From the windows of the curry house in Alness you can watch the Alness boy racers whose circuit includes the High Street.
Roaring and revving, they emerge in their immaculate shiny black or white cars from a side road, watching nervously left to right for the rozzers, then jet down the road at high speed, twin exhausts yarping like bass-bin seagulls. Heaven protect any unwary pedestrians who might stray into their path!
All is silence for two minutes... then they are back again: harummm! harummm! harummm! ROOOOOOAAAARR!
Rather more delicately, a two-team of girls travels the same circuit, just once or twice.
Suddenly, boy-racer motorcyclists appear, dressed head to toe in lurid lime green, white and yellow leathers and blacked-out helmets. They snarl the circuit a few times then depart for who know where, never having quite synched up with the car drivers.
The waiters peer out of the windows and shrug their shoulders.
'Every night, every night', they sigh.
Later, on the way home, a shamefaced adolescent stands with head bowed next to his little supercar as a couple of policemen take his details.
The dare-game has a casualty tonight.