The Hilton Hotel on Auckland’s waterfront stands sentinel above the ferry terminal. All the boats leaving for Devonport or Waiheke Island or the Hauraki Gulf Islands have to pass the hotel as it juts into the bay. During the Lions tour of 2005, I recall sailing by and spotting the lone figure of Sir Clive Woodward, plotting on his seaward balcony.

The hotel is intentionally shaped along the lines of an ocean liner, and yet if allegations are true, last weekend it presided over the sinking of the England rugby team. If only we knew last Saturday that the fiercely disappointing England effort in the first Test – to be followed by another catastrophe yesterday – would be far from the low point of an horrendous week, which has not only affected the good name of England rugby and its players but, beyond any doubt, caused grief to the wives, girlfriends, families and other loved ones of all the England squad, whether or not they were implicated in the allegations.

These concern two incidents. The first surrounds the testimony of Sophie Lewis, a 22-year-old model, also called Angel Barbie, who says that she spent the night in bed with an England player, named today by the News of the World as David Strettle. She also claims that they were then joined by other players, who yanked the bedclothes off as a prank. Improbably immature behaviour, and not in the slightest indicative of a proud team after defeat, but no crime.

The other allegation, infinitely darker, is that another player or players, apparently egged on by spectators from the squad, sexually assaulted another woman, described in the ineffable language of tabloids as “a busty brunette who works in a lap-dancing club”. Last night, Auckland’s Sunday Star Times claimed that she had sought medical treatment after leaving the hotel, then went to the police on Sunday evening.

The Pony Club, where all parties first met late last Saturday, is meant to be the hang-out of the glitterati of Auckland (provided such a breed exists) and yet is also described in one review as “sleazy”. Although no allegations of impropriety have been made against them, All Blacks Dan Carter and Ali Williams are also reported to have been present in the bar.

As late as yesterday, the Auckland police claimed to be still investigating this case, and their official release declared that four players may be implicated. They can neither proceed nor press charges, nor even question the four England players, until the alleged victim lodges a complaint. Police sources I canvassed yesterday do not now expect the case to proceed. The team flies home today.

Officially, the identity of the players implicated in each alleged incident remains secret. Richard Smith, the QC who follows the England team everywhere, has issued the most ferocious blanket ban on comments by players and coaches about the incident, and on any of the alleged participants being discussed or even abstractly alluded to. One player with whom I tried to discuss the case, in the most abstract terms, issued a torrent of abuse. “We have arranged legal representation for four players at the RFU’s expense and that is all we can say,” Francis Baron, the RFU chief executive, said on Friday. Smith, presumably, knows what he is doing. On his advice and on the advice of local lawyers, the four players allegedly concerned in the more serious incident refused the request from the police for interviews.

They were perfectly entitled to do this, though it also meant that the case was grinding on throughout the preparations for the second Test and the New Zealand media, often with obvious glee, was able to provide headlines that the players had refused to speak, as if they had something to hide or were cavalier about an alleged rape.

Baron, while honest enough to admit some of the enormous harm to the reputation of the England team, says that the players “totally and absolutely deny” any offence. I would be staggered if there was a sexual offence, and I also have to say, too, that England, who have some outstanding men in their squad, have not acted like a guilty or beleaguered team (or like a true Test rugby team either, but more of that later).

The fifth floor of their Christchurch hotel was patrolled by security guards (a scruffy bunch fiddling with their earpieces) but the players and Zara Phillips, girlfriend of Mike Tindall, have been as visible as any other hotel guest here. Joe Worsley, an outstanding pianist, and Matt Stevens, a star of Celebrity X Factor, emerged on Tuesday to treat the giant atrium area to a remarkably fine rendition of Coldplay’s Clocks. How lovely.

England fly out today, for the summer break ahead. Boys will boys . . . except that this hoary old excuse is absolutely not good enough. Whether or not this tour ends in court, it is another shocking episode in the shocking recent history of the England team, its hierarchy and now, allegedly, some of its players. They are the England professional rugby team. If even the mildest allegations are true then obviously, nobody in the team ever heard of honey entrapment, or realised that in New Zealand, rugby is football, that its players are targets. And did nobody in the England management think to warn them?

And if the mildest allegations are true, the actions reveal something seriously amiss in the squad, its attitude, its hierarchy and the way the players are treated. Rob Andrew, the director of elite rugby doubling as tour manager, does not come out of it at all well either. Players such as Martin Johnson, Lawrence Dallaglio and Neil Back knew how to enjoy themselves. But from reports surfacing from the early hours of last Sunday right throughout the week, it seemed to me that the current England players, in and out of bed, did not care enough, were easily distracted, lacked passion for revenge. Johnson and his old pals would have scowled their way through the week, blisteringly focused.

Rugby touring, until recently, has always existed in a bizarre schizophrenic world. It is a strange and false life all at one time, when players could be away for six months, and while it was always a heroic, crusading activity, it could sink into a nether world of behavioural excess and even immorality. The stories are legion. One that I was told last week about a tour made me feel sick.

On the 1977 Lions tour here, Truth, a tabloid weekly, said: “The Lions make a great pack – of animals. The touring rugby side is a disgrace to its members and their homeland . . . only one word to describe their behaviour – disgusting.” Truth carried an account by one local female who claimed that all four of the lovers she entertained simultaneously lacked sensitivity. “I found them boring, self-centred, ruthless, always on the make and anything but exciting bedmates. Give me the down-to-earth Kiwi male any day.”

At least England have improved in one respect. This was Sophie Lewis’s tribute to her new English friend. “He was fantastic in bed – awesome and had amazing staying power. He kept going like the Energizer Bunny in the TV ads.”

The old-style tours were often majestic, but given their seedier side it is hard to see them all as the good old days. And how disastrous to read allegations that some of the old tomfoolery has resurfaced. It is now the professional era, the players have salaries, sponsors, pressures, responsibilities and an important image. They have kids idolising them, emulating them. It is blissfully easy to be holier than thou, but not easy to trot out the boys-will-be-boys rubbish. It is a free country when not under the England banner. If in camp, there is a heavy responsibility. England should grow up.

And there were two more background failures which dragged this tour into the gutter. One was the ludicrous, wounding predilection of the last three England managements to put immature players into an England jersey. The policy is shown up every time raw England play, and for me, if the allegations have any truth in them, it is shown up in the immaturity allegedly exhibited in the Hilton.

There is also the horrible vacuum of touring. Teams from all major rugby nations these days are ridiculously pompous about their puffed-up touring lives (training behind closed doors with security goons, granting only a few minutes’ access to a few players now and again, and so on), but the absolute lack these days of any kind of cultural or social touring experience, the lack of any contact with the home nation and its people, render the vacuum arid, and a crashing bore.

Not so long ago, you’d see the team out and about. Nowadays, the liaison officers will come up with a name of a trendy bar or club. On match nights, the players will reform their own exclusive circle inside, and that’s practically the only time they touch the hosting people.

Perhaps it is no wonder that some of them may have taken that touching of the locals a little too literally last week.