It would have been the glittering showcase to the end of a sporting career of unprecedented success. From around the globe, the best rugby players would gather in north-west London for a match in honour of one man, a lion-hearted sporting hero whose contribution to his game was unparalleled. The fans were salivating at the prospect; the promoters could not contain themselves.

Yesterday, the plans were in tatters, the players - those who had not already been withdrawn - were told that Will Carling's Wembley testimonial was cancelled. The reason: lack of demand. After a week in which the former England captain had become a pariah inside and outside the game, there were few people willing to buy a ticket.

In the history of modern sport, it is impossible to remember a fall from grace so spectacular as that of Carling. Once he was guaranteed his place in history as a Boy's Own rugby icon; now he is certain to be remembered as a calculating back-stabber and serial philanderer, whose only devotion was to himself. His is a modern morality tale, a parable of celebrity.

There is a saying in rugby, a game ferociously proud of its tradition of looking after its own: "We bury our own dead." But as he stands amid the mangled wreckage of his private life and public reputation, the English team's most famous son will struggle to find anybody volunteering to help him clean up the mess.

And he only has himself to blame. During his 10 years in the spotlight, while the public regarded him as the saviour of English rugby, in private he offended team-mates, antagonised friends and betrayed those closest to him. He stimulated a swell of anger which has finally risen up to consume him.

Now that he no longer has stardom to protect him, there is nobody left to stick their heads above the parapet and defend him. The latest scandal, far from representing a sudden crash, merely marks the point at which those associated with him saw their patience - already stretched tight like a length of elastic - finally snap.

"Will is learning very hard and very fast that you should be careful who you step over on the way up, because you are probably going to meet them again when you come down," says one critic. "It's been a long time coming but he is all on his own now."

Another former acquaintance is more blunt. "He has stuck a knife in the back of anybody who has ever had anything to do with him. This is nothing more than he deserves."

How could it have come to this? In the time-honoured tradition of calamity, it was a scandal in Carling's private life which brought the roof in. He had walked out on his fiance, Ms Ali Cockayne, and their 11-month-old son, Henry. Worse, he was leaving because he had been having an affair with Lisa Cooke, the wife of a former Harlequins team-mate, David Cooke.

There was more. The heart-rending anguish captured in the tabloid pictures of a distraught Ms Cockayne grasping an oblivious Henry to her chest were hammered home when she revealed that she had only found out Carling was planning to leave by chance. She had stumbled across a draft of a newspaper article he was writing to promote the launch of his autobiography in which all references to her were in the past tense. Suddenly, the whole episode began to look like a calculated plan.

Carling's defence was hardly less crass: Ms Cockayne was an amazing mother but he did not love her passionately so he was leaving because of his own emotional honesty.

All this should have been familiar ground for those who knew Carling. Had he not, just three years earlier, destroyed his marriage to Julia, his wife of 15 months, when she and the world discovered he had been having a secret relationship with Diana, Princess of Wales? If his supporters had stuck by him when his infidelities bordered on a royal crisis, they would stick by him now. Surely they would understand that some relationships just aren't meant to work out?

But, almost overnight, Carling's friends and associates melted away. That was just the beginning. First one, then another, went public to distance themselves from him. He became untouchable.

Cliff Morgan, the former Wales and Lions star, withdrew as compere of Carling's 19-date tour of question and answer sessions, another attempt to promote the book. "I don't like what has happened," he says simply. "I would not be comfortable doing the shows." Apparently the fans felt the same way - ticket sales for that tour were virtually non-existent.

Even Mr Colin Herridge, erstwhile RFU fixer and Carling's confidant for 10 years, decided the time had come to break off diplomatic relations. When the player's first marriage ended, it was at Mr Herridge's home that he took refuge. But this time there was no offer of help. Mr Herridge resigned from the fund-raising committee for Carling's testimonial - on which Lisa Cooke also sat - and effectively washed his hands of the former player.

