Five Websites, One Smug Face: My Quest to Become the Mona Lisa of the M62

Somewhere between my third coffee and my fourth moment of weakness, I typed 'custom Mona Lisa portrait with your face' into a search engine, and the internet — bless its greedy heart — delivered. There are, it turns out, dozens of sellers who will take your mugscape and immortalise it in Renaissance oils, or at least something adjacent to oils, for between £15 and £180.

I ordered from five. Then I did what any self-respecting journalist would do: hung them all in my local Wetherspoons and let the British public deliver the verdict no Etsy review section would dare.

The Contenders

To protect the guilty, we'll call them Seller A through Seller E. Each received the same photo: me, post-haircut, attempting what I believed was a 'knowing half-smile.' The brief was simple — my face, her pose, maximum smugness.

The Ratings

Seller A — £18, 'Digital Oil' (it was not oil)

Likeness: 6/10. Smugness: 9/10. Frame quality: it arrived rolled in a tube like a poster of a footballer.

My face was recognisable in the way a photocopy of a photocopy is recognisable. The 'brushwork' had the unmistakable sheen of a filter. Verdict from the pub: 'Is that your Benefits Reform letter photo?' — Derek, 54.

Seller B — £45, Hand-Painted Canvas

Likeness: 7/10. Smugness: 4/10. Frame: ornate gold-effect, slightly wonky, deeply charming.

A genuine human appears to have painted this, possibly while watching telly. My nose went rogue but the vibe was right. Pub verdict: 'She looks like she's about to ask for the manager.' — a woman who then bought a Jägerbomb.

Seller C — £89, Premium Commission

Likeness: 9/10. Smugness: 10/10. Frame: solid wood, velvet lining, absurdly good.

This one was frightening. The eyes followed people. I watched a man flinch. My mother said it was 'lovely' and then didn't mention it again, which is how you know it's powerful.

Seller D — £22, Print on 'Museum Paper'

Likeness: 3/10. Smugness: 0/10. Frame: none, and a note saying framing 'enhances the experience.'

This was not me. This was a woman named possibly Carol wearing my eyebrows as a hat. The pub refused to engage with it. One person moved their stool away.

Seller E — £130, Oil on Linen, Six-Week Wait

Likeness: 8/10. Smugness: 7/10. Frame: hand-finished, smells incredible, arrives with a certificate.

The connoisseur's choice. The painter even asked about my 'eyebrow philosophy.' I have never felt more seen, literally.

The Wetherspoons Experiment

With the three best contenders in tow, I decamped to the local Spoons — a venue I chose for its lighting, its clientele, and its total lack of existing art to compete with. I propped the portraits on my table, ordered a curry club, and waited.

Reactions, in order of frequency:

1. Suspicion. 'Are you selling them?' No. 'Are you an artist?' Absolutely not.
2. Flattery. Three people asked where to get one. Two wanted their dogs done. One wanted 'me and the missus, side by side, like the royals.'
3. Existential unease. A gentleman at the bar stared at Seller C for a full 90 seconds before announcing, 'I don't like that she's looking at me,' despite it being, emphatically, me.

The staff were magnificent. A server named Beth asked if the paintings were 'part of the refurb,' which I have since had engraved on my soul.

The Verdict

If you're buying: skip anything under £25 (you're paying for a filter with a shipping cost), be suspicious of the word 'digital' near the word 'oil', and if you can stretch to a genuine hand-painted job, do it. The £89 commission was the sweet spot — convincing enough to unsettle strangers, cheap enough to not tell your partner.

As for me, Seller C now lives above my fireplace, watching me eat my tea with the serene confidence of a woman who has been hung in a Wetherspoons and lived to write about it.

Leonardo, if you're reading: you started something. I merely finished it, badly, for £304 all in.