Mascots Are Back, and They’re Slightly Unhinged
Somewhere between a regional rugby semifinal and a halftime sausage sizzle, the mascot has had a glow-up. Not the slick, corporate kind. I’m talking about the slightly chaotic, hand-stitched, big-headed creatures that look like they’ve escaped from a community theatre prop cupboard. And I’m thrilled about it.
Over the past year, small clubs and cultural festivals across Aotearoa have quietly reinvested in characters. Not polished brand avatars. Characters. The West Harbour Wharves have a seagull called Captain Clammy who heckles the ref. The Central Plains Netball Collective unveiled a giant kūmara with eyebrows that arch differently depending on the score. These aren’t focus-grouped into beige safety. They’re odd. They’re specific. They feel like someone’s cousin volunteered and then took it very seriously.
Here’s the clever bit. In a media landscape where every organisation is chasing the same polished video reel, these homemade mascots cut through because they feel gloriously physical. Kids queue for photos. Teenagers pretend they’re too cool, then tag them anyway. The mascot becomes the roaming headline, the living logo, the inside joke that only locals fully get. It is branding as community theatre. And it works because it invites participation, not passive scrolling.
Marketers love to talk about authenticity as if it’s a setting you switch on. What these clubs have stumbled into is something better. They have built a character that can show up to a prizegiving, a school gala, a rainy Tuesday training. A character that can be awkward. That can dance badly. That can take a ball to the head and carry on. In 2026, when so much feels polished to the point of paralysis, a slightly unhinged mascot feels like a masterstroke. Long live Captain Clammy. May his head remain slightly too big for the doorways of our nation.
Over the past year, small clubs and cultural festivals across Aotearoa have quietly reinvested in characters. Not polished brand avatars. Characters. The West Harbour Wharves have a seagull called Captain Clammy who heckles the ref. The Central Plains Netball Collective unveiled a giant kūmara with eyebrows that arch differently depending on the score. These aren’t focus-grouped into beige safety. They’re odd. They’re specific. They feel like someone’s cousin volunteered and then took it very seriously.
Here’s the clever bit. In a media landscape where every organisation is chasing the same polished video reel, these homemade mascots cut through because they feel gloriously physical. Kids queue for photos. Teenagers pretend they’re too cool, then tag them anyway. The mascot becomes the roaming headline, the living logo, the inside joke that only locals fully get. It is branding as community theatre. And it works because it invites participation, not passive scrolling.
Marketers love to talk about authenticity as if it’s a setting you switch on. What these clubs have stumbled into is something better. They have built a character that can show up to a prizegiving, a school gala, a rainy Tuesday training. A character that can be awkward. That can dance badly. That can take a ball to the head and carry on. In 2026, when so much feels polished to the point of paralysis, a slightly unhinged mascot feels like a masterstroke. Long live Captain Clammy. May his head remain slightly too big for the doorways of our nation.