We open on Rhys, so you know this is going to be a very special episode in which we get to know our favorite Cardiff cuckold a little bit better. I’m all in favor of that. For once, it would be nice to see him get to do more than stand behind his breakfast bar looking like an abandoned St. Bernard waiting to be adopted by a kinder owner.

One new thing we learn right off the bat is that Rhys has terrible taste in music, since whatever he’s rocking out to on the car radio sounds like a high school garage band doing a cover of “Tubthumping.” There’s ringing coming from somewhere in the car, and it takes him about 15 minutes of looking around to figure out it’s his cell phone, a reminder that between him and Gwen, she’s clearly the brains of the operation, and that’s not saying much.

He picks up the phone and talks to somebody named “Ruth,” asking if she heard his brilliant jingle for “Harwood’s Haulage” on the radio. So we realize that it’s not that he has terrible taste in music so much as he’s a spectacularly terrible writer. Ruth goes on to tell him about some “accident,” and I’m wondering if she’s referring to the accident he’s about to cause, given he’s speeding along holding his cell phone in one hand and doing God-knows-what with the other just out of range of our TV screens.

He pulls up at an accident site, where a truck is lying on its side. A police officer (not Andy — where is he these days?) stops him from going any closer, and Rhys says it’s his lorry and he knows the driver. And if it’s Rhy’s lucky day, he owes the guy for past gambling debts or something, because the guy is clearly no longer in a position to collect.

Rhys says something about having to arrange to move the lorry, but the cop says he can’t because there’s something suspicious in back. “It’s just meat,” Rhys says, as if it were preposterous for meat to be in any way suspect, which is pretty rich coming from the land of cows gone mad.

Rhys explains that it was to be delivered to the “abattoir,” and while on some vague level I know what that word means, I can’t help but picture some Old West bordello run by a feather-head-dressed madam promising gunslingers the prettiest fillies this side of the Mississippi and all the barbecued meat they can stomach.

The cop says nothing is being moved until Torchwood gets a look at it, which is fairly hysterical because it just drives home the point that poor Rhys is about the only person left in Cardiff who’s still clueless about Torchwood, including inmates in solitary confinement and backpacking Europass students passing through on their way to cooler parts of Europe.

The Torchwood SUV pulls up, the team gets out, and Rhys, stuck behind the police barrier, sees his lovely, lying bride-to-be in the distance. And in the immortal words of a certain beloved bongo-drumming TV husband, she’s got a lot a splainin’ to do.