Triggered by the start of demolition work at the former Royal Doulton factory at Burslem. By John Abberley

WHEN the footballers of Real Madrid were taken around the Royal Doulton factory, they were fascinated to find someone painting the figure of a matador and a bull.

Most visitors to Doulton's lingered longest to watch the figure painters. I did the same myself during a royal visit to Nile Street and almost lost touch with the official party.

So I can understand why the girls who painted Doulton figures felt a sense of pride. They were the undisputed stars of their trade and more than a match for Clarice Cliff's famous Bizarre Girls (always pronounced "bizair", by the way).

My late aunt was one of these pottery ladies and she would have assured you that a freehand figure painter, male or female, was a respected figure on any potbank.

Incidentally, women of my aunt's generation were happy to be called paintresses. In that pre-feminist age, the term was a badge of honour.

Mind you, I know a former Lady Mayoress who was chided by Margaret Thatcher when she told the Prime Minister that she worked as a pottery paintress.

"My dear, you underestimate yourself", said Mrs Thatcher. "If I did your job I should insist on being called an artist."

I think quite a few people might agree with Mrs T on that point. At Doulton's, the job required intricate skills, as well as patience and a steady hand.

Traditionally, the job of figure painting had always been done by men, who enjoyed a god-like status. Old Doulton hands still speak with reverence of Percy Curnock, John Pierpoint and Harry Allen (who always smoked when painting).

This cast of Doulton characters included a man in the under-glaze department named Billy Grace, who worked in a formal suit with a cumberbund and wore a pair of pince-nez spectacles clipped to his nose.

Male dominance came to an end with the outbreak of the Second World War. Given their head at last, the girls were even permitted to paint the tiny faces in the right shade of pink, which I gather was devilishly difficult.

You may find this hard to believe, but in that era these top performers had to buy their own paintbrushes – called pencils – from Warwick Savage's store up the road.

This I learned from a retired Doulton's veteran named Iris, who started at the firm at 15 and stayed until she was 75.

In Iris's day, such dedicated servants weren't all that unusual in the pottery industry. Gold watches for long service were handed out by the score.

Anyway, Iris was a star. Over the years, she put her initial 'I' on the back of thousands of Doulton classics like Balloon Lady, Autumn Breezes, Top of the Hill and Afternoon Tea.

After retiring from her bench job at 60, she was persuaded to return as a travelling demonstrator, painting figures all round the world in front of royalty and in a window of Macey's store in New York.

I salute the memory of pottery ladies like Iris, who were proud to be called Doulton paintresses, even if it offended Margaret Thatcher.