Mick Daley is a self-styled wild colonial folksinger, born again on the banks of the River Styx, just outside Nimbin after a wild, inconclusive career in rock with the Bush Punk Cowboys, an interminable apprenticeship with the shambling, unkillable Ragadoll and punk and western ramblers the Australian Beefweek Show. Now doomed to an eternal life of  wandering the earth undead-style, squawking folk songs about forests, fucking and forgotten souls, he masquerades as a journalist and is soon to return to European shores after a summer brawling his way from Bourke to Nimbin via Newcastle, Toonumbar, Wagga, and a thousand gloomy metropolitan pubs beeping with pokie prolix. Wearily wailing about outlaws, STD's and some kind of quasi-Buddhist philosophy, quaffing beer and sipping herb, cursing Li'l Johnny Howard and all his works and all his empty promises, Daley remains cheerful, obstinate and certain that some day, somewhere, the Fuckers are gonna pay.