His death, the thirtieth 'underworld' (yet actually above, not below ground) killing in Melbourne - numerous of which Williams was responsible for, but being tubby and, we assume, squeamish, Williams never killed anyone, preferring to request others do the deed on his behalf.
After his death, it appeared as if the whole of civilized Melbourne momentarily lost all sense of civility, with a cacophony of unseemly squeals of delight that the tubby blight on society was now dead, rather than merely locked away for 35 years. Even politicians and ex-politicians joined in to express, with more or less fervor, their generalized happiness at the murder of a murderer.
Topping off a full week of 'Carl Williams is dead' delight was the world's best ever funeral reporting.
While most newspapers, blogs, and Tweets were tossing out the obvious puns or spins about the gold coffin, and the donation of what was left of Williams' brain to science, our local tabloid shone, like a warming lighthouse, in its coverage of bogan-gets-buried.
The bereaved ex-wife and professional down-on-her-luck ex-wife of an-underworld-kingpin was described thus:
"Roberta was wearing a black, three quarter sleeve dress, black leggings, and a thick shiny patent-leather belt.Even our local broadsheet was at pains to describe Roberta's "unkempt pony tail".
Her brown, shoulder-length hair was tied in a ponytail with a white scrunchy."
It will be years, possibly even decades, before we are again blessed with funeral reportage that so charitably depicts the life and times of Melbournian bogans.