As I thrust my hand at tiny pop superstar Prince and blurted out "put it there, wee man," I had no idea the cheeky Scottish greeting would lead to the invitation of a lifetime.
In 1993 - at the height of his world fame - I was given a rare insight into his private world at his $15 million Paisley Park mansion and recording complex in Minneapolis.
I had travelled to his home city in the United States from my native Glasgow to review a Prince concert for a British newspaper, ahead of his UK tour.
His PR people had made it clear: I could speak to his band the New Power Generation but talking to or even approaching Prince was strictly out of bounds.
I arrived in Minneapolis a night ahead of the rest of the UK press pack and found an invitation to Prince's downtown nightclub Glam Slam pushed under my hotel room door.
I headed straight there but about midnight jetlag kicked in and there was no sign of Prince, so I decided to call it a night.
That was until a limo pulled up while I was waiting for a taxi. Out jumped Prince, decked out in a skin-tight, canary-yellow jumpsuit. He was surrounded by armed bodyguards who had handcuffs dangling from their belts and were screaming into walkie-talkies.
I went straight back into the club and got to within a few metres of the great man but there was no way past his security team.
However, when his main minder became momentarily distracted, I seized the opportunity. Clutching a bottle of beer, I slipped past the man-mountain and headed towards his boss.
For some reason, I yelled "put it there, wee man" and to my surprise an initially startled Prince suddenly broke into a laugh and accepted my handshake.
"I like it," he said. "Have a seat."
What followed was a scoop - an interview, of sorts, with a superstar who hadn't spoken to the press in many years.
It got even better. I was invited out to Paisley Park later that night to watch a 2am rehearsal.
I attended with a local taxi driver called Pele who I managed to sneak in as well. And with about 50 of Prince's friends we were treated to a mind-blowing personal performance from Prince and the New Power Generation.
The next day I was given a tour of the workshops where Prince's flamboyant stage outfits were made, followed by a visit to a store he was opening in the CBD selling Prince perfumes and clothing.
While I was there I couldn't resist sneaking a picture of myself astride the original motorbike from the Purple Rain movie. When I was getting off, however, I dropped it and the person who took the photo thought he saw a ding on the petrol tank.
Later than night, I was treated to another blistering Prince concert at Paisley Park. Then the next day the real reason for the overseas press being summonsed to Minneapolis was revealed - Prince was changing his name.
His PR woman handed us sheets of paper with a "love symbol" printed on it and launched into a pretentious explanation of what it all meant and how this was how he would be known from then on.
Again I couldn't help myself. I piped up: "Sorry, this looks more like like a squiggle. Are you telling us Prince has changed his name to Squiggle?"
Much hilarity ensued. The poor PR woman was left tearing her hair out at being mercilessly ridiculed by a bunch of half-sozzled British tabloid reporters.
At 57, with more than 30 albums under his belt, Prince shows no signs of slowing down. To me, he is still a King, never mind a Prince.
Oh, and sorry about the bike, wee man.