It seems Tark and Mara were not told the full truth behind being handed the reins of that mediocre blog in November, and they’re not happy about it. However, even mediocre bloggers should know that nobody gets the upper hand on these two for long.
Dublin’s richest miscreants further their takeover of that awful Spalding woman’ blog, and their plans to turn the wealthiest 1% of the world into figures deserving of unconditional love and adoration. It’s all downhill from here.
Tark agrees to make a reappearance on that dreadful Sparkling woman’s blog, much to Mara’s disgust. However, as always, all is not as it seems. Tark has his own agenda, and it’s one which just might change the entire world.
Dublin’s favourite arseholes consider what it means to be Irish, and how that might work to their financial gain. Don’t tell the European Union.
Tark and Mara go to a ruinously expensive restaurant, and decry the hideous cutesiness of Easter. Lambs, chocolate and children are all in the firing line – but it’s the bunnies that get it.
The terrifyingly powerful Tark and Mara form a plan to find a true and quantifiable value for art, so that they can quadruple it, and then watch it increase. And if you have a spare million or three lying about, you can do it too.
“I’m tired of blogging.” Tark pushed the 24 carat gold-plated Macbook away from him. Autumn sunshine danced through the stained-glass atrium of the Dublin penthouse, making a disco ball of Tark’s unwitting head. He looked at his wife, who was reclining on the 18th-century chaise longue upon which Marie Antoinette once gently farted following a massive feed of…
All was not well in Tark and Mara Towers. Mara’s shrieks could be heard on Dublin’s Northside, unbeknownst to Mara, who would never knowingly have sent herself to that part of the city on purpose. The irony was lost on both her and her husband, however. They were too incensed. They were madder than Jean Galliano and the UKIP…
“I’ve decided we need a new season.” Tark waved a manicured hand at his chest barber in dismissal, and wiped his newly-shaven belly with a monogrammed towel before dismounting from an uncomfortably tall massage table. He swore they had it raised on purpose before his appointments. It was their only way of feeling superior to a client so great…
Mara swept Billy goat’s-curd serum from her upper lip and sat up. She would know that noise anywhere. The man she loved was in pain. She had to go to him. She wound a bamboo hand-towel around her fleshless frame and donned sunglasses before exiting the treatment room. She was only three minutes into a two-hour Deeply Detoxifying Core Cleansing…
Tara Sparling writes 