If Premiership clubs were cars, where would you ride?

Feeling somewhat bored during the international break in the English Premier League, a mate went off on a tangent, telling me how well-run clubs are much like superbly maintained engines: precise, thrilling and consistent.

I pondered this for a while and decided to stretch it further. Why not compare the sides to motorcars. With that logic, one might say that table-topping Chelsea are like a gleaming blue Bentley; brash, loud — with a certain arrogance — and ridiculously expensive. Manchester United, on the other hand, would be the scarlet Ferrari, bristling with pace and passion, and with a penchant for fine performances.

Arsenal would have to be one of those preciously delicate supercars, like a Lamborghini — capable of breathtaking displays and just as likely to fail to start the next morning. Up in the high echelons of the table, you find the surprise package that is Hull City, an old school Mini, if you will. Plain, simple and encouragingly battling against the biggest odds. In mid-table are the wannabe supercars, the Alfa Romeos of this world ( Everton, West Ham, Portsmouth) who always seem to look better on paper than on the field.

I am not sure they have made an adequately brittle and hapless car to qualify as a Newcastle or Spurs. So much promise, with years of rich support from desperate fans, yet they leave a yawning chasm of under-achievement. Words, and cars, truly fail me.

And what of Manchester City, the new marquee on the block? Perhaps they fall somewhere between the mundane and the mesmeric, capable of cutting you to pieces with their Brazilian magicians and just as likely to give you a sitter with their dodgy fullbacks. Let’s call them a Jaguar, then. For they are not quite a supercar, but they will give one enough pleasure to keep coming back.

I struggled when it came to encapsulating Liverpool. For here sits a team with an English engine, a continental flair and a rather obdurate Spaniard at the wheel. Blessed with the drive of Steven Gerrard, the thrust of Fernando Torres and the steel of a Jamie Carragher. Yet they play a reserved style, based more on sniping counter attacks and trying to keep things tight.

They did it again on Saturday, sandwiched by a swift and devastating display by the Bentley brigade who won 5-0, at Middlesborough nogal, and a whirlwind performance by the Ferrari boys who cruised past West Brom. Liverpool’s victory over Wigan was hardly vintage stuff, but it was certainly not dull. And yet again, the Anfield army found a way to get home, and again without having to rely on Gerrard or Torres.

So where do the Reds sit in the car comparison. After much deliberation, I would have to plump for a bright red London bus. Not because it is slow and boring, but rather for it’s quiet consistency. For as surely as the English rain — and the busses, come to think of it — Liverpool are finding a knack of being there at the right time. At least three times this season already, they have bounced back from half-time deficits and won crucial league ties. They have the look of a side fiercely determined to putting right the wrongs of 19 title-less years. Like public transport, they are slowly getting back into fashion. They make sense — besides the shenanigans in the boardroom — and they now have an experienced core of players. And they have that last vital ingredient: a bit of luck.

They are not playing the free-flowing champagne football that comes out at Old Trafford, Stamford Bridge or the Emirates, but they are doing the business. And besides, in these tight financial times, it is surely not a bad idea to be riding the bus instead of driving a flashy Bentley or Ferrari …