Tossing off
One of the oldest British euphemisms for masturbation, in use since at least 1735 and the etymological ancestor of the insult 'tosser'.
What it means
Tossing off is a British euphemism for masturbation, and one of the oldest still in active service. The phrase has been doing the rounds since at least 1735, which means it predates the United States, the steam engine, and any reasonable expectation that the English language would start behaving itself. Nearly three centuries later, it shows no sign of retirement. Not unlike the monarchy in that regard.
The term occupies a comfortable middle ground in the national vocabulary of self-pleasure. It is not as cheerfully absurd as a hand shandy, nor as elaborately coded as a J. Arthur. It simply describes the activity with a verb that, while not technically explicit, leaves no room whatsoever for misunderstanding. The British have always preferred their indecency to be perfectly transparent whilst remaining technically deniable. Tossing off is perhaps the finest expression of that principle.
Where it comes from
The verb “toss” originally meant to throw or fling something with a casual, almost careless motion. Attaching “off” to it and applying it to the matter at hand (so to speak) was, one supposes, inevitable. The physical metaphor is not difficult to follow, though we shall not be drawing a diagram. This is a dictionary, not a manual.
What makes the phrase historically remarkable is what it spawned. “Tosser,” now one of Britain’s most beloved mild insults, descends directly from this usage. The word has travelled so far from its origins that people will call someone a tosser in front of their nan, in a supermarket, on live television, without a flicker of self-consciousness. The insult has been entirely laundered of its original meaning. This is, if you think about it, an extraordinary act of collective forgetting. An entire nation decided, without any formal agreement, that “tosser” was now a perfectly respectable way to call someone useless, and quietly agreed never to examine why.
The earliest recorded uses appear in the 1730s, making it older than most entries in this dictionary by a comfortable margin. It has outlasted empires, survived the Victorians (who presumably used it behind closed doors whilst publicly pretending the human body did not exist below the waist), and entered the twenty-first century without requiring a single rebrand. One does not wish to overstate matters, but that is not an unimpressive run.
How it is used
Tossing off functions as both a description and, when shortened to “tosser” or “toss,” a versatile insult that has almost nothing to do with its original meaning. Context, as always in British English, is doing all the heavy lifting.
“Where’s Gary? He was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.” “Probably at home tossing off. He does have that look about him on a Monday.” “That is deeply unhelpful, Kevin.” “And yet not inaccurate.”
“The presenter called the Health Secretary a tosser on air last night.” “Before or after the watershed?” “During. Half six on Radio 4.” “Brave. Not wrong, but brave.”
The phrase is particularly well suited to the British habit of accusing someone of doing nothing useful. “He’s just tossing off” can mean the literal activity, but it can also mean someone is wasting time, avoiding responsibility, or generally being about as productive as a chocolate teapot. The double meaning is not accidental. The implication is that both activities are equally pointless, though one of them is, if we are being honest, rather more enjoyable.
It is worth noting that “tossing off” can, in very specific contexts, also mean to produce something quickly and without much care. A journalist might toss off an article. A student might toss off an essay. We are aware of the ambiguity. We are not going to help you with it. The English language made this mess and it can sit in it.
See also
For those who arrived here seeking a vocabulary rather than a single definition, the SmartWank dictionary has catalogued the full range of British euphemisms for this particular pastime with the scholarly rigour it so clearly deserves. The hand shandy offers something altogether more cheerful and pub-friendly. The J. Arthur provides a Cockney alternative for those who feel their euphemisms should involve at minimum one film mogul. And for the less historically minded, the five-knuckle shuffle dispenses with subtlety almost entirely, which, depending on one’s temperament, is either a relief or a tragedy.