From Donald Spoto’s The Dark Side of Genius: The Life of Alfred Hitchcock, which I’m currently reading:
“Hitchcock bet a film’s property man a week’s salary that he would be too frightened to spend a whole night chained to a camera in a deserted and darkened studio. The chap heartily agreed to the wager, and at the end of the assigned day, Hitchcock himself clasped the handcuffs and pocketed the key – but not before he offered a generous beaker of brandy ‘the better to ensure a quick and deep sleep’. The man thanked him for his thoughtfulness and drank the brandy, and everyone withdrew. When they arrived on the set next morning, they found the poor man angry, weeping, exhausted, and humiliated. Hitchcock had laced the brandy with the strongest available laxative, and the victim had, unavoidably, soiled himself and a wide area around his feet and the camera.”
A ripping wheeze I’m sure you’ll agree.
Fuzzy Lamentations 