What seems like a very long two years ago I found myself pictured in my best sissy dress, smiling in shock with my wife and daughter in newspapers all over the world. Now I am keeping an eye on the reaction to this year’s Turner prizewinner Simon Starling from the other side of the globe in Japan, where I am on a residency.

In the week since the award the British media, as far as I can tell from here, have been quite harsh on the unassuming eco-boffin, calling him “tedious” or a “thumping bore”. They seem disappointed at his un-newsworthiness. Like an office lech, they demand to be flirted with and will call a woman frigid if she doesn’t play along.

Over the years since its low-key beginnings the Turner has provided the media with many healthy inches of outrage. Now this year they complain that the show was not shocking enough. The Daily Mail says of Starling’s Shedboatshed: “To the casual observer it is just a shack.”

Maybe “casual observers” should stay out of art galleries. To me it is a lovely, arty, patinated shed, much nicer and more seaworthy than one from B&Q. The artist’s poetic journeys of process leave me with a romantic vision of him paddling down the Rhine or puttering across a desert. My father-in-law, not renowned for his love of contemporary art, strongly identifies with Starling’s tinkering handyman narratives. The press sometimes has an unsophisticated palate and is sensitive only to strong sensations. Starling’s art has a delicate flavour, but one I find that lingers pleasantly.

The Turner may, in the words of Sir Nicolas Serota, be an academic prize. Alongside that, I think of it also as a PR exercise with a jolly nice exhibition attached. Though for me the most exciting aspect of being nominated was having 100,000 people coming to see my work, there is another headier rush on offer. As an artist I love to communicate, and to that end I grabbed with both hands this unique opportunity when the art world overlaps for a brief period with the mainstream media and the nominees can sniff the dubious power of celebrity.

The Tate press officer asked me about the kind of publicity I would get involved with, and I said, “Strap me on and fire the engines”. I let the Turner machine do its worst/best, for I have always been turned on by fantasies of public humiliation. As it turned out, my winning received a mainly positive press. An amalgamation of the headlines might read: “Pervert wins Turner but is actually an all right family bloke and even taxi drivers can appreciate the work in them pots.” One bitter cynic suggested that I won only because the prize was looking for a new sponsor and needed a media-friendly winner. I say, whatever the rules of the competition, I won.

Puritanical intellectuals in the sealed art world can be snotty about fame and popularity, for economically they do not need the mass market, but for public institutions these are necessary tools for drawing in an audience in an overpopulated cultural landscape. Museums now depend on high visitor numbers to secure funding, and in his heart of hearts even the most austere artist would like a bit of appreciation from more than just a tiny cognoscenti. I was told by the press officer that one dry-as-dust “intellectual” nominee was really pissed off that he didn’t get a decent feature in any of the papers. Talk about wanting to have your madeleine and eating it.

People often ask me if winning the big T has changed my life and I say, yes, I get to go to some great parties, but I don’t know how much it means in the status system of the art world, where top museum curators, academics and mega collectors dish out the heavyweight brownie points. They are interested in the long game, in word of mouth, in a subtle reading of twitches and nods accumulated between power brokers milling round a biennale or an art fair.

I might get to open fêtes now but whether my prices rise or not depends on the quality of my work and the kudos I acquire from the venues in which I exhibit. I think for those of us who make a living from art, the prize has our respect as the judges are serious players in our game. The Turner is also the party and a juicy gossip point. It is a time to rally round the standard and enjoy the century-old tradition of the press having a go at difficult art that isn’t a realistic painting of a thing.

The Turner has played an important role in getting the high media profile that contemporary art now enjoys. I imagine it has exceeded the hopes of those who came up with the idea 20 years ago. To Mr Starling I say well done, and like your old shed, you may find an interesting use for the publicity that comes with the cheque.

Next year I think the judges should nominate Jack Vettriano. Now that would be shocking.