"I'm not a businessman," I replied.
"Is that not Peter Bromhead speaking?" was the puzzled response.
"Yes ..." I replied. "Peter Bromhead the Morris dancer."
This strategy usually flummoxes Manhattan finance manipulators. "Wow!" muttered the New Yorker.
But believing I had served the coup de grace proved to be wrong. He continued to glibly probe my defences.
"Ah ... that's so interesting ... what's a Morris dancer, Peter?"
"An English folk dancer," I explained. "Because I'm slightly retarded, it's the only way I know how to make a living."
I preferred to gloss over my true occupation as a cartoonist, because American satirists earn zillions compared with the pittance paid locally and I didn't want to over-excite my caller.
Deciding it was time to bore Mr International Benefactor off the line, I explained that the name "Morris" undoubtedly originates from "Moorish" because it's apocryphally recorded that the dances originated from Spain, where dancers blackened their faces to appear like Africans.
The caller continued his relentless pursuit.
"You sir ... could be the person we're looking for! I'm working confidentially with a number of serious investors to produce a new film production featuring the life of Al Johnson - remember the famous singer and dancer who used to blacken his face? With your Morris dancing experience, you're clearly the man to join our team ... Welcome aboard another Hollywood success story, Peter!"
"Well ..." I muttered feebly, believing I might have misread things.
My phone confidant, now sniffing the kill, wasted no time concluding the deal.
"We'll pay you 350,000 US dollars as an adviser, with a minimum of 100,000 put in your bank within seven working days of signing a contract.
"If you would just like to give me details of your bank account, Peter, I'll get the paperwork under way."
"Sayonara," I replied, wearily terminating the conversation.
