Who would’ve guessed that TikTok – that endless scroll of dance challenges and makeup tutorials – would become our generation’s most unlikely time machine? Between the lip-syncs and life hacks, something fascinating has emerged: a digital wormhole straight back to the noughties, where Gossip Girl meets Gen Z, and forgotten B-sides find new life in the strangest of places.
The numbers are almost comical. That #noughties nostalgia tag? Up 36% from last year – though honestly, who’s surprised? We’re all desperately seeking comfort in the familiar these days, especially as we trudge through 2025’s particular brand of chaos. Sex and the City clips are spreading faster than Samantha Jones’s gossip (108,000 videos and counting), while Skins has racked up a mind-boggling 1.6 million posts globally. Not bad for a show that ended over a decade ago.
“We’re seeing a really big fondness for 90s and noughties across all key content categories,” notes Lily Hall, TikTok UK’s programs manager. Talk about stating the obvious – it’s like saying water’s wet or that Blair Waldorf had questionable friendship tactics. The Vampire Diaries alone commands 2 million videos, while Gossip Girl struts through 1.2 million posts with all the subtlety of a Chuck Bass scheme.
But here’s where it gets interesting. This isn’t just millennials wallowing in nostalgia (though there’s plenty of that). Instead, we’re watching something rather remarkable: Gen Z discovering these cultural touchstones with fresh eyes, while older generations play cultural docent. It’s created this weird, wonderful cross-generational conversation – like finding your kid sister reading your old diary and actually getting it.
The phenomenon has spilled beyond the screen into what TikTok’s dubbed “Britcore” content. Users are getting misty-eyed over everything from shuttered Toys R Us stores to those pink-and-white mice sweets that seem to exist now only in collective memory. The platform’s become a sort of digital Museum of Y2K, each video a carefully curated exhibit of millennial memories.
Perhaps nothing illustrates TikTok’s resurrection powers quite like Connie Francis’s “Pretty Little Baby.” This 64-year-old B-side track – yes, a B-side, for those who remember what those are – has spawned over 20 million video creations. Francis herself, at 87, has joined TikTok, proving that viral fame’s got no expiration date.
“This is a reminder that the TikTok community doesn’t care about genre or age,” explains Sheema Siddiq from TikTok’s artist partnerships team. And she’s right – whether it’s Imogen Heap’s “Headlock” from 2005 or Jessie J’s “Price Tag” from 2011, these songs are finding new context in an era where attention spans are shorter than a TikTok video.
There’s something oddly poetic about it all. The platform that epitomizes our shrinking attention spans has become a sanctuary for longer-form nostalgia. In this strange digital landscape, where yesterday’s viral sensation is today’s forgotten meme, these cultural touchstones aren’t just surviving – they’re thriving. Good content, it seems, never really dies. It just waits for the right algorithm to give it a second act.
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