Carling first burst on to the international rugby scene in 1988, when, barely months after making his full England debut, he became his country's youngest captain at 22. The press excitement soon subsided and it appeared that Carling's fame would be limited only to the Twickenham faithful.

His background hardly set him apart from the rest of the Volvo estate-driving herd: son of an officer, Sedbergh school in Cumbria, army sponsorship to Durham University, pass degree in psychology before buying himself out of the army for £8,000. Just another faceless product of the middle-class, public school treadmill.

But by 1991, Carling's resurgent England had won their first Grand Slam in years and had made it to the final of the World Cup. The rugged, young captain was an instant hero, a leader of men who had rescued English rugby from the doldrums of the late 1980s and made it the dominant force in the European game.

The press were adoring but their adulation was not shared by other members of the squad. "He was despised for taking all the glory, especially by the forwards who felt they were doing all the hard work for which he was claiming credit," says one former player who was involved at the time. "The only thing he gave a sh-t about was Will Carling."

In this version of events, Carling was far from the inspiration behind a great team. He was merely the man lucky enough to have the job at a time when England enjoyed an excellent coaching set-up and a vastly experienced squad.

Tales of Carling's fractious personality abound. At his club, Harlequins, he would refuse to train, give autographs, pose for photographs or play friendlies if he felt there was nothing to gain.

At both club and country level, he was, despite his own youth, notoriously unwilling to make any new faces in the squad feel welcome. On one occasion, when the Harlequins team were travelling to an away match by coach, a young player spilled some drink on Carling. The captain did not speak to him for the eight months he remained at the club.

His skills for manipulation were instrumental in the sacking of Dick Best, the coach who saved Harlequins from relegation and made them a fighting force again. A few whispers in the ears of the directors and trustees and Best was out. The press refused to believe the England captain could have been involved in such a Machiavellian operation.

When things went well, Carling was more than willing to claim the credit. Yet it was the suspicion that Carling was in the game for what he could get out of it that stopped England fans from truly taking him to their heart.

From early on, there was more than a whiff of calculated self-promotion at work. In the era before professionalism, he used the captaincy to make a lot of money. In 1991, when England beat Wales at Cardiff Arms Park for the first time since 1963, the champagne and the lager should have flowed; instead Carling led the players in a boycott of television interviews because the BBC had refused to cough up £5,000 for the privilege. No wonder, the traditional arrangement was that £50 would be put in the RFU's charity box.

Then there were the business interests. Within months of achieving international success, Carling set up his own management consultancy, Insights, which offered sport-based motivational courses for companies. In 1995, he co-wrote a book, The Way To Win - Strategies For Success In Business And Sport, which offered advice such as: "Integrity isn't a halo worn only by saints . . . People with integrity set the standards and, because of that, are always respected." A few months later, the Diana revelations broke - sold to the News of the World, predictably, by his disgruntled personal assistant.

THREE years on, the business, like everything else in Carling's life, is a mess. No accounts have been filed since July 1996. The company has £65 in the bank and liabilities of £37,550. The decline coincides with the fading of his star in the rugby world. Who wants to pay big money for advice from a has-been, a man whose highest profile gig since retiring from the game is as a sidekick to Eamonn Holmes on ITV's Sport In Question programme?

So, in the struggle for recognition at the end of his playing days, Carling has written his autobiography - netting himself a reported £200,000 for the newspaper serialisation alone. At a stroke, he has managed to destroy his relationship and offend a substantial number of former team-mates and friends.

Of course, it could be that this was all part of the calculation; condemnation versus publicity for the book. But what Carling may not have accounted for was the cancellation of his testimonial match - and the loss of the £500,000 it was expected to raise.

As the condemnation flew this week in England, Carling was in Marbella. Not for relaxation but for a competition for amateur sportsmen organised by Sure Sport deodorant. Even in the eye of the storm, there are money-making opportunities.