I kind of hoped he’d met his match - found and kissed a girl as outrageous and witty and rude as he.
And that the Perry sparkle would be enough to keep the fire lit in Brand.
But the cynic in me had always nagged away at the romantic notion.
Wasn’t him suddenly becoming a husband, conforming to tradition so soon after disgracing himself in those juvenile phone calls made on air with Jonathan Ross, and then all the revelations about his sordid sex-life, rather too neat a re-parcelling of a reformed Russell?
And my inner cynic is now crowing: here we are, just 14 months on from the couple’s Hindu nuptials in India, with a divorce petition, she is cackling.
Meanwhile, the mags and rags and a few million bloggers are debating what the relationship was really founded on - publicity or whirlwind infatuation - and pondering how many millions Brand could get from the bride whose wedding ring hasn’t yet worn a groove in her finger.
The most ridiculous claim I’ve read, though, was that Russell wanted Katy to stay at home, become a housewifie and make babies with him.
What, a man who once claimed he was so addicted to sex he had it five times a day?
He cannot be that reformed a character.
Brand had recently complained that, since marrying, he’d turned to gardening and had done more useful things with a hoe than he ever thought possible.
And everyone knows that once you have kids, a couple’s sex life turns bi-annual.