The day Andy Burnham became our latest prime minister, the UK government posted a TikTok with a Love Island voiceover.
“This week,” the recognisable ITV voice says as we see two black shoes walk into Downing Street, “a hot new bombshell enters the villa.” It’s Burnham, soundtracked by Mabel’s “Don’t Call Me Up”.
In the comments, the Welsh government chimed in: “Croeso. Can I pull you for a chat?”, quoting one of Love Island’s signature lines.
Other commenters lapped up this notably flippant social media announcement of a new PM. “How is this the way I found out we have a new Prime Minister,” one wondered. Another observed: “The fact there’s probs a 23 year old girlie pop behind this vid giving us some major slay content is just beauts.”
Yet, apart from a few murmurs in the comments section, the TikTok went largely unacknowledged. The Times and The Observer covered it, but there was little public response. No one really cared.
It’s hard to put a finger on the timeline of UK prime ministers as to when this kind of content moved away from being mortifying to being reasonably acceptable. Could Rishi Sunak have done this without ridicule? Perhaps. Liz Truss? Surely not. While Boris actively played the fool, if Theresa May had starred in content like this, there would have been outcry.
Politicians haven’t become less embarrassing. Instead, somewhere along the line, the idea of what’s cringe has lost its power as a social enforcement mechanism.
Cringe only means something when there are clear expectations about how different people should behave. It’s often heard from teens bemoaning parents they deem impossibly old trying to act younger than they are, or from internet users mocking brands, celebrities or institutions for attempting to speak in a language they haven’t earned. The joke depends on the idea that some people are meant to stay in their lane.
The internet has steadily eroded those lanes. Every institution now posts memes. Supermarkets post TikTok dances once only done by teens. Police forces comment with reaction Gifs. Fast-food chains trade banter on Instagram. After years of this, the shock has worn off.
The internet used to punish people who got these boundaries wrong—second-hand embarrassment was a way of policing authenticity and status. When Theresa May danced at the Tory Party conference, the memes lasted for months. People still celebrate Ed Balls Day to commemorate the day he tweeted his own name. I needn’t mention poor Ed Miliband and his bacon sandwich.
Yet, now, awkwardness has become more ordinary as everyone is performing online. You might not think twice if your local councillor posted themselves lip syncing to the latest trending audio or if your dentist shared a tongue-in-cheek TikTok skit between appointments. Behaviour once dismissed as trying too hard is now expected online. The performance hasn’t become any less contrived; we’ve simply become desensitised to it.
The internet is not the only thing that has dissolved these boundaries. Years of crises have hugely impacted our perception of proportion. As pandemics, war, climate deterioration, the rise of the far right, economic insecurity and democratic instability take up more space in cultural and personal consciousnesses, our understanding of what is acceptable, funny or important has become much less clear.
For younger generations, this instability has not been abstract. The structures that were supposed to provide continuity have repeatedly disappeared or been challenged. Schools closed overnight during Covid; social milestones that had seemed fixed were suddenly suspended. The assumption that our climate will be liveable for the rest of our lives no longer exists. In the US, reproductive rights that many assumed were settled were overturned. Economic security, home ownership and political stability have all felt increasingly uncertain.
When the foundations themselves appear temporary, the social rules built on top of them begin to feel less important too. The smaller rules of social performance—who is allowed to act young, who is allowed to be silly, who is allowed to embarrass themselves—start to feel insignificant.
Gen Z often mock what they call “millennial optimism”—the earnest belief, common in the early 2010s, that the right lifestyle and the right online persona could produce stability. The joke is not simply that millennials were embarrassing; it is that they belonged to an internet where authenticity still seemed like something you could achieve.
That world depended on clearer boundaries. Reputation felt durable, institutions felt stable and embarrassment carried consequences. But today, after years of crises and an internet built around constant self-display, worrying about seeming slightly ridiculous feels almost quaint.
We haven’t, of course, become less judgemental. Certainly not any kinder. Look at the comments of any video online, and there will be criticisms of people’s looks, parenting skills, cooking prowess, political takes, or ability to keep their dog from running away. Similarly, newspaper headlines remain savage—just last week, the Telegraph ran a piece titled, “Why Jameela Jamil is the most annoying woman on the internet.”
Nor have politicians become immune from contempt. Governments are still criticised, mocked and distrusted with remarkable enthusiasm. What has changed is the object of that ridicule. The government’s Love Island TikTok escaped notice because it no longer felt remarkable, not because it was especially clever or authentic. It was merely another institution speaking in the language of the internet.
That’s what makes cringe feel strangely obsolete. Cringe relied on the existence of social lanes: politicians behaved like politicians, supermarkets sold food and your dentist definitely didn’t make TikToks. But now everyone has to play the same game, so who even cares anymore?
