A Quote by David Thewlis

For years, I've been mistaken for Rhys Ifans. All the time. People come up and say, 'Notting Hill?' I nearly got beaten up once for not being Rhys. — © David Thewlis
For years, I've been mistaken for Rhys Ifans. All the time. People come up and say, 'Notting Hill?' I nearly got beaten up once for not being Rhys.
I don't think a day has gone past in 10 years where someone hasn't said, 'What did you do with those guns from Lock, Stock?' And there's pretty much not a week that's gone by where someone hasn't got me to say, 'It's a deal, it's a steal, it's the sale of the f**king century.' Apart from that I get, 'You were brilliant in Notting Hill,' because I look vaguely like Rhys Ifans.
I can only think of one wacky best friend who I thought was awesome: Rhys Ifans in 'Notting Hill.' He really nailed the wacky best friend.
I do what I can, but I'll always give it a shot. You're not going to see me playing a Welsh character any time soon, not because I wouldn't love to. I went up to Wales once and read for a film with Rhys Ifans, and haven't been asked back since. We did have a nice time on the train on the way back.
I decided to go along with it. If he tried to give me the runaround, I would bolt. I didn't have time to waste on vague answers and evasive language. Matt and Rhys were captive, and Rhys couldn't even sit down.
I love Notting Hill and Westbourne Grove - there is so much life and vitality around Portobello and Ladbroke Grove. It has come up a lot since I started Virgin more than 40 years ago, but there is so much character.
My first proper kitchen was this funny little club that we set up in Mercer Street in Covent Garden. It got shut down. Then I worked at a club in Notting Hill.
Why don't we actually fight for a woman's right even to complain about being beaten up. That is more important than driving. If a woman is beaten, they are told to go back to their homes - their fathers, husbands, brothers - to be beaten up again and locked up in the house.
The honey doesn't taste so good once it is being eaten; the goal doesn't mean so much once it is reached; the reward is no so rewarding once it has been given. If we add up all the rewards in our lives, we won't have very much. But if we add up the spaces *between* the rewards, we'll come up with quite a bit. And if we add up the rewards *and* the spaces, then we'll have everything - every minute of the time that we spent.
I grew up in the once segregated South. I experienced forced integration during my formative school years. I lived the sacrifices, burdens, and tears. I also lived the moments of understanding, of acknowledgment, of fellowship and success. I saw my parents and grandparents coming home beaten down - and some of my friends beaten up.
I always, always go to my brother Rhys's house whenever something goes wrong and he'll always say 'you'll be alright, forget about it.'
Growing up, my mom would watch 'Notting Hill' a lot. She loves Hugh Grant.
Mahomet made the people believe that he would call a hill to him, and from the top of it offer up his prayers for the observers of his law. The people assembled: Mahomet called the hill to come to him again and again; and when the hill stood still, he was never a whit abashed, but said, 'If the hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the hill.'
Despite having lived in London for most of my life - and being a huge fan of dancing and drinking in the street - I've never been to Notting Hill carnival.
Sikh is a 500 year old community and they have been living in U.S. for the past 114 years. Yet the Sikhs were mistaken to be Arabs in the post 9/11 scenario and beaten up. Doesn't this sound bizarre? I mean Sikhs and Arabs are as different as chalk and cheese.
At one point, I didn't get out of bed for, I think, three months, and I went down to the bottom of the hill one day and I had to call somebody to get me to come back up - come pick me up because I couldn't physically walk up the hill.
Sometimes you've just got to hold your hands up and say you've been beaten by a quality free-kick.
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