The manager has had to be an accountant, salesman and agony aunt to keep Pompey alive
Paul Hart would like it to be known that, contrary to what you may have read elsewhere, he did not describe Portsmouth recently as football's equivalent of Fawlty Towers. He did, however, say that life at Fratton Park had begun to resemble a sketch from the old comedy. One of those moments, presumably, when things were getting so on top of Basil that his default setting would kick in and he would reach down to his knee, clutching an imaginary shrapnel wound and trying his best to look in pain.
The good news for Portsmouth is that Hart is a man of substance. He has never been one to sulk, or hide, or feel sorry for himself, even in those moments when he, too, must have felt like releasing a bit of pent-up frustration by, for example, finding an Austin 1100 to whack with a stray branch. Instead, he has quietly got on with his business with dignity and resilience and a sense that he has to lead by example – and not get down.
But it has been difficult, to say the least. At one poin