who say crowd sourcing is the future, that it yields truly democratic answers, that one day it will replace search engines. To those people, I say this. If the answer that crowd sourcing gives you is 'Ato, Kaz and Nik', then you have asked the wrong fucking question.

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Random Things From Our Football Collections: Pique

Awww, look at little Pique there, a microcosm of all Mexican stereotypes all rolled into one cute (?) little mascotty thing.

Aye Caramba etc

Let's just tick all the boxes shall we?

Sombrero - check
Pencil thin moustache... or is it a beard? - check
Two tone green skin - er...

There are rumours that he was even available in a little gift set, replete with mini wire cutters, false documents and years of second class citizen status, but that may have just been made up... by me... just now...

Ironically, the story of how this little fella came to be in my collection does indeed involve clashes with authority and border crossings.

Let me take you back to 1986 (again). I'm in my first term at secondary school and, as was customary at the time, us first years get the chance of a day trip to France. I believe these trips were known amongst the teachers as 'booze cruises', whereas for the kids, it represented the chance to buy all manner of contraband.

The day before we're due to leave for foreign shores, we're informed that our destination has changed. Far from the Gallic adventure we'd anticipated, we were instead bound for Belgium. To this day I have no idea why this last minute change took place; the only possible explanation must be that one of the teachers was a huge fan of Enzo Scifo...

As with any winter cross channel journey, the weather was horrendous and the decks were awash with salty brine and juvenile lunch in equal measure. We survived, however, and at 8am the following morn we docked in Bruges. On reflection, we technically didn't cross any borders... just sort of sailed into them.

'Twas a misty morn and as we boarded the coach to take us to the delights of the local hypermarket (because that's what you do the first time you set foot outside of your home country, go to a Tesco Extra), the heavens opened... a sign of things to come? Or just a cold front moving in from the east?

Finally, we arrived at the hypermarket and what a huge place it was too... full of... well, the same sort of stuff you could get over in Blighty, really, just with funny packaging and strange prices (remember Francs anyone?)  I made a sweep of the place and while my friends were busy hoovering up all the bangers they could find, I was occupied trying, with my limited resources, to find presents for my family. If you've ever tried to find souvenirs in your local supermarket, you'll perhaps empathise with my predicament and understand why my relatives ended up with mostly stationery-based gifts.

Having made my purchases, I was then wandering round the shop trying to find my friends when my eyes fell upon Pique. His little sucker attachment indicated he was clearly designed as a car ornament, but, being 11, I possessed no such mode of transport. That was not going to deter me from owning a rather ropey piece of Mexico 86 and so back to the checkout I headed.

Upon arrival at the checkout, the woman behind the desk eyed me with xenophobic suspicion, though it could have been mainly because I was with a group of schoolchildren who seemed to be trying to fill their pockets gratis at every opportunity. It probably was that. After I had completed the financial transaction involving my little mascot friend, she (the checkout woman, not Pique, who was, after all, clearly a male chilli) pointed at the bag containing my earlier purchases and demanded I show her proof that I had paid for them... or at least I assume that's what she said. She wasn't speaking English... how very insular!  I searched frantically for my receipts, but to no avail. What had I done with them? I'd only purchased them a few minutes previous.

She handed the bag to what I assume was a manager who looked at the contents and probably decided that any 11-year-old prepared to 'steal' some notebooks and a few pencils probably wasn't worth dealing with, so he handed me back the bag and ordered me from the shop.

The ferry journey back may have been fun for my friends as they hurled their bangers at every possible surface and watched as one of our number sleep-walked into the decks below and tried to get into someone's cabin, but for me, it was a journey of shame for I had been branded (incorrectly, remember) a criminal. I would forever be known as The Pencil Thief and my slow descent into full on criminality was as  inevitable as it was imaginary.

But still... Pique!

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