Did the best man lose?

They have already lost William Hague, the man who was destined to become their leader ever since he was a 16-year-old boy, a leader many now regret was allowed to step so easily aside after the General Election defeat.

And yesterday, they lost Michael Portillo, the flamboyant, charismatic man they desperately wanted as leader in 1997 - only he wasn't available to them. In one of the most memorable moments of political television, the heir of Margaret Thatcher had been embarrassingly ejected from his supposedly safe Enfield seat - a symbol of the vicious way that the nation turned on a government which, after 18 years, had become tired and detested.

But in 2001, he was available to them. And he was still their favourite. He was the favourite from the moment on June 13 when he stood outside Westminster's Portcullis House and finally announced: ''I wish to put my name forward for the leadership of the Conservative Party.''

Yet yesterday he lost. This remarkable party's eccentric tradition, which dates back to 1957 when Harold Macmillan stole the party leadership from Rab Butler, of the favourite never becoming leader was fulfilled. Even more extraordinary, in a fit of petulant pique, Mr Portillo immediately picked up his ball and stormed home. If he couldn't be captain, he was not going to play under Ken Clarke or Iain Duncan Smith. He won't even stand on the sidelines shouting for them. Last night he was considering his entire career in politics.

Of course, for Mr Portillo, considering his political career is nothing new. He once was the right-wing standard bearer, the man who infamously invoked the spirit of the SAS at a party conference. Yet, when the time came for him to win, he didn't dare. He'd had the telephone lines installed ready to mount a challenge against John Major who was limping painfully towards annihilation, but at the last minute he didn't dare put his name forward.

And so Mr Major hobbled into the 1997 election, and Mr Portillo was its most celebrated victim. After the defeat, he embarked on a spiritual journey, taking to European trains to retrace the footsteps of his father, a Spanish government minister who fled from General Franco during the Civil War. He also listened to voters who told him they wanted a more caring, compassionate Tory hero, and so he reinvented himself. He cleared the skeletons out of his closet, admitting his homosexual dalliances as a youth, and returned to Parliament as MP for Kensington and Chelsea. Mr Hague immediately welcomed him into his Shadow Cabinet. Mr Portillo brought much needed charisma and ballast to a team that was making no headway in the polls, but Mr Hague also knew that a man so hungrily ambitious would be a danger if he was allowed to roam the backbenches unshackled by the responsibility of a Shadow Cabinet post.

How hungrily ambitious Mr Portillo was became clear. As the 2001 election ebbed away into a second humiliation, Mr Portillo was already arranging his campaign to replace Mr Hague even while publicly protesting his loyalty to him.

How excitingly charismatic Mr Portillo is also became clear to the North-East. With less than 24 hours to polling day he pitched up in Yarm. He barrelled along the High Street, all bonhomie and expansive gestures despite the threatening electoral storm about to wash away his party. His effect on women in particular was extraordinary. When his rugby player's features hoved in to their view, they didn't quite faint at his feet but they did rush back into their shops all a-quiver from the thrill of having encountered him.

The following day, Mr Portillo was the public face of the Conservatives' defeat, braving it out on television, bluntly explaining how bad this was, and how the party would have to "change or die". Even before Mr Hague had received the Richmond result and flown from North Yorkshire to hand in his resignation, Mr Portillo was beginning his campaign but, the tease that he is, he kept the party waiting by holidaying in Morocco before announcing his intentions.

For days, so overwhelming was his position as favourite, it seemed no one dare challenge him. But when Mr Duncan Smith poked his head above the parapet, Mr Portillo visibly began to wilt. He began to look flaky on cannabis and homosexuality and began to look shaky in front of the media. He won the first two ballots, but without the commanding majority that might be expected of someone who considered himself such an outright favourite.

Then Amanda Platell, Mr Hague's head of communications, unleashed her stiletto. In an act of ultimate treachery, she had been going behind Mr Hague's back every night of the election campaign to record her thoughts on film. Now her thoughts were to be screened, and she would accuse Mr Portillo of the ultimate treachery of going behind Mr Hague's back. For a party that still hates itself for stabbing Mrs Thatcher, still feels sorry for that nice Mr Major and is beginning to rue losing Mr Hague, such treachery to the leader was too much, and, for the second time in his political career, Mr Portillo was embarrassingly ejected.

But what an unenviable choice that electorate now faces. After two landslide defeats, it desperately wants a winner. Mr Clarke clearly is that winner, with an ebullient personality and engaging manner. But he is avowedly pro-Europe. He will split the party - or Labour will force him to split the party by holding spurious votes on European issues. Because of its huge majority, Labour won't lose them, and because of his beliefs, Mr Clarke will have to vote with Labour while the rest of his party troops into the other lobby.

Or there's Mr Duncan Smith, a man of the right who could hold the party together, at least in the short-term. He is the Mr Major without the niceness, the Mr Hague without the gags.

An extraordinary political party now faces an extraordinary leadership choice.