A youngish bean approached a woebegone figure at the Drones Club bar. "Why the long face, Pongo, old thing? It's a ripping day out!"
"Ripping day, is it?" Reginald G. 'Pongo' Twistleton-Twistleton turned on the young Drone. "It was on just such a day as this that my Uncle Fred came up to London and carted me off to the Dog track for what he liked to describe as 'a pleasant and instructive afternoon'. You are in your innocent years, my dear chappie, and probably do not know what it is to have an uncle who's considered far and wide to be as pronounced a lunatic as the Emperor Nero. I shiver with terror to this day when I recall that afternoon at the dog track..."
"Bad day at the races, what?" ventured the careless Drone. "Did your uncle lose his camisole betting on the wrong pups?"
"Au contraire, my naive young friend! Uncle Fred did nothing but win the first five races in succession. He picked his dogs by name - the names Bone Apart, Dogmatic, Mutton Jeff, Poochinksky, and Takes-the-Biscuit were the ones that drew his bid that afternoon. They ran the gamut of the odds, going off at 5-1, 10-1, 15-1, 20-1 and even 25-1, in some order, but nonetheless the hounds all crossed the finish line ahead of their miserable competitors."
"Five wins in a row! Why I've never heard anything like it in all my puff! The old boy must've been dancing in the aisles!"
Pongo shuddered. "Don't remind me! He did an interpretive hula dance after one win, and after another he encouraged some of the local lads to form a human pyramid, with himself at the apex. After one race, he led a chorus of beery workingmen in a sing-along of "I'm Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover!", and he also celebrated a win by doing a sort of tapdance on some firecrackers, ala Fred Astaire.
But the worst bit was when he scooped up his winnings, emerged on the balcony overlooking the stands, and started strewing pound notes to the punters below. I recall the Judge had some stern comments about precipitating a riot, and seemed to blame me, as I'd been carrying the winnings for the old boy in my hat!"
"You ought to write a story, Pongo!"
"I would, laddie, as a warning to chaps to beware the footloose uncles of this world, but I was so traumatized by the occasion that I've developed a sort of mental block, and I can only come up with bits and pieces of what happened on that fateful afternoon."
Can you help Pongo reconstruct which dog won which race at what odds, and how Uncle Fred celebrated, from the 8 clues that Pongo was able to recall?