Marilyn Monroe has been a tortured, wiggle-hipped sex symbol for half a century – and still the biopics keep coming. Isn't it time we let her go? Aged 17, with glandular fever turning my skin into a three-bar fire, I accidentally overdosed a little on painkillers. Instead of taking two every four hours, I started taking four every two hours. Amazing pills, illegal now, they were fluorescent pink, like matte-effect diamonds, and in the middle of the night they made me hallucinate vividly. As I lay there, throat like a barrel, Marilyn Monroe stepped out of the Andy Warhol print on my bedroom wall and began to wiggle towards me, one tiny foot in front of the other, click click click. I was delighted – I had so much to ask her. When she crawled into bed, I think I giggled. We spooned, but not for long, because quite quickly, snuggled next to me, she began to die. I remember the promise of Monroe, who (when I was a teenager, swollen thick with kissing disease) I was fascinated by: she s...