The Smirk Acca: I Let a 500-Year-Old Painting Pick My Football Pools and She Out-Thought Gary Neville

There are two ways to pick football results. The sensible way involves spreadsheets, injury news and men in expensive suits shouting about 'pressing triggers' on a Saturday morning podcast. The other way — the way I chose — involves a reproduction of the Mona Lisa, a bookmaker's app and a growing sense that Leonardo da Vinci was, in fact, football's first super-computer.

It started, as most terrible ideas do, in a Wetherspoons. My mate Deano had just lost our fifth consecutive predictions league and accused me of knowing 'summat' about football. I don't. What I do know is that a woman has been smirking enigmatically for half a millennium, and if that isn't the face of someone who knows the 3pm kick-offs, I'll eat my bobble hat.

The Method (Such As It Was)

The rules were simple, which is lucky, because I am not. Each Friday night I would place a photo of the Mona Lisa at eye level, pour myself a modest sherry, and study her expression in relation to each upcoming fixture. Her face would fall into one of five categories, each with a corresponding prediction:

• Mildly Smug — a narrow home win, probably 1-0, probably dull
• Quietly Amused — an away day smash-and-grab
• The Full Enigma — a draw so turgid that Match of the Day 2 skips it entirely
• Infinitely Knowing — a surprise thrashing, five goals or more
• The Eyebrow — whatever The Eyebrow means, someone is getting sacked in the morning

Sceptics — my bookmaker, a patient Hull man named Colin — pointed out that a painting cannot read team news. Colin, I said, she has watched empires rise and fall. She can handle a trip to Selhurst Park.

Week One: Humility at the King Power

The opening weekend was a disaster. I interpreted her expression as Mildly Smug across the board and backed four home wins. Two came in. One team, whom I shall not name out of respect for their long-suffering supporters, lost 4-0 having been predicted a comfortable 1-0. The Mona Lisa, it turned out, had been giving me The Eyebrow, and I had mistaken it for indigestion.

Colin rang me, unasked, to check I was 'alright, like'. I was not. I was £14 down and being quietly mocked in a group chat.

Week Two: The Turn

Everything changed on the Saturday I finally understood her. Staring at her over a bacon sandwich, I noticed something I'd missed: the smirk isn't one expression. It's a range. The left corner of the mouth means one thing. The eyes, that famous effect where she seems to follow you — that's not artistry, that's a woman tracking a winger's run.

I split my stake. Home win where she looked left. Away win where she looked right. The Eyebrow remained a mystery, so I put a quid on it out of respect.

By teatime I was up £22.30, a Championship striker I'd never heard of had scored a hat-trick I'd backed at 16/1, and Deano was demanding to know my source. "A Renaissance portrait," I told him. He hasn't spoken to me since, which I'm counting as a win.

Week Three: The Pundits Begin to Panic

Word spreads quickly on football Twitter, mostly because I posted my slip with the caption "she knows" and a picture of a fridge magnet. By Wednesday, a Leicester fan forum had a 40-page thread titled 'Is She One Of Ours?'. A bloke called Trev from Nuneaton declared she had 'big Match of the Day energy'. Somebody else accused me of witchcraft, which felt harsh, and of supporting Ipswich, which felt accurate.

The weekend itself was carnage. I put the whole month's profit on a five-fold accumulator guided entirely by what I can only describe as her Looking Infinitely Knowing. Four legs came in. The fifth — a Sunday fixture between two mid-table sides with nothing to play for — was predicted by her expression as a turgid nil-nil draw.

It finished 4-3. I have never forgiven her. Nor, in a strange way, have I stopped trusting her.

Week Four: Settling of Accounts

The final weekend I kept it simple: singles only, modest stakes, and a solemn promise to The Eyebrow that I would never ignore it again. I ended the month £38.40 in profit, which is roughly the cost of a takeaway and a grudge, and comfortably ahead of three of the four pundits whose tips I'd tracked for comparison. Gary Neville went 5 from 10. The painting went 7 from 10. I'll let the reader draw their own conclusions, as she would want.

What Have We Learned?

Nothing, obviously. This is not a system. A woman who died in 1542 does not have opinions on whether Burnley can avoid the drop, and anyone claiming otherwise should be kept away from betting shops and possibly children.

And yet. There's something about that face. The stillness. The patience. The absolute refusal to explain herself — the most British quality imaginable, frankly. She has watched the Louvre's queues, the gift shop magnets, the countless mugs and tea towels bearing her likeness, and she has never once complained. Compared to a Monday-night punditry panel, that's basically serenity.

Colin, for his part, has asked me not to come back. Trev from Nuneaton has asked me to run the forum's prediction league. The painting has asked for nothing, because she is a painting, and because she is, above all things, enigmatic.

Next month: her tips for the Grand National, interpreted via the sfumato on her left cheek. Deano is genuinely frightened. So am I, if I'm honest. The Eyebrow waits for us all.