We all tried it, one arm thrust triumphantly skyward, euphoric when we eventually mastered the corresponding thrust of the hip.
The soundtrack to our bedroom-mirror posing became the soundtrack to our lives.
The songs from 1977 blockbuster movie Saturday Night Fever permeated every level of our consciousness, a string of No 1 hits flooding the airwaves and saturating our young, spongy brains.
And as the pulsing coloured lights reflected magically from the milk-bottle-top streamers that lined our school gymnasiums, we imagined ourselves the Tony Manero or Stephanie Mangano of our year (at least, those of us old enough to have seen the R16-rated movie).
OK, so your reality might differ from mine.
In fact, I was highly conflicted and, because of it, thoroughly ridiculous.
As a nascent punk rocker, my duty was to damn those helium-toking Bee Gees to hell.
But in the awkward way that teenagers do, I compromised in the interests of copping a potential snog from some yet-to-be-identified girl who might be impressed by the skinniness of my hand-stitched stovepipes or by the array of badges on my lapel.
I got my sister to teach me the moves for the Brooklyn Hustle.
Saturday Night Fever will be remembered first and foremost for re-energising the flagging disco scene by dressing milquetoast toe-tappers up as edgy, sexually charged music for the masses.
It added mileage to the phoney war between rockers and squares, presenting itself as both target and talisman.
But, 30-something years on, it can be appreciated for something more than its cultural legacy: Stayin' Alive doesn't suck. Night Fever doesn't suck. More Than A Woman doesn't suck. If I Can't Have You, Jive Talkin' and You Should Be Dancing don't suck.
Heck, even How Deep Is Your Love only sucks a little bit.
And Disco Inferno, well, it rocks!
