World Cup Mascots - Which is Best?

There are a lot of things that the modern World Cup has killed off: embarrassing team songs; clearly carved-up group games between sides; any sense of sodding perspective about England's progress. But oddly, the existence of a tournament mascot goes from strength to strength. This is for two reasons. Firstly, it's so the organisers can sell a load of old tat to kids, and secondly, it's because it's a representative shorthand for the host nation, like that dull overlong bit they put on while you're voting in Eurovision.

But there's no denying that the marketing of the mascot has become both slicker and in some ways, slightly sadder for it. I decided to run the rule over every football World Cup mascot since the concept began, having a ponder on the who, why and what the hell. At the end I'll have a bash at the one I think I like the most, so if you've got any thoughts, drop me a line in the comments below:

1966 - World Cup Willie

The trailblazer by which all mascots are judged - ultimately your basic stylised lion in a Union Jack top with ‘World Cup’ written on it, suggesting The FA’s nan acquired his threads from a covered market. A product of a more innocent age, World Cup Willie now sounds like more of a thing to bother the doctor with than the embodiment of English hospitality.

1970 - Juanito

A small obese child in a sombrero seems a bizarre embodiment of the most cherished World Cup in fading memory, but let’s not be too hasty. This little fella seems as happy as Pele holding a Viagra prescription, and is demonstrating a lot more composure with the ball than Jeff Astle did against Brazil. English version known as ‘Johnito’.

1974 - Tip and Tap

Conjoined twins with badly burnt cheeks, Tap and Tap welcomed the world to West Germany in 1974. The worrying choice of bare midriffs on innocents carried over from Mexico’s effort, despite the wrong’uns such a move surely attracted in the mid-seventies. Tip looks a mess, Tap looks a drip. Neither looks like the first pick in the playground (or, indeed, the offices of the German FA).

1978 - Gauchito

Impassive, beneckerchiefed stooge of a brutal junta. He’s got a toe which can unpick the stitching from an Adidas Tango and a whip which seems to scream ‘suspicious six-goal victory’. Pinprick-black pupils mean the hours of butchery this little maniac has overseen thankfully cannot escape their pull.

1982 - Naranjito

After a four-year absence, we return to the baffling trend of exposed navels. Despite his suffixed diminutive, Naranjito the Seville orange has the build of a steroid abuser, not to mention the simple face of a lobotomised Troll. Señor naranja only managed to inspire his countrymen to third place in their second round group, so maybe he would have been more useful rocking back and thinking of España while they slit him open at half-time and feasted on his juicy gizzards.

1986 - Pique

Despite the sixteen year head-start, Mexico waited until the night their homework was due and offered up another sombrero-wearing effort, a man-sized jalapeno who takes his fashion cues from John Aldridge. Name derives from the Spanish word for ‘spicy’, but Pique looked about as fiery as a piece of eggy bread. Also given away in Kinder Surprises, which are banned in the United States in case somebody runs amok in a school corridor with a Sharky Baba.

1990 - Ciao

The Italians go all Pompidou Centre on our ass and come up with a postmodern, futuristic dreamscape of a football on scaffolding. ‘Help,’ he seems to be crying. ‘I have no ligaments or cartilage. I am in so much pain.’ Angular nightmare of the mascot echoed the tournament itself, with its cynical fouls, average of 2.2 goals per game and heartbreaking penalty shoot-outs. Never seen in the same room as Niall Quinn.

1994 - Striker, the World Cup Pup

Trust the Americans to try and Disney up the game. A cheeky-looking dog, Striker was ubiquitous as the organisers tried and failed to interest US kids in the biggest sporting event on the planet. Unfortunately, he had the crazy look in his eye that suggested more of a Cujo than a Marley. Alternative sobriquet: the Football Ground Hound.

1998 - Footix

France ’98 saw a return to the traditional values of 1966 by nicking something World Cup related, this time the idea of taking the animal from the national team’s shirt and emblazoning the name of the tournament on its chest. A coq of the highest order, this chap saw more exposure than any other mascot, so the victors dropped a bollock by not partnering with the popular chicken vendor and offering up Kentucky Fried Footix. Alternative name: Gallik (honestly).

2002 - The Spheriks

Or Ato, Kaz and Nik, as they were known to about ten people in an office dusted with puzzling traces of white powder. Pokemon-style craziness from Japan and South Korea, who flitted about like a seizure waiting to happen. Names were created by users of both the internet and McDonald’s (i.e. obese shut-ins), along with some guff about fictional football-like sports. Why they didn’t just dress up Mario and Sonic in polyester and lob them a ball is beyond me.

2006 - Goleo VI and Pille

A fat stinking lion and a football that cracked wise like only a size 5 can. Parsley’s idiot uncle hammed it up in Hanover and Hamburg but always seemed destined for the mascot scrapheap. German fans were left unimpressed, and these were people who let The Hoff top their charts for over a decade. It was later revealed that Goleo moonlighted as The Stig from Top Gear.

2010 - Zakumi

A leopard with Hollywood hair and the kind of shorts that had Pan’s People mainlining the cranberry juice. Even reading the description of Zakumi is exhausting, given his apparent penchant for showing off, attracting crowds and dyeing his noggin green, suggesting he’d have been more suitable as a Billie Eilish tribute act than ambassador of a global football event. Fitting that the Rainbow nation should unwittingly create a mascot that’s on the spectrum.

2014 - Fuleco

Armadillos are a handy tie-in for a World Cup, given the money you can save on producing new footballs, so perhaps Brazil knew what they were doing when they named Fuleco after the Portuguese for ‘football’ and ‘ecology’. Job done, they then went straight back to burning the rainforests and yanking iron ore out of their most vulnerable habitats. Missed a trick by not having him clutch a Dime bar, perhaps because it wasn’t 1995 any more.

2018 - Zabivaka

A wolf mascot who wandered into Stalin’s territory, given how he’s been airbrushed from history. This cuddly fella is named after the Russian words for ‘wolf’ and ‘to strike’, reminding us all of that bleak period of industrial strife which sadly claimed the lives of three of ITV’s Gladiators. Zabivaka met a tragic end on the night of Russia’s quarter-final exit, when his animators were obliged to draw him accidentally falling out of a fifteen-storey window.

2022 - La'eeb

La’eeb is a floating headscarf named after the Arabic word for “super-skilled player”. As football mascots go, a scarf is as appropriate as you can get, given I’ve never had to stand next to a six-feet tall pepper on the terraces. Trouble is, La’eeb is too perfect a representative of Qatar 2022: flimsy, defiantly mono-coloured and capable of covering stuff up. Still, I think it’s undeniably bold to have what looks at first glance like a ghost flying around these particular stadiums. Personally I’d have leaned a little harder into things you might find in a desert, such as a scorpion, a Wagner's gerbil, or Sir John Mills.

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Well, I've totted up the judges' votes and have come to my personal verdict - it's Pique, the cool dude from 1986. I like Ciao for nostalgic reasons, and I feel a bit bad for Goleo for being so obviously shit. Once the Americans got involved in 1994 the concept definitely lost something, becoming more rounded and less esoteric, so kudos to Japan/Korea and Qatar for at least trying something non-living, even if they're somewhat puzzling. 

There's a definite shift with Naranjito in '82, less of a "cottage industry" feel, but World Cup mascots are one of the last sources of innocence of a type, even if they're mainly there to sell merchandise. I shudder to think what the 2026 mascot will look like, but the way things are going it'll be a shrieking, sweating multi-billionaire and his finger on the nuclear button, so if a certain ex-President is in office when the States host for a second time, the organisers can save a bundle on marketing fees.

Chris Stanley