That means you, person sitting on this bench.
According to redditor KennyKeeton, he stumbled upon this bench while walking through London. I don't have any additional information about where this park bench might be, and perhaps that's for the best. Roger Bucklesby doesn't strike me as the type of man who would have wanted people to find his bench. Better for them to stand and suffer amongst the leaves with their incessant falling and the children with their loud playing and the grass with its patchy, itchy growing. Roger Bucklesby wanted nothing more than a roof over his head and a fire to warm his feet, a fire fueled by trees from this park, which he cut down personally out of hatred. Roger Bucklesby believed in Heaven, a place where he would finally be free from the tyranny of this park, which he had to walk through every day on his way home from work, kicking litter out of the way and shaking his head at mangy pigeons and nearly getting hit in the face by young assholes with frisbees. Roger Bucklesby is in a better place now, a place where this park will never go, because this park is going to Hell.
(by Shira Rachel Danan)