In the last two weeks my name has been in headlines for the first time in years. Will a cabinet minister suffer the humiliation of losing his seat in the full glare of national publicity, as I did in 1997? Will he (oh please, please yes!) endure "a Portillo moment"? My name is now synonymous with eating a bucketload of shit in public. I am on the brink of becoming a noun and so passing into history, alongside Captain Boycott and the Hooligan family.

When I am asked whether anyone at today's election is likely to suffer the same ignominy, I say, "Balls to that", and for good reason. But strictly speaking, if the children's secretary is defeated tonight – if Ed Balls falls – it won't qualify as a Portillo moment, because a genuine Portillo moment has to come out of left field.

In other ways, I would regard Balls as my worthy successor, for a Portillo moment should lead to national jubilation unmatched since the relief of Mafeking, and I stand ready to light tonight's first bonfire and launch the first rocket. In my case, my defeat was later voted by Channel 4 viewers and Observer readers their third favourite moment of the 20th century. I am proud to have nudged the assassination of President Ceausescu into fourth place.

In fact, my downfall was not a surprise to me. An opinion poll in my seat the previous weekend showed me barely ahead of Labour, and the message to tactical voters was clear. On the day before the poll a journalist asked me what I would hope for if I were defeated. "To lose with dignity," I replied.

So the next day I composed what I hope was a gracious speech congratulating the winner and lamenting the parlous state of my party, the Conservatives. My resolve to behave properly was stiffened when I saw the ousted David Mellor brawling with Jimmy Goldsmith in Putney, an hour or two before my result was announced. So, Ed: prepare two speeches.

Before a result is announced publicly the returning officer reads it in camera to the candidates. He ran through the totals and asked: "Is everyone happy?" "Ecstatically," I responded tersely. I felt I was taking it calmly. By contrast, Stephen Twigg, the shock winner in Enfield Southgate, had gone a greenish colour and looked as though he might throw up at any moment.

Truly, my disappointment was tinged with relief, because I had expected to have to stand for election as Tory leader. I dreaded the contest and since my party was cut to a rump, the idea of being in charge was unappealing in the extreme.

If Labour goes down tonight, being leader will be the job from hell. I hope that will be consoling to you should the voters send you on sabbatical, Ed (or, ooh, yes please, Gordon).

I confess it was a shock to find Britain in euphoria over my demise; and if I had ever thought that I would one day be the subject of a book, I had hoped for something better than Were You Still Up for Portillo? In the following days I felt vulnerable, imagining that everyone was sniggering at me on the underground or in the sandwich queue.

Of course, now I feel lucky to have been ejected. I discovered that there is life and livelihood outside Westminster. I have found a new career with much less stress. I make a tidy sum lecturing at human resources conferences on the benefits of failure.

These days I even get fan mail! Admittedly, the first line is normally: "I could never have dreamt that I would write to you like this, as I was one who rejoiced at your defeat."

But it takes a while to find such solace. Today, the nation licks its lips. Tonight it may be served a piping dish of nemesis, and to British voters nothing tastes quite so good